Resolution (Mason Family 5)

Hearing that is a relief that I didn’t know I needed. I rest my head against the pillows and sigh.

“Do you have any questions for me?” he asks.

“When can I go home?”

He grins. “We have a few more tests to run, so we’ll see how that goes. Hopefully tomorrow if everything looks the way I expect it to.”

“I’d like to find my phone. Do you know where it is?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t. I can check with the records that came in with you, but I’m guessing if anyone has it, it’s the police. But don’t worry,” he says upon seeing my distress. “They’ll find all of your belongings and return them to you.”

How can I call Wade?

“I need to call … a friend,” I say, tears forming in my eyes again.

“Absolutely. There’s a phone over there.” He points at the table on the other side of me. “If you need help finding a number, one of the nurses will help you.” He pats my hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you all fixed up and out of here as good as new.”

I try to grin at his kindness. But between my tears and swollen face, who knows what it looks like.

Dr. Kidmore’s face sobers. “I have one more thing that I’d like to ask you, Miss Alden.”

“Okay.”

“You do know that you’re pregnant. Right?”

There are no bright lights this time. No smell of burnt rubber. There isn’t a chunk of metal that keeps me from seeing a few feet away from my face.

But none of that means that I don’t feel hit by a truck again.

“Excuse me?” I ask, my eyes going wide.

I gulp. I didn’t hear him right. I probably have a concussion.

“Am I concussed?” I ask.

“No. You do not have a concussion. But you are expecting a baby.”

A baby?

I squeeze my eyes shut and grab my head—only to pull my hand away because the pain from touching it is somehow even worse.

I can’t be pregnant. How can I be pregnant?

Well, I know how but how?

Wade.

Oh, fuck.

The monitor hanging above me starts beeping. A shot of fear mixed with adrenaline fires through my veins.

A cold sweat dots my skin as I think I might vomit.

“I take it that this information is new to you,” he says softly.

I laugh. The sound is hollow and breaks on a sob. “Oh, a little bit.”

“We’re going to run an ultrasound shortly, and we can help you schedule an appointment with your OB,” he says. “I don’t expect that you’ll see any complications from the accident, but that’s also not my specialty.”

Holy shit. This is real.

“It’s not mine either,” I say.

He goes to the sink and washes his hands. “Do you have any more questions for me?”

“Can you hand me a puke bucket before you leave?”

“Yes. Of course.” He grabs a little pale pink tub and passes it to me. “I’ll have the nurse come check on you shortly. Okay?”

I nod.

I don’t need a nurse. I need Wade.

Tears stream down my cheeks unchecked.

The tub shakes in my hand, and I wonder what part of this entire debacle is causing it. The shock of the accident? The pain? The medicines?

The baby?

The baby.

Oh. Shit.

I watch the doctor slowly rise and gather his notebook.

How is he so calm?

Because he’s not having a baby.

I vaguely register that the door closes.

My eyes close, and I say a prayer. For strength. For peace. And for Wade.

If I can just see Wade, I know this will all be okay.

I know it.

THIRTY-NINE

WADE

“Dara Alden.” I plant my hands on the nurses’ station and catch my breath. “Where is she? What room?”

“Sir, I need you to—”

“I need you to tell me where she is. Now.”

The nurse flinches at my aggressive behavior, but she doesn’t look any closer to relenting.

My heart pounds so hard that I think I might pass out.

“Please. Where the hell is she?”

A man in a white coat stops at the nurses’ station. He sees me and quirks a brow.

“Dara Alden,” I say, nearly begging. “Do you know where she is?”

The doctor gives the nurse a small nod and then turns to me.

“You are here to see Miss Alden?” he asks.

“Yes.” I move around the corner. “Please. Where is she? She doesn’t have her phone. The police told me to come here, and I … I don’t know where to go. She’s alone …”

The doctor smiles. “She’s in Room 304.”

Three zero four.

I take off down the hall.

“Thank you,” I call over my shoulder.

My shoes squeak against the linoleum. The scent of the hospital—the acrid, pungent scent that I loathe so much—attacks me full force as I try not to run down the corridor.

I count down the room numbers as I go.

Zero eight. Zero seven. Zero six.

That’s not even a fucking room.

Shit.

Zero five.

I find zero four and push open the door.

My stomach heaves.

There she is.