Truths That Saints Believe (The Klutch Duet 2)

They’d given me something. Something that made the ride here blurry and dreamlike. Something that filled my mouth with bitterness and turned my insides to cotton wool. It was wearing off now, and the pain was creeping back in.

I was glad for the pain because I needed it right now.

“I need someone to give me some fucking answers,” I ground out, my voice rough, scratchy and too weak for my liking.

The doctor’s eyes flickered up from where they’d been focused on his chart. “I cannot give you answers, Mrs. Helmick. As I said, you must rest.”

It was then he turned his back on me. To go off to heal the wounds of whoever else was next on the list. Or to pronounce a time of death.

Horrid memories of blood and my friend’s lifeless face assaulted me with such force, I was surprised I could breathe through it. It was the pain from those memories that got me out of the bed, that helped me rip the IV from my arm so I could cross the distance between myself and the doctor to get right up in his face.

My feet were bare. It was unnerving because I lived my life in heels, was used to being six inches higher, which usually put me at eye level with most men—apart from Jay—and gave me a sense of confidence. Beyond that, it was unnerving because I hadn’t taken off my shoes. Someone else had done that for me. In the gaps. Someone had unstrapped my sandals, removed my clothes—including my bra—and put me in a hospital gown. It was by no means the most important fact at this juncture, but it was a strangely intimate and unexpected.

Not unexpected enough for me to stop what I was doing.

“You’re not going to walk away,” I seethed. “You’re not going to call me ma’am in that vague, cold and professional tone. I’m a human being. I’m a human being whose last memory of her friend, her friend who is five months pregnant—” my voice broke here, but I managed to carry on despite the splinters in my insides. “My last memory of her is blood pouring out of her, trying to make it stop.”

I looked down at my hands. They were shaking. Clean. Someone had cleaned them in the gaps too. But not well enough. They were stained pink with flecks of red. My stomach roiled, and I swayed slightly.

The doctor put his hand on my arm, steadying me. “Mrs. Helmick, you have a serious concussion, twelve stitches in your arm, not to mention the shock your body is going through right now. You need to get back into bed.” He began to try to direct me back to the bed I’d gotten out of. The one I hadn’t put myself in.

I tore my arm from his grasp. “You need to tell me where the fuck my pregnant friend is!” I screamed in his face.

He blinked once, not in surprise. I’m sure he was jaded to his patients losing it at him by now, but he must have realized that I was not going to let him leave this room without information.

He sighed. “She is in critical condition.” His voice was sober. But not gentle. “She lost a lot of blood, but it looks like she will recover.” Then he paused. My heart broke apart during that pause. The flesh shredding inside of my chest in a sensation that was horrific, grotesque and inescapable.

“Unfortunately, she lost the baby.”

I heard him even through the dull roar in my ears. Although I’d known he was going to say it, the words out loud solidified the ugly, horrid truth. The ground moved up, and blank spots danced in my vision.

“Are you sure?” I demanded. “There was a lot going on, Wren is strong. Are you sure you didn’t make some kind of mistake?” My words were a plea. Even though my brain already knew the truth, my heart was aching for it to be a lie.

“I’m sorry,” he replied with finality in his tone. His eyes went to my arm. “You need to get back into bed so we can reattach your IV.”

I glanced down in that direction. Blood was trailing down my arm and dripping on the floor. It sickened me, the sight of it. How little there was. Wren had lost so much more, yet I only had scratches and stitches.

“I need to see her.”

“You can’t see her right now—”

“You don’t take me to see her right now, I’ll make sure that you’re fired from this hospital, that you’re evicted from whatever bachelor pad in the Hills you’re living in. I’ll make sure your wife finds out about your mistress and that you default on all your loans,” I hissed, sounding hysterical and crazy.

“And then I’ll kill you,” another voice chimed in, not sounding hysterical or crazy. Smooth. Cold. Sure.