He agrees, and when I’m sure the line is dead, I cry out in blinding pain.
Chapter fifty-four
Tytus
Headphones around my neck, I hold my breath, my ears pricking against the silence. I swore I heard a noise, despite the quality of Mercer’s gear.
For several seconds, I remain like that. Yet the quiet persists.
Giving up, I shift and prepare to get back to work. Before I can cover my ears again, though, my phone vibrates beside me on the bed. Mercer lent me a charger last night, thankfully.
I grin when Sawyer’s picture illuminates my lock screen.
“Hey, mon ange.” I ease the laptop off my lap and stretch my neck from side to side.
“Ty, there’s been an accident. It’s Mercer.”
All the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. “What happened?” I demand, already off the bed and snagging my hoodie. “Where is he?”
“He fell. Or the porch collapsed? I don’t know for sure. He told me to tell you to stay inside.”
A grunt escapes me.Stay inside?Fuck that.
“Is he hurt?” I tap the speaker button on my phone screen and shove my feet into my shoes.
Her response is a broken sob.
My gut plummets. “Don’t cry, baby. You’re with Noah, right?”
“Yes.” She sniffles. “We’re on our way back right now.”
“Okay, I’ll check on him.”
“Ty, no!” She sucks in a shuddering breath. “You could get hurt, too.”
So what? I’m supposed to just let him suffer alone? As I yank the front door open, I say, “I’ll call you back if anything changes—”
“Tytus Phineas Tremblay,” she shouts, “don’t you dare hang up on me!”
Phone still in hand, I survey the enormous hole in the porch floor. From what I can tell, the floorboards rotted through on one side, breaking off pretty cleanly.
Sticking near the house, I inch closer. When I get a look inside the hole and see the outline of the professor’s body, cold dread washes over me.
He’s flat on his back, covered in debris. One arm is twisted over his head.Fuck. That looks like it hurts.
A groan rises from the hole, but he doesn’t speak otherwise. Or move.
“I see him,” I tell Sawyer. “I think he’s really hurt.” Heart rate picking up, I lean a little farther forward. “Mercer. Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” he groans again, clearly in pain.
“Can you sit up? Did you hit your head?”
“Don’t come any closer,” he says, his voice rough, his words choppy. “The porch isn’t structurally sound. I don’t want you falling and getting hurt.”
A scoff escapes me. He’s worried about me? He’s the one who just fell through the porch boards.
“Answer me, prof. Can you sit up?”
