Page 95 of Eight Years Gone

“No.” She hurried around the store now, abandoning her mess on the table, pulling the money from the drawer in the register to put the stack of cash in the small safe they kept hidden in the floorboards in her office. “I’m going to the house to pack a quick bag, then I’m heading to Philly.”

“That’s a long drive when you’re upset—when the weather sucks.”

“I can’t wait.” She inhaled an unsteady breath. “It doesn’t sound like I should wait. It’s bad, Jagger.” Because Paul hadn’t tried to reassure her otherwise.

“Okay. I’ll catch a flight to Philly, then. It’ll probably be easier to get a flight there anyway.”

“All right.”

“I’ll get something booked and call you back. If I can get something soon, I might beat you there.”

She allowed herself one moment to close her eyes—to let herself be grateful that she wouldn’t have to go through whatever this journey would bring alone. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, Grace. We’re in this together. Let me get a flight.”

“Okay,” she said, hurrying outside into the frigid rain and nasty wind, locking up. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Drive safely.”

“I will.” Hanging up and running to her SUV, she got behind the wheel, took a second to buckle in, then gunned it out of her spot, desperate to get home to call Aunt Maggie, pack a few things, then get to Philly to be with her dad.

Twenty-Two

Grace pulled her Sorento into the first parking spot she could find on the sixth floor of Philadelphia General’s parking garage.

She quickly got out, then jogged to the elevators, jabbing at the down button with an impatient finger.

“Hurry up,” she said, pushing at the glowing light again, growing more frantic by the second.

Every minute of the last four hours had passed in centuries. The rain and downtown Philly gridlock had added an extra forty-five minutes to her trip—a nightmare when time wasn’t on her side.

Glancing at the time on her cell phone screen, she paced away, then back, barely able to tolerate the ceaseless waves of helpless energy.

Information had been stingy at best while she endured the endless waiting game. Three texts had come in while she’d been on the road: two from Jagger letting her know when his plane had been set to take off and again when he landed. The other had been from Paul nearly an hour ago, informing her that her dad had lived through his surgery.

The elevator finally dinged, and the big metal doors slowly slid open.

Stepping into the empty car, she hit the button for the lobby floor before she sent Jagger a text. I’m in the elevator.

His reply popped up. The woman at the desk said your dad’s been moved to the Critical Care Unit.

“Critical Care,” she whispered, pressing her hand to her jittery stomach. The name alone sounded terrifying, but her dad was hanging in there.

“Keep holding on,” she muttered. “Please.”

The door opened to the noise and general business in the hospital’s main lobby.

Her eyes locked with Jagger’s as he stood off to the side, waiting for her in another one of his suit and tie combinations—navy-blue this time. Hurrying out, she rushed into his arms. “Jagger.”

He clutched her close. “I’m right here.”

She eased back. “Have you heard anything else?”

He shook his head. “I just beat you here. They’re not saying much. I had to tell them I was your husband to get what I did.”

She nodded. “Let’s go up. I need to know what’s going on.”

Jagger took her hand as they headed for the bay of interior elevators. “ICU’s on the seventh floor.”

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