I chuckle and shake my head. For some reason, her verbal diarrhea has me relaxing a bit.
“I am sorry, though,” she murmurs. “Yes, Aurora is in there. I spoke to the nurse on call while I was waiting. She said she’s been asleep for the last hour—and likely still is.”
“Is she—” I feel like I’m being choked to death. “Did they say what happened to her in the—”Fuck, just get it out.“The acc—”
“The accident?” she finishes gently.
I give a sharp nod.
She looks at me for a long second, like she’s trying to decide how much I can take. “Are you asking about the details of the accident? Or just Aurora’s status?”
Do I really want to know what killed Marlee? How it happened?
I know if I hear it, if I can picture it, it might wreck me. Not because I still love Marlee. But because Idid. And because I’m standing here for her kid…and she’s not.
And never will be again.
But it’s Aurora’s story, and if this goes as planned, one day, I’ll have to tell her what happened to her parents. How her mama died.
That thought makes me nauseous.
“All of it,” I manage, voice shredded. “Like you’re ripping a Band-Aid off.”
Georgia’s lips press together, her eyes searching mine, but she gives one, sharp nod and sucks in a slow breath.
“From what the EMT report said, the car left the road just outside Langley. Hit a tree. Hard. The driver and passenger were both pronounced dead at the scene. We’re still waiting on the toxicology report.”
My chest caves inward.
“Aurora was in the backseat. Properly buckled into a rear-facing seat. That seat, and the angle of impact, is what saved her.”
The room sways, but I commit every word to memory.
“She has a concussion. Some bruising from the harness, and a few cuts from the glass. Worst was on her cheek. It’ll scar, but nothing serious.” She takes a breath. “There was a small brain bleed—”
Pretty sure my soul leaves my body. She must see the panic all over my face because she reaches out, grips my forearm, and squeezes hard as she rushes to finish.
“She didn’t need surgery, but they kept her in the pediatric ICU for observation.” Georgia’s little fingers dig in, and she gives me a shake, drawing my gaze to hers. “She hasn’t had any seizures, no vomiting since the second night. Pain management’s the focus now. She’ll be okay, Kade. She’s healing.”
Healing.
Jesus.
I nod, slow and unsteady. She stares at me for a few more seconds then releases my arm. I feel the loss of it like air in a confined space. Like I’m drifting at sea alone.
“You okay?” she whispers.
I almost laugh but it comes out like a garbled cry. “No.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
My hands are clammy, fists clenched at my sides as I stare at the door like it might unhinge itself and swallow me whole. A long moment passes before she finally speaks, voice soft and sweet.
“You don’t have to be her everything all at once,” she murmurs. “You just have to go in and say hi.”
“Hi?” I shoot her a side glance. “I’m not ready for that.”
