She’s thin. Frail looking. Covered in sallow skin with sunken cheek bones and a clamminess coating her.
They look alike, but barely.
She looks like he did the night I found him.
“Alright, let’s get her inside.” I jerk around at Hatley’s voice, my best friend as close to me as the gurney is. “You okay?”
The second part is softer. Smaller. Meant for me and I drag in a lungful.
“I don’t like this, Hat.”
“Yeah, I don’t know what happened.” He shakes his head, a sadness darkening his eyes. “Emmett’s in there cleaning up like it’s his job. I don’t remember it being like this when we came through before.”
“So, I’m not crazy.”
Hat snorts and claps my shoulder. “Only a little bit, fool.”
The levity is short lived, Hat’s brows coming back down over his eyes.
“He won’t budge, will he.”
I already know the answer when I get the shake of his head. I can feel it in my gut.
“Tried. He doesn’t wanna bring her to our house. Says they should be here.”
It seems like there’s more on the tip of his tongue he holds back, his features pinching.
“What is it?”
He purses his lips, clear eyes boring into mine.
“He’s stubborn as shit.” I can tell that’s not what he wants to say and,fuck, does it twist something ugly inside me thathe knows some shit about Emmett that I don’t. That the guy I kissed told my best friend and not me. But I swallow it back as Hat’s smirk plasters on his face. “You’re two peas on a pod.”
I smack my lips. “Fuck you, man.” Then push his shoulder. “And it’s two peasina pod.”
“Yeah, whatever.” He’s chuckling as he kicks the wheel lock and starts hauling Emmett’s mom up the stairs, me on the other side.
“Unit 1-2-2, call back.”
I can’t help the way my stomach turns, and my eyes automatically flip to Emmett.
Who is still trying to clean up.
They’d made just enough room to get Charline set up in front of the couch but that’s about it.
“1-2-2 checking in,” Hatley responds, his gaze boring a hole in the side of my head.
“Status report,” dispatch crackles over the radio strapped to his shoulder.
Fuck, they’re gonna send us out.
The turning in my stomach becomes a painful twist when I round the gurney and stand next to where Emmett continues to shove trash into a bag.
“Bubbles,” I murmur.
He jumps.
“Y-yeah?”
