Page 59 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
The relief she felt didn’t assuage the worry. “Tell me what happened.” There was steel in her words. She was losing patience. “No. First, I need to see him.”
Holt released her when she shoved away from him. He raked his hand through his hair. “They won’t let anyone see him yet. He’s getting a CT scan and an MRI.”
“What happened?” Shea’s resolve was crumbling.
“I stopped by to work on some repairs to the oil shed,” answered Holt. “I saw Pete on the lawn, directly under the lighthouse. When I got to him ... he was pretty messed up.”
“What do you mean ‘messed up’? Did he say anything?” Shea curled her fingers into the front of Holt’s shirt.
Holt winced. “He was in a lot of pain, Shea. His arm or shoulder—it has to be broken. He tried, but—”
“But what?”
“All he got out was—”
“What?” Shea slammed her palm against Holt’s chest.
He stumbled back, frowning. “‘Annabel.’ He said ‘Annabel.’ But he didn’t elaborate. He was writhing in pain.”
She snorted in disbelief and stepped away from Holt, scanning the hospital for a nurse, a doctor, anyone who could give her a better explanation. She took off toward the nurses’ station.
“Where are you going?” Holt hurried after her. “Shea!”
“No.” Shea waved him off, blinking back tears that burned.
“But—”
She leveled a fierce look on Holt. “You want me to believe that Pete thinks apoltergeistpushed him off the lighthouse?”
Holt grabbed at Shea’s arm, but she wrenched it away.
“I’m only repeating what Pete said, Shea. But they won’t let you see Pete, not yet. And you need to calm down. You’re too panicked.”
“I’m going to see my husband.” Shea glared at Holt, trying to piece together a fall from a lighthouse. None of it made one iota of sense. “While I go see Pete, I suggest you come up witha heckuva better story than that a ghost shoved Pete off the gallery!”
She didn’t blame Holt. Not really. He was trying to help, to protect her even, but the idea that Pete’s only response was “Annabel”? It was stupid. It was asinine. It was horrific. And while Shea didn’t believe that a ghost was behind Pete’s fall, she couldn’t shake the reminder of Penny’s declaration from the other day about Jonathan Marks:
“Fact is, he was the last person I know to try to understand Annabel and the lighthouse, and ... well, the cursed story killed him.”
Penny had been speaking of Jonathan, but now Shea was terrified it applied to Pete as well.
She had never felt so alone in all her life. Maybe it would’ve been a good idea to allow Holt to accompany her to Pete’s room. They had told her she could wait there—at least it wasn’t ICU. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? They had taken Pete back for who knows what litany of tests, and now she sat in the room staring at an empty hospital bed, thinking over every possible good and bad scenario she could.
Holt had to have heard Pete wrong. Annabel? It just didn’t make any sense. But if Pete fell from the lighthouse, how was he even alive? The ground below the structure was essentially a geological rock plate hidden beneath the grass. There was no give in it, no bushes to soften a fall. Either a miracle had taken place, or Holt had misread the situation, or—
“Mrs. Radclyffe?”
Yesterday Shea would’ve grimaced hearing that. Now she didn’t care. She shot to her feet as a doctor entered the room. She had kind green eyes and a smattering of freckles across her nose. Her scrubs were clean but wrinkled, and she wore a white jacket. All in all, her expression was one hundred percent unreadable.
“How’s Pete?” Shea was breathless.
No death. Please, no death.
The doctor extended her hand. “Emily Sturgeon,” she stated by way of introduction. “Pete is going to be all right.”
Shea’s relief was palpable, and she collapsed onto the chair she had been sitting in.
Dr. Sturgeon continued, a smile of understanding on her face. “Your husband sustained a proximal humeral fracture.”
