Page 125 of Breaking Point
The ceramic frog that stares at me with a goofy grin—nothing.
The porch swing—nothing.
The pot plant—nothing.
The large suspicious rock by the side gate—nothing.
God help me, I’m about to break into my assistant’s house.
I suppose when I said I don’t care about anything, it also extends to breaking and entering charges. I highly doubt someone would ignore calling the police on a six-foot-four man lurking outside a woman’s house. If anything, it saves me time from calling them.
Though perhaps a small part of me doesn’t want to be charged with a felony, because before I know it, I’m sneaking into her backyard and trying all the doors and windows until my stomach plummets.
Not only is the back door unlocked, several windows are open, letting in the freezing rain that no doubt will turn to snow overnight. Slowly sliding the back door open, I check that my phone is in my back pocket in case God forbid something horrendous has occurred.
Maybe someone broke in and kidnapped her. If I was a kidnapper, I would want to take her. Who wouldn’t? She’s beautiful and smart and funny. Or worse, maybe a serial killer has been stalking her for months and took their time with her because I was away.
Perhaps it was a puck bunny?
Shaking my head, I feel like slapping myself at my thoughts.
Every light is off in the house. I flick a switch, relieved to see the power hasn’t been cut as light floods the kitchen. I’m not sure why I don’t call out her name as I snoop around her house. Perhaps some part of me is worried someone else is in here besides her.
Checking the living room, kitchen, and what I’m guessing is the master bedroom, I come up short, my eyes glazing over the furniture and knickknacks. I open another bedroom, only finding boxes piled high in a corner.
Maybe she fell and hit her head in the garage?
I turn, making my way to the garage, when my entire body freezes at a small whimpered moan. A split second is all it takes before I’m sprinting in the direction of the sound.
“Bella?” I call out frantically. “Bella?”
My breathing has turned labored, the thud of my boots matching the frantic beat of my heart.
“Bel—”
I’m cut off by a garbled string of words directly behind me.
I open the first door, revealing a closet, another linen shelf. Moving down the hall, I continue to check them all until suddenly one opens up to a bathroom and there lies Bella, ashen, shaky, and bleary-eyed, curled up in the fetal position on the bathroom tiles.
I’m kneeling beside her in an instant, running my hands over the length of her body as I’m trying and failing to see what’s wrong.
She lifts her head, the movement wobbly as she squints at me through pain-filled eyes. “Grayson? What are you doing here?” Her eyes widen. “Is it Monday already? Did I miss the flight?”
“Shh,” I soothe. “Tell me what’s wrong, Bella.” A daunting thought hits me. “Have you been here for two days?” I ask, my voice betraying how much fear is wracking my body.
She clutches her chest in horror. “Two days?”
She opens her mouth but immediately slaps a hand over it, the other clutching her stomach as she withers in pain. Suddenly, she dry heaves into the toilet, and I suspect there’s nothing left to come up.
Rushing from the room, I move through the kitchen, opening up drawers and cabinets until I find a glass and fill it with cold water, along with grabbing a rag from the linen cabinet I spotted earlier and wetting it.
I’m beside her in no time, getting her to take small sips as I lay the cloth against the back of her neck. She sighs with such relief my mind is whirling to try and find something to give her more of that feeling.
“Is it a stomach bug? The flu? Food poisoning?”
She shakes her head, taking another small sip of water. She tries to sit up but her hands and legs are shaking and it isn’t long before her face is twisting in agony as she curls into a fetal position again.
“Pain meds,” she whispers.
