Page 60 of Found By You
McCrae took my hand from where it rested on my lap, then pulled it to his lips, kissing the back of it softly. The gesture sent warmth spiraling through me despite my anxiety. “You didn’t overstep,” he said, his voice low and certain.
I sighed, relieved but still worried about everything hanging over us. “I guess we’ll see how things go after all of this.”
McCrae nodded. “I can’t wait to get to know you, Azalea, but the truth is … you pretty much know me already.” He paused, vulnerability flashing across his face. “If you don’t want to pursue me, well, that’s fine.”
I scoffed, the sound turning into a small laugh. “I do … want to pursue you.” The admission felt both terrifying and right.
He smiled then, the first genuine smile I’d seen since we’d left Refuge Falls.
For a moment, we were just two people at the beginning of something special, not two people racing toward danger.
Two hours later, the Denver hospital loomed ahead, a massive structure of brick and glass. My heart pounded against my ribs as we parked and walked through the sliding doors into the sterile hallways of Denver Memorial. My legs felt like lead, each step requiring more effort than the last. McCrae stayed close, his hand at the small of my back. That simple touch kept me grounded when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control.
The police escort Damon had arranged walked ahead of us, his uniform drawing curious glances from hospital staff. “Room 412,” the officer said, stopping at a closed door. “He’s in here.”
I froze, suddenly terrified of what I might find on the other side. What if it wasn’t Greg? What if it was, but he was … different somehow?
“I’m right here,” McCrae whispered, his breath warm against my ear.
I nodded, gathering my courage, and pushed open the door.
The room was dim, blinds drawn. Machines beeped steadily, monitoring vital signs. And there, in the hospital bed, lay my brother.
“Greg,” I whispered, my voice breaking.
His face was pale, and dark stubble covered his jaw. A bandage was visible beneath the thin hospital gown, wrapped around his chest. His eyes were closed, but it was him. My brother. Alive.
My knees nearly buckled with relief. I moved to his side, taking his hand in mine. His skin felt cool, but I could feel his pulse, steady and strong.
“Greg,” I said again, gently squeezing his hand. “It’s me. Azalea.”
His eyes fluttered open, confusion giving way to recognition. “Sis?”
I let out a laugh of relief. “It’s me.” I bent and kissed his head, resting my forehead against his.
“Oh my gosh, you’re safe.”
“No, you’re safe.” I sighed. “I didn’t remember. I’ve had amnesia.”
He grunted. “Oh gosh.”
I turned slightly, gesturing to McCrae, who stood just behind me. “This is McCrae,” I said. “He’s a cop too, and his family has protected me and helped me remember who I am.”
Greg’s eyes moved to McCrae, a silent assessment passing between them. “Thank you,” he said, his voice rough from disuse.
McCrae nodded. “Just doing my job.”
“Ms. Ryan?” A voice from the doorway made me turn. A doctor stood there, clipboard in hand, motioning for me to join him in the hallway. “Are you his next of kin?”
My heart raced. “Yes.”
“I need to speak with you.”
“I’ll stay with him,” McCrae said, taking the chair beside the bed.
I followed the doctor into the corridor.
“I’m Dr. Whitman,” he said, offering his hand. “Your brother is very lucky to be alive.”
