One of Jake’s contacts, a private investigator, called him after seeing the whole thing go down. He saw the pretty blond prosecutor get into a dark sedan with government plates, a driver at the wheel. And just a few blocks down the road, at an intersection, he saw that sedan get T-boned by an SUV—and flipped.
Intentionally.
Shots fired. FBI on the scene. Flashing lights and sirens. Injuries, medics.
Body bags.
So it’s actually a relief that the receptionist is lying to me; it increases the odds that Kennedy isn’t in one of those bags. Or wasn’t when she got here, anyway.
I lean over the desk. “I know she’s here, and I know why you’re telling me she’s not . . .” My voice wavers and my hands clench with frustration, panic—the urge to tear the hospital apart looking for her, or to go find the fuckers who dared to do this to her and tear them apart. “And you have to let me see her.”
Even before she opens her mouth, I know she’s going to shoot me down. “Sir—”
“I’m her husband.”
It’s not a smart lie; too easy to disprove. But it’ll get me in—or at least get me to someone higher up in the chain who I can convince to let me in.
The desk lady’s face softens. “Just a moment.” She picks up the phone, turning her back to whisper into it.
Stanton, Sofia, and Jake watch me as I pace, fingers locked behind my neck, every muscle tight and straining. After a few minutes, a square-jawed guy wearing deceptively casual jeans and a button-down emerges from the door that leads to the bowels of the hospital. His eyes are quick, observant—but his face is deliberately blank.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“Kennedy Randolph—” I start.
“Is not here,” he finishes.
“I know she is.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I’m her—”
“No, you’re not.”
It takes everything I’ve got not to grab him by the throat and squeeze the answers out. “Are you FBI? Are you with the Marshalls? Your department’s job was security—keeping her safe.” My cheek twitches. “Bang-up job they’re doing, Skippy.”
“I have no information for you. It’s time for you to go. Now.”
“Is she alive?” My voice sounds like a captive who’s been tortured for intel, and is finally broken. “Just give me that, for fuck’s sake.”
I don’t care about the rest—her hair, her face, her arms, her legs—they don’t matter. I’ll love her without them. As long as she’s still breathing. As long as she’s still her.
Stone-face gives me jack shit. “Information on an active case can only be given to immediate family. I’m not confirming that there is an active case, but if there was—you are no one’s immediate family. So I have nothing for you. I won’t be telling you to leave again.”
I move forward, ready to get in his face, but Sofia’s hand on my arm pulls me back. “Come on, Brent. That’s not going to help. Let’s go.”
I let her pull me outside to the sidewalk.
“Fuck!” I push my palms against my eyes. “God fucking damn it!”
Was this what it was like for my parents after my accident? While they waited for the doctor to come out to tell them if I’d made it?
It’s like there’s a hot poker under my ribs, pressing against my stomach, my lungs, my heart. Burning me alive slowly, from the inside.
I drop my hands and turn toward the door. “I’m going back in to talk to that agent. I’ll make him—”
Stanton steps into my path. “You’ll get arrested. Not the way to go, man.”
I grind my jaw so hard the sound echoes in my eardrums.
Jake puts his hand on my shoulder, and his voice is clear and calming. “Brent, pull it together. You have resources: take a breath and call them.”
I’ve always hated assholes who use their money and connections to exert undue influence—and believe me, I’ve known a lot of them. But at this moment, I’ve never been more grateful for my last name. Because it opens doors.
I take my phone out and dial. “Dad? I need your help. Do we know anyone in the U.S. Marshal’s Service?”
When he replies, my eyebrows go up. “The director, huh? That’s convenient. Can you call him for me?”
• • •
Ten minutes later, Urban Cowboy walks back into the waiting room. “Brent Mason.”
I stand, but when the four of us move to him, he puts up a hand like a traffic cop. “Just you.”
I’m immediately engulfed in Sofia’s strong embrace. “Call us as soon as you can—let us know how she’s doing.”
“I will.”
Jake squeezes my shoulder, Stanton smacks my back. “Anything you need.”
“Thanks.”
Then I get into the elevator with Super Cop. As the doors close, he tells me, “She’s all right.”
My lungs collapse. Deflate. Like I’ve been holding my breath for a millennia—waiting to hear those words.
“Broken arm, two cracked ribs, some facial contusions, but nothing serious.”
Okay. She’s injured, but she’ll heal. I’ll help her heal.
Thank you, God.
As the elevator starts to rise, I feel his eyes on me. “My supervisor called, told me to get you upstairs straight away.”
Intentionally.
Shots fired. FBI on the scene. Flashing lights and sirens. Injuries, medics.
Body bags.
So it’s actually a relief that the receptionist is lying to me; it increases the odds that Kennedy isn’t in one of those bags. Or wasn’t when she got here, anyway.
I lean over the desk. “I know she’s here, and I know why you’re telling me she’s not . . .” My voice wavers and my hands clench with frustration, panic—the urge to tear the hospital apart looking for her, or to go find the fuckers who dared to do this to her and tear them apart. “And you have to let me see her.”
Even before she opens her mouth, I know she’s going to shoot me down. “Sir—”
“I’m her husband.”
It’s not a smart lie; too easy to disprove. But it’ll get me in—or at least get me to someone higher up in the chain who I can convince to let me in.
The desk lady’s face softens. “Just a moment.” She picks up the phone, turning her back to whisper into it.
Stanton, Sofia, and Jake watch me as I pace, fingers locked behind my neck, every muscle tight and straining. After a few minutes, a square-jawed guy wearing deceptively casual jeans and a button-down emerges from the door that leads to the bowels of the hospital. His eyes are quick, observant—but his face is deliberately blank.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“Kennedy Randolph—” I start.
“Is not here,” he finishes.
“I know she is.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I’m her—”
“No, you’re not.”
It takes everything I’ve got not to grab him by the throat and squeeze the answers out. “Are you FBI? Are you with the Marshalls? Your department’s job was security—keeping her safe.” My cheek twitches. “Bang-up job they’re doing, Skippy.”
“I have no information for you. It’s time for you to go. Now.”
“Is she alive?” My voice sounds like a captive who’s been tortured for intel, and is finally broken. “Just give me that, for fuck’s sake.”
I don’t care about the rest—her hair, her face, her arms, her legs—they don’t matter. I’ll love her without them. As long as she’s still breathing. As long as she’s still her.
Stone-face gives me jack shit. “Information on an active case can only be given to immediate family. I’m not confirming that there is an active case, but if there was—you are no one’s immediate family. So I have nothing for you. I won’t be telling you to leave again.”
I move forward, ready to get in his face, but Sofia’s hand on my arm pulls me back. “Come on, Brent. That’s not going to help. Let’s go.”
I let her pull me outside to the sidewalk.
“Fuck!” I push my palms against my eyes. “God fucking damn it!”
Was this what it was like for my parents after my accident? While they waited for the doctor to come out to tell them if I’d made it?
It’s like there’s a hot poker under my ribs, pressing against my stomach, my lungs, my heart. Burning me alive slowly, from the inside.
I drop my hands and turn toward the door. “I’m going back in to talk to that agent. I’ll make him—”
Stanton steps into my path. “You’ll get arrested. Not the way to go, man.”
I grind my jaw so hard the sound echoes in my eardrums.
Jake puts his hand on my shoulder, and his voice is clear and calming. “Brent, pull it together. You have resources: take a breath and call them.”
I’ve always hated assholes who use their money and connections to exert undue influence—and believe me, I’ve known a lot of them. But at this moment, I’ve never been more grateful for my last name. Because it opens doors.
I take my phone out and dial. “Dad? I need your help. Do we know anyone in the U.S. Marshal’s Service?”
When he replies, my eyebrows go up. “The director, huh? That’s convenient. Can you call him for me?”
• • •
Ten minutes later, Urban Cowboy walks back into the waiting room. “Brent Mason.”
I stand, but when the four of us move to him, he puts up a hand like a traffic cop. “Just you.”
I’m immediately engulfed in Sofia’s strong embrace. “Call us as soon as you can—let us know how she’s doing.”
“I will.”
Jake squeezes my shoulder, Stanton smacks my back. “Anything you need.”
“Thanks.”
Then I get into the elevator with Super Cop. As the doors close, he tells me, “She’s all right.”
My lungs collapse. Deflate. Like I’ve been holding my breath for a millennia—waiting to hear those words.
“Broken arm, two cracked ribs, some facial contusions, but nothing serious.”
Okay. She’s injured, but she’ll heal. I’ll help her heal.
Thank you, God.
As the elevator starts to rise, I feel his eyes on me. “My supervisor called, told me to get you upstairs straight away.”
