“Fuck,” he mutters on the other end.“Please… where are you?”
“I’m at S-st.M-mary’s,” I choke out, my voice weepy and trembling.“Emergency.”
“St.Mary’s Hospital?Emergency?”he repeats, his voice now tight with alarm.“What happened?Amy, what happened?”
I try to answer, but my throat is tight.I can only manage a series of broken, hiccuping sobs.
“Please talk to me, love.Please,” he pleads, his voice desperate.I can hear the sound of a car engine roaring to life.“Please tell me you’re okay.”
“It’s not me,” I finally gasp.“It’s… it’s James.”
The silence that follows is stark.
Chilling.
When he speaks again, his tone is completely flat, devoid of all the worry from a moment ago.“James.You’re at the hospital for James.”
“He called me, and, and he—”
“I’m on my way.”
He hangs up.
I don’t know how long I sit there, lost in a fog of guilt and exhaustion, until rapidly approaching footsteps pull my attention to the doorway.
It’s Matthew.
He stands there, his face a mask of tight-lipped fury.His eyes, when they find mine, are filled with a chilling, lawyerly appraisal.
He is angrier than I’ve ever seen him.
But I don’t care.
I push myself up, my legs clumsy and weak, and stumble in a rush toward him.He starts walking toward me, his stride long and purposeful, his expression hard as stone.Until his eyes truly take me in.
They fly wide with sheer terror, the color draining from his face.“Amy,” he breathes, my name a horrified sound.
He closes the remaining distance in a single, anxious step just as I crash into his chest.I bury my face into him, finally letting myself fall apart.His arms crush me to him, one hand desperately gripping my neck, holding my head to his shoulder.For a moment, he’s rigid with shock.Then he’s pushing me back, hands gripping my shoulders, eyes scanning me frantically from head to toe.
His hands are trembling as they frame my face, his terrified gaze searching.“Is this your blood?Are you hurt?”he demands, his voice rough with panic.
I can only stand there, tears flooding my cheeks, unable to answer.
He tilts my face up, his voice cracking.“Amy, please.Is it yours?”
The raw terror in his eyes finally cuts through my haze.I manage a weak, jerky shake of my head.
The relief that washes over him is so profound.It’s like watching a tidal wave recede.His shoulders slump, his head dropping as he lets out a long, shuddering breath.
When he lifts his head again, a deep, simmering turmoil has replaced the terror in his eyes.“Then whose blood is this?”
“James,” I whisper.I see the confusion, and frustration, return to his face.
Matthew steps back, taking me in.“Come.”He takes my hand, his grip strong and nonnegotiable.
He leads me across the sterile corridor to a single-stall accessible restroom, pushing the door open and pulling me inside with him.He turns the lock after it swings shut and guides me by the elbow to the large basin sink.His movements are controlled, but I can feel a rigid tension in his arms.
He turns on the tap, adjusting the water until it’s warm.He takes my blood-covered hands in his and positions them under the stream.He reaches for the soap dispenser, his hands steady around mine.Despite the furious ticking of the muscle in his jaw, his touch is incredibly gentle as he methodically lathers the soap.He carefully washes away the horror from my palms, his gaze fixed on the task.
