“I need to tell Juniper,” he says, voice cracking. “I need to get her stuff together. She doesn’t have anyone else. Who do I talk to? About custody? Paperwork? I—I don’t know how this works. She’s mine now. She’s my responsibility.”
His words come fast, tumbling over each other. He’s rambling, eyes wild, not with fear, but with sheer disbelief. The weight of it is crashing down on him all at once: the grief, the responsibility, the reality that everything has changed in an instant.
“I’ll have the hospital social worker come talk to you,” I say, trying to keep my voice reassuring. It’s the only thing I can do right now, be the calm in this storm I just dropped on him.
I place a hand on his shoulder—gentle, but firm. He stiffens under my touch, like even that is too much right now, but he doesn’t shake me off. His nod is small. Mechanical.
“Okay,” he whispers.
I want to say something more. Something human. But I don’t know if it would help—or make it worse.
He turns abruptly, walking back to the room like he’s forgotten I exist. I watch him disappear behind the door, heading straight for the only thing anchoring him right now: his sister.
A lump forms in my throat, but I swallow it down. Professionalism. That’s the job. Even when it stings.
The door clicks shut behind him.
I catch Kendrix’s eye through the window and nod toward the hallway. “Step out with me,” I mouth to him.
He follows, brows drawn together, concern etched in every line of his face.
Once we’re alone, I let the reality land between us. “Her mom didn’t make it. Died in the ER. Scout’s her only living relative now.”
“Fuck,” Kendrix mutters, rubbing his hand over his mouth. “He’s gonna need us more than ever.”
“That’s if he’ll even talk to us,” I say quietly.
23
Scout
It’s the next morning,and I’m still sitting at the edge of the hospital bed, trying to ignore the smell of antiseptic and the dull ache behind my eyes. I haven’t slept—not really. Just dozed off once or twice with my chin to my chest and Juniper’s heart monitor beeping steady in the background like it was daring me to fall apart.
She’s okay… alive and okay. No concussion, no broken bones. Just staples in her scalp and a stitched-up arm. But we’re not released yet. Not officially. Family services still has to check the right boxes and make it all official. Xavier told me the hospital social worker was handling the paperwork to get Juniper released into my care.
Care. That word’s been rattling around my brain since he said it. Like it’s something I’ve got to prove I can do now. Not just love her. Not just be her brother. But care for her. Keep her safe. Be everything.
Juniper’s hand is in mine, small and warm. It’s the only thing anchoring me to the here and now. Her grip is strong. Too strongfor a twelve-year-old who just survived a car crash and lost her mother.
She’s sitting upright in the bed, propped against a pillow, staring straight ahead. Not at me. Not at anything.
I swallow hard. My heart is pounding. I don’t want to do this, but I have to. She deserves to hear it from me. Not a stranger in scrubs. Not a cop. Me. Her brother.
I didn’t want to tell her last night—not after they stapled her head up and stitched her arm. She was exhausted, drifting off before the meds even fully kicked in. She didn’t ask, so I didn’t say anything. I told myself she needed rest. Time to heal. But now it’s morning, and there’s no more waiting. No more avoiding it.
“Junie…” I start, voice barely above a whisper. “Baby girl, there’s something I have to tell you.”
Her eyes flick to mine, just for a second. Blue and tired and too damn old for her age. Then she looks away again.
“Your mom…” My throat tightens. I push through it. “She didn’t make it. They tried, but…”
Her eyes glisten. She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t cry. She just breathes slowly and deliberately.
Then, finally, she speaks, “Good.”
“Junie…” I squeeze her hand gently. “You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t baby me, Scout,” she snaps, her voice sharp. “She was a shit mom and we both know it. I didn’t want her to die, okay? But I’m not heartbroken.”