“Oh yeah, you mean the part where you told a million people that you’re not in love with Jenna? Yeah. I haven’t decided what to do with the episode yet. If I should delete it or let everyone see what kind of asshole you are.”
I press my thumb into the edge of the couch until it goes white. “Okay. That’s fair. So, you have no idea where she is? She left a half an hour ago and I can’t reach her.”
“Nope. Is that all?”
“Yeah. Thank you, Isla.”
She hangs up.
I stand up.
Sit back down.
The office. She could be at her office. I could grab Livy, just drive there. Or to her mom’s—she mentioned her mom once, some neighborhood on the East Side, I can’t remember the street. I should remember the street. I should know this.
My phone rings.
An unknown number lights up the screen, and I answer before the first ring finishes.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is this Colton Kirillov?”
“Yes. Yeah.”
A hiccup. A wet, terrible pause. “This is Jenna’s mom. I’m calling from the hospital.”
The floor drops out. No, please,no.
“She’s been in an accident.” Another hiccup, or maybe a sob. “A car. She was hit by a car. The driver’s—” her voice cracks.
“Who? Who did this to her?”
“Your ex-wife.”
The phone stays at my ear long after she stops talking.
THIRTY-SIX
Colton
The hospital is on fire with flashing lights, not the literal kind, but the kind that bounces off every surface—ambulance bars, reporter flashbulbs, police headlights, goddamn camera phones held high by strangers who have never given a shit about me or Jenna or anyone until blood is in the water.
I have Livy on my hip.
Her arms are tight around my neck, chin buried into my shoulder, legs wrapped around so hard I feel her bones through my shirt. She hasn’t said a word since I pulled her from the car, just keeps her face pressed against me, breathing in sync with me. Every step toward the ER doors is a war. My phone explodes in my pocket—Ethan, Isla, Riley, even the GM.
We hit the sliding glass doors. The inside is even louder, voices ping-ponging off tile and steel. For a second, I stop dead, nearly drop Livy, because the wall of people is too thick and my brain refuses to see a path through. An orderly sees me—maybe he recognizes my face, maybe he just sees a big man and a small child in trouble—and yells, “Hey! You!” and the sea parts, just a little, so I charge forward before it closes again.
“Sir, you need to check in at the desk?—”
“Jenna Davis-Kirillov,” I bark, and he shrinks half an inch. “Where is my wife?”
He blinks, registers my face, and the recognition is immediate. “She’s in trauma three. Please, sir, just—wait over there.”
I don’t even see where he points at, but I bulldoze toward the double doors with the big yellow warning labels. “No Admittance.” Sure. Try and stop me.
A security guard steps into my lane. He’s got fifty pounds on me, but it’s all belt and badge. “Sir?—!”
