Page 62 of Found By You
“Help!” I screamed. “We need help in here!”
A security alarm began wailing through the building, the harsh sound sending spikes of pain through my head.
“Stay with Greg,” the doctor said.
I moved to my brother’s side, gripping his hand tightly as chaos erupted around us. “Are you okay?” I asked, searching his face for signs of pain or distress.
“Go,” he said, squeezing my hand before releasing it. “Go find McCrae. I’ll be okay.”
I hesitated, torn between staying with my brother and finding McCrae. “I’ll be back,” I promised, then raced into the hallway.
People were scrambling everywhere, some taking cover, others running for exits. The alarm continued to blare as I pushed through the crowd, hurrying in the direction McCrae had gone.
I burst through the emergency exit doors into the parking lot. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. McCrae stood in the middle of the lot, turning in a circle, his gun still drawn.
“He’s gone,” he said when he saw me, frustration etching lines around his mouth. “I lost him.”
“What are we going to do?”
McCrae pulled out his phone. “Damon,” McCrae said, his voice tight with urgency. “Call the FBI and tell them that someone tried to shoot her brother.”
I couldn’t hear Damon’s response, but the way McCrae’s face hardened told me everything.
“We’ll be back in a couple of hours,” he said. He ended the call and turned to me, his eyes fierce with determination and something else—fear.
“I can’t leave Greg,” I said, looking back at the hospital. More police cars were arriving, their lights flashing against the brick facade.
McCrae hesitated. Conflict was clear in his eyes. “But we have to keep you safe.”
“Do you think they were after me?”
He shrugged. “Not sure. Let’s go talk to your brother.”
My heart was torn, pulling me in two directions. “I can’t leave him,” I repeated, the words catching in my throat.
We returned to Greg’s room. Three police officers were now stationed there, along with Dr. Whitman. My brother looked more awake than before, pushing himself up in the bed despite the pain it clearly caused him.
“What happened?” he demanded as soon as we entered.
“We lost him,” McCrae said, immediately going over to debrief the cops.
I moved to Greg’s side, taking his hand. “I’m staying with you,” I told him.
“No,” he said, leaning back and wincing.
“I’m not leaving your side.” I lightly put my hand onto his shoulder.
With great effort, he put his hand over mine. “I can’t protect you here,” my brother insisted, his eyes clear and determined despite his condition. “Do you trust him?”
Immediately, I nodded. “Implicitly. And his family.”
My brother patted my hand, then closed his eyes. “Go with McCrae and his family; they protected you the past couple of days. I can’t rest if I think you’re not safe.”
“I can’t leave you,” I whispered, reaching for his hand again.
“Go,” Greg said firmly, “or I’ll hate you forever.”
I laughed through my tears. It was our inside joke from childhood, something we’d say when we really needed the other to listen.
