The room is quiet, but tension fills every inch of it as Doctor Adelman finishes up his exam. When he’s done, he steps back and leans against the small desk set along one wall.
“Well, Ayla, the good news is, I don’t think you’ve got more than a very mild concussion. I’m not seeing signs of a serious brain injury. I believe that some of the symptoms you’re experiencing are the effects of shock.” He shoots a quick look at Ryland and Theo before shifting his gaze back to me, speaking carefully as he continues. “I don’t know what you’ve been through, but I’m going to guess that it was… somewhat traumatic. Shock, on top of the concussion, accounts for all of your symptoms. I’ll write you a prescription for pain medication and an anti-inflammatory, and you’ll need to take it easy for the next few days. All right?”
I nod, although I barely heard everything he said. The gist of what I picked up was that we shouldn’t have come, that I’m not hurt badly enough to really need medical attention.
That we should be out there trying to find Marcus.
“Thanks, Doc,” Theo murmurs, and for the first time since they found me, he sounds relieved.
“No problem. I’ll just go get those for you.”
Doctor Adelman steps out of the room, and I move to slide off the exam table, but Theo stops me with a hand at my waist.
“Don’t get up until you have to. He said you need rest.”
The concern in his gaze is almost enough to quash my nervous impulse to pace around the room. He’s right, and I know it. But sitting still feels like doing nothing. And I can’t do nothing right now.
Ryland’s phone rings, and he swipes the screen quickly and lifts it to his ear. “Yeah? What do you have?”
I sit up straighter, staying on the exam table but leaning forward as if I’ll be able to pick up the other side of the phone call if I get close enough. I can hear the indistinct murmur of a deep voice talking on the other end, but I can’t understand the words. So I just watch Ryland’s face, trying to read the answers in the strong lines of his face and the curve of his lips.
He listens in silence for a moment. A muscle in his jaw jumps, and my stomach clenches.
“All of it?” There’s a pause as he listens again. When he speaks, there’s something in his voice I don’t recognize, something I’ve never heard before. “Yeah, okay. Keep looking. Call me if you find anything.”
He pulls the phone away from his ear and presses a button to end the call, then stares down at the screen for a moment. I realize I’ve stopped breathing, and although my head still pounds with an angry, throbbing pulse, I can barely feel it right now. I’m staring at the phone just like Ryland is, my gaze zeroed in on it like it possesses the answers to every question in the damn universe.
Then, suddenly, Ryland’s fingers curl around it, gripping it tight. With an inarticulate roar, he hurls it across the room.
It hits the wall so hard it dents the plaster, breaking into pieces and clattering to the floor. Chunks of black plastic, glass, and little electronic pieces scatter across the hardwood.
But it’s not enough.
In three long strides, Ryland crosses the room, slapping one palm against the wall before smashing his fist into the spot where his phone hit. Another ragged yell pours from his lips as he punches the wall over and over. He’s not even forming words. Just… sounds.
His fist breaks through the plaster, and he punches two more times, widening the hole. Then he braces both hands on the wall, dropping his head as he breathes heavily.
He looks like a wounded animal.
Feral.
Dangerous.
Broken.
The sounds of his breath fill the sudden quiet of the room, and as I stare at him in shock, my heart cracks open in my chest.
I was holding on to hope. All this time, despite the blood and the pain and the uncertainty, I was holding out hope that Marcus would be okay. But witnessing Ryland’s raw grief turns that hope to ash.
“What?” I croak. “What did he say?”
“The footage is gone.” Ryland’s voice is strained. “Everything from the warehouses and the surrounding area was wiped. There’s no footage left from today at all.”
“How?” There’s a note of desperation in my voice, and my fingers grip the edge of the exam table tightly.
“The same way we know it’s missing. Whoever is behind this has someone who knows their way around a computer, just like we do. Only they got to it first.”
“But then, Marcus could still be alive,” I blurt out. “We didn’t see the footage, so we don’t know. He might not be dead. I know he got shot, but maybe—he might still be alive.”