"He's my father." The words cut through whatever he was going to say. "He's my father, and he was shot in front of me, and I'm going to the hospital. Now."
I watch something flicker across William's face. Understanding that slowly fades as he exhales heavily. He's deciding whether to fight me on this.
"Move," I say quietly. "Or I will move you." My lip trembles, and I'm fighting not to spiral again like I did when I couldn't catch my breath.
It's an empty threat. He's twice my size, probably high on something based on the dilated pupils I noticed earlier, and covered in my father's blood, same as me. I have no way to move him if he decides to stay planted in my path.
But I say it anyway, because the alternative is falling apart right here in this hallway, and I won't give him that.
Won't give anyone that.
His jaw tightens. For a long moment, we just stand there, locked in some kind of silent battle I'm definitely losing.
Then he steps aside.
"Fine," he says. The word comes out rough. Reluctant. "But you're not going alone. And we're taking my team."
I don't argue. Don't have the energy. I just move past him toward the front door, and if my steps are unsteady, if my hands are shaking so hard I have to clutch the blanket tighter around my shoulders, that's between me and the blood-spattered walls.
The car ride is a blur.
I'm in the back of an SUV with windows so dark I can barely see out. William sits beside me, silent and tense. Two security guards in front. More following in vehicles behind us. An entire convoy just to get me to the hospital.
Because someone tried to kill me.
The thought keeps circling. Around and around like water down a drain.
That bullet was meant for me.
I was standing right where Father stood. Right in front of that window. And then I stepped back, moved aside for just a moment, and Father took my place.
Took my bullet.
My stomach lurches. I press my hand against my mouth, forcing down the nausea. When I pull it away, I see the blood on my arm. So much of it. Splattered across my dress. In my hair. Drying on my skin in flakes that make me want to claw myself open.
I close my eyes, but that's worse. Because when I close my eyes, I see it.
The window exploding. The spray of glass. The way Father's body jerked. The bloom of red across his white shirt. The sound he made, this awful wet gasp, like he was trying to speak but only blood came out.
And his eyes. God, his eyes. Looking at me. Confused. Afraid.
My father has never been afraid of anything in his life.
"Aoife."
I open my eyes. William is watching me with an intensity that makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
"What?" The word comes out sharper than I intended.
"You're hyperventilating again."
I am. My chest is tight, breath coming in shallow gasps that aren't pulling in enough air. When did that start?
"Breathe," William says. Not gentle. Just matter-of-fact. "Slow. Like before."
Like before. When he pressed me against the hallway wall after the shooting and forced me to focus. When his hands framed my face, and he made me breathe with him, matching his rhythm until the panic subsided. When his steady voice was the only thing anchoring me to reality.
I force myself to breathe. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. The way he showed me in the hallway.
