Shock tears through me.
“What—wait?—”
“Get the fuck off her….” Constance shouts, pulling on his hand. Adelaide stands in shock, not saying a word.
The receptionist looks over, phone in hand, likely ready to call for security.
The deputy pushes Constance’s hand away and tugs me forward, hard enough to jerk me off balance. Panic flares, my heart lurching?—
And then a snarl cuts the air.
“Get your fucking hands off her.”
I whip my head around. Jacob.
He’s come from the vending machine at the corner, a can slipping from his hand, fizz hissing across the floor. His eyes are locked where the deputy’s hand bruises my arm. Then he’s moving. Constance releases her hand and immediately retreats, making sure she’s not caught in the middle of a storm.
The crash echoes through the reception as Jacob slams into the deputy, ripping his hand off me. Papers scatter, the receptionist shrieks. Every head in the waiting room snaps toward us.
Jacob pins him against the counter with his forearm, his voice a low, venomous growl. “You got a death wish, touching my woman like that?”
The deputy gasps, caught between shock and panic. “Sheriff—I didn’t—I didn’t know?—”
“Didn’t know what?” Jacob snarls, pressing harder. “Didn’t know you were one grab away from leaving here in a body bag?”
“Jacob, don’t make this any worse than it already is,” Adelaide says, resting a hand on his shoulder.
He shrugs her hand off. “It’s Sheriff Darnell to you,” he says, slow, menacing. “Especially in front of my men.”
“Please—” the deputy stammers, hands raised, eyes darting to the frozen staff around us. “Sir, I just need to speak with her. Privately.”
“Fine, but you don’t take her anywhere without me.” Jacob’s lip curls, eyes black with rage. “Ladies, wait here.”
Constance nods. Adelaide still unable to make eye contact.
“Sheriff,” the deputy pleads, sweat beading his forehead. “Just give me five minutes. Not here. A quiet room. It’s not—” he swallows, voice cracking. “It’s not about her. It’s abouthim.”
The word hangs heavy.
Jacob studies him, like he’s deciding whether to break his jaw anyway. Then, finally, with a growl deep in his throat, he shoves the deputy off.
“Five minutes,” Jacob says, voice like steel. “And if you so much as glance at her wrong again….”
The deputy nods frantically, rubbing at his throat. “It won’t happen, Sheriff. Please… this way.”
The deputy stands stiff-backed as he holds open the door to the corridor, like a man who’s wandered into a lion’s den and knows it. His eyes avoid Jacob, avoid me, as though the truth he’s about to spill is too heavy to look anyone in the face.
“This way, sheriff.” He gestures, and I notice the red blemish of embarrassment and fear crawling up his cheeks.
He shows us into a room that’s just at the back of the reception area. It’s small, with only room for a hospital examination bed, a computer that sits on a desk and two chairs. Jacob leans against the hospital bed, but I remain standing next to him.
The deputy clears his throat. “The man in ICU… he… he isn’t Benedict Harrow.”
The words seem to suck all the air out of the room.
My pulse slams in my ears.
“That’s… no.” I laugh, “That’s not possible.”
