“H-” I paused to clear my throat. “Hey, Pete. Everything is going to be okay.”
Casey was suddenly beside me.
“I-I called the police. What the fuck? What the fuck, Grant?”
“Get the boy. Make sure he isn’t injured and calm him down as best you can,” I instructed, reaching for Kiyah’s seat belt.
“Don’t touch her. You might aggravate her injuries,” he warned.
“Get the kid,” I said, ignoring him.
I fumbled with the seat belt with clumsy fingers. I eased her back, careful of her head. Then I realized there was too much blood.
Casey opened the back door and unbuckled Pete, scooping him up without hesitation. The baby clung to him, sobbing, fists knotted in Casey’s shirt like he knew instinctively this was safety.
I lifted Kiyah into my arms, and panic clawed up my chest from how limp her body went.
“Don’t you fucking do this to me, Ki,” I pleaded with her, shuffling into the house, careful not to jar her too much.
“Grant,” she said, barely above a whisper.
“I’m here,” I replied. “I’ve got you. You’re home.” I laid her out on the couch and ran to the laundry room, where I knew a mountain of towels gifted to us at our wedding reception sat freshly laundered and folded. I returned, pressing one to her forehead while I checked her for additional injuries. “What… shit!” I exclaimed when I discovered a gaping wound on her side. The bleeding had slowed significantly; however, given her ashen complexion and how cold she was to the touch, it was apparent that she’d lost too much blood.
Kiyah gritted her teeth and grunted when I applied pressure to the wound.
“I know, baby. I’m so fucking sorry, Kiyah,” I apologized repeatedly. “I found the phone, and I thought—” My voice cracked. I swallowed hard and pushed through the guilt and shame. “I thought you left me for Branson.”
Her brow furrowed faintly, confusion flickering across her face. She shook her head weakly until her eyes rolled back.
“Hey!” I said sharply. “No. Stay with me.” I demanded, starting chest compressions. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder and closer. Moments later, heavy footsteps thundered across the hardwood floors.
“Emergency services! We received a call about a woman in distress,” someone shouted. Two EMTs rushed in with gear already in hand. One of them dropped beside Kiyah while the other scanned the room.
“What happened?” the first demanded, angling me out of the way, relieving me of my post. He listened to her heart with a stethoscope, checked her pulse, and muttered to his partner that Kiyah still had a pulse, but it was weak and thready.
“Um,” I paused and closed my eyes as I gathered my scattered thoughts.
“Sir?”
“She was taken,” I finally said, eyes flicking to Casey, who was soothing Pete. Another EMT approached him and briefly scanned Pete for injuries.
“Taken? What do you mean by that?” the EMT identified as Rojas from the stitching in his navy-blue shirt asked.
“She was abducted by Thaddeus Branson Jr.. She escaped and lost control of the vehicle, crashing into the house. I believe she hit her forehead on the steering wheel, and she has a stab wound to her right side.”
The man looked at me as if I told the tallest tale known to mankind. He shook his head and returned his attention to Kiyah. He exposed her abdomen, and everything shifted in an instant.
“Alright, trauma protocol. Let’s move, let’s move, let’s move,” he barked. His partner pressed a mask over Kiyah’s face, and the hiss of oxygen felt deafening. I dissociated as they worked on her tirelessly—fading in and out of reality when they claimed her BP was crashing and that an IV was started. I hovered uselessly, watching the needle disappear into her arm. They slid her onto the stretcher, strapped her down, and cleared out.
“Ride with us or follow?” Rojas shouted over his shoulder.
“I’m riding.”
I climbed into the back of the ambulance, gathered Kiyah’s cold hand in mine, and made her a promise.
I failed you once.
I won’t make the same mistake twice.
