Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
And I know—I just know—if he could only take some of his strength and give it to restart my mother’s heart, he would without hesitation.
Why does tragedy always feel like forever, though?
In reality, I think it’s only a minute.
It can’t be much more than that when there’s so little time between the heart stopping and brain death due to lack of oxygen. They’d quit working before they’d revive her as a vegetable, I know that with the DNR, and yet it still feels like a thousand years condensed into one brutal moment where they charge and clear, charge and clear, all choreographed in perfect sync to my sobs.
Until that flatline tone stops.
Until it becomes a slow, yet consistent beeping.
I turn my head sharply, terrified to hope.
Afraid to think Mom cheated death once again, only to be wrong.
But that green line on the screen doesn’t lie.
The slow zigzags tracking cardiac activity, and suddenly that flurry of motion around her turns quieter, gentler, settling her into place.
Closing up her hospital gown over the subtle burn marks on her skin from the shock paddles, a small sacrifice to keep her alive.
Her eyes are closed, her lips slack.
But her chest rises and falls while that slow beep echoes over the room.
I go down limply against Grant. My knees won’t hold me up any longer.
I don’t know if I’m sobbing with relief or if I’m still petrified and pre-mourning. I can’t decide.
I just know it feels like the medical staff bought me a little more time to say goodbye.
19
ONE MORE TIME (GRANT)
I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen Ophelia Sanderson this exhausted and drained to the bone.
No, actually, I can.
The last time her mother went through this, and Ophelia was right there with her, every step of the way.
She was much younger then.
And she almost feels like that younger version of herself now when she’s unconscious in my arms, so weightless it’s like she’s barely there.
Like her very essence bled out with her grief.
She refused to leave the medical center, even after the staff settled her mother and drifted away. Hours in a chair at her mother’s bedside, holding Angela’s fragile hand.
When Ophelia finally passed out, I carried her to my car and took her home.
She doesn’t even stir as I settle her in my bed and pull her shoes off before tucking her in, adjusting the pillows under her tangled gold hair.
Flaky lines of tears linger on her cheeks in glistening tracks I gently brush away, lingering on the hollows under her eyes.
“Wish there was something I could do for your ma, Butterfly,” I whisper. “Anything. I’d do any goddamned thing to bring her back for you, safe and sound.”
Ophelia’s only answer is a sigh, turning subtly toward me in her sleep.
I sigh, too.
I can’t work miracles. There’s nothing I can truly do for Angela when she’s waging a lonely war.
On the other hand, I can do something for Ophelia. For Ros.
That means getting to the bottom of this shit show with Mason Law.
My resolve hardens into granite.
I dig around in my pocket till I find the little notepad I use to write down case notes and scrawl out a quick note just in case Ophelia wakes up and worries where I am. I leave it on the nightstand.
Gone up to the big house to follow up on a few leads. Be back soon.
Don’t you worry about dinner tonight. I’m cooking. My folks got Nell and I’ll grab her when the timing’s right, too.
Just rest, Butterfly.
-G
I almost signed it Love, but fuck.
I don’t think that’s a discussion either of us can handle right now.
It’s hard to talk about feelings when you’re stretched over a hungry abyss, and even if we weren’t, it’s no easy conversation.
Hell, we’re both still acting like this is a silly damn childhood crush reborn in our adult lives.
With the way she’s feeling, I don’t want to dump the L-word on her when that’s just more emotional pressure.
Still, it’s hard to pull away from her.
I linger just a little while longer, brushing her hair back from her temples before I drag myself away and head out to scare up some answers.
I’m prepared to storm a bullshit factory and take no prisoners when I drive up to the Arrendell mansion and go stomping out of my vehicle.
I refuse to hand my keys over to the valet waiting to take them, curling my lip.
“Sir,” the valet says, his nose pointed up above the exact same uniform as Mason Law, “I’m afraid you can’t just leave your car—”
“I’m afraid I damn well can,” I snap off, brushing past him and pocketing my keys.
The man’s eyes bulge.
What’s he gonna do, call the police?
“I won’t be ten minutes,” I say. “You’ve got room to fit an eighteen-wheeler past my car. Deal with it.”
Offended, sputtering pleas trail me as I mount the steps without looking back.