A woman screamed. It was Gina Morris. Garrett raised his weapon, shouting instructions.
“Where is she?” I yelled.
She didn’t answer. Just raised her hands and started babbling about it being a mistake.
Ignoring Gina, I barreled deeper into the house. As soon as I saw Pen, my heart nearly stopped.
She lay on the hardwood floor, one arm stretched out, as if she’d been reaching for something. Her eyes were closed and I couldn’t tell if she was breathing.
“Garrett! Ambulance!”
I rushed to her side and knelt. Her forehead was clammy with cold sweat. Pressing my fingers to her neck, I found her pulse, but it was weak and slow.
“Pen,” I said, brushing her hair off her face. “Come on, baby, hang in there. Please don’t go.”
Taking her hand in mine, I looked over my shoulder and shouted at Gina. “What the fuck did you do to her?”
No one answered. I was dimly aware of Garrett talking. Moments later, another deputy came in. I wanted to gather Penelope in my arms, but I was afraid to move her. I didn’t know what had happened—if she had injuries I couldn’t see.
So I leaned my forehead against hers and whispered to her, my heart ready to crack wide open if she slipped away. “Please stay with me, Pen. Please stay.”
I didn’t know how long it took for the paramedics to arrive. Probably minutes. But every second felt like an hour—every heartbeat felt like it might be her last.
Finally, a commotion behind me caught my attention. Paramedics rushed in.
I hopped to my feet and got out of their way. Sick with fear, I watched while they took her vitals and prepped a stretcher.
“Insulin!” Garrett shouted. “She gave her insulin! Check her glucose.”
One of the paramedics pricked her finger. I held my breath until the meter beeped.
“Forty-nine,” he said. “She needs a glucagon injection.”
Another paramedic handed him a syringe. He cleaned her upper arm with an alcohol wipe and administered the injection.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Her blood sugar is dangerously low.” The paramedic stood. “Glucagon will help get her glucose back up, but depending on how much insulin she was given, she might need more. We’re going to take her in.”
The paramedics moved her onto the stretcher. She was still unconscious, and the color had drained from her face.
“Is she going to wake up?”
“It can take ten minutes or so.”
I followed them as they took her out to the ambulance, ignoring the chaos of flashing lights and onlooking neighbors outside. Without asking if I could, I climbed in with her. There was no way I was leaving her, even for a moment.
They started an IV as we drove away, but it was several minutes later and she still hadn’t responded.
I let the paramedics do their job, hating this helpless feeling. If only I’d figured it out sooner.
By the time we stopped at the emergency entrance to the hospital, I was ready to tear the ambulance apart. Why wasn’t she waking up? What had Gina done to her?
I got out and moved aside so they could bring her out on the stretcher. Right as they raised it to wheel her inside, her eyes fluttered open.
“It’s okay.” I rushed to her and placed my palm against her cheek. “We’ve got you. Everything’s going to be all right.”
She squinted. “Theo?”
