He went, dimly aware of the others melting off into the night, slipping back toward the side street where the van and bikes were parked.
Mercy lingered, hands knotted together on top of his head, a giant lost child on the verge of falling to pieces. Only more terrifying than that.
“Merc,” Maggie said. “Go. I’ve got her.”
He was cursing to himself as he complied.
Carter knelt down beside Maggie, shaking all over. Ava was deathly pale, her eyes dark-ringed and sunken. Her jeans were dark, but the bloodstains were darker, just visible down the insides of her thighs in the glow of the flashlights.
“Listen to me,” Maggie said, urgently, as the sirens approached. “When I called her phone before, and you answered it? It wasn’t you; Ava still had it. She answered, she was afraid, she said, ‘Hamilton House,’ and I heard her scream.”
Carter nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Twenty-Three
Five Years Ago
“He passed out on the way over,” Aidan said as he walked around from the driver side of the van to the back, where Rottie stood agape at the open rear doors. Mason Stephens Jr. lay unconscious on the floor of the cargo area, the same tangled heap Aidan and Tango had dumped in back at Hamilton House. “He lost a shit-ton of blood.” The stains were spreading across the rubberized van floor. “Hopefully, the little shit’ll die on your way.”
Rottie quirked his brows and got his face under control. “Right. Which hospital?”
“St. Mary’s in Powell. That should be far enough.”
“For him to kick it?”
“For it not to blow back on us,” Aidan said, reaching in his cut pocket for his nighttime goggles. “I gotta go, man.”
“Yeah.” Rottie slapped him on the back. “Tango and me’ve got this. Tell Ava we all love her.”
“Yeah.”
Carter was a little champ. He backed up Maggie’s story to the paramedics: Carter found her truck, realized she’d been snatched, the phone call had revealed Hamilton House to Maggie. By the time they’d found her, the assailant was fleeing through the tangled grass behind the old mansion. Carter was pretty sure it was a teenage guy, some constantly-in-trouble creep. Maggie could have kissed him.
“How’d you know it would be Hamilton House?” she whispered as they followed the gurney into the hospital.
He shook his head, grimly. “Something Mason said this morning.” Guilt streaked across his face. “I looked at her phone; someone swapped my number with Mason’s. She thought the text was from me. My name showed up–”
“Hey.” Maggie put her arm around his waist as they walked and squeezed. “It’s not your fault, honey. You did great.”
It had all been a blur after that, Ava rushed off to X-rays, to CT scans, to specialists. Maggie knew what the blood on Ava’s legs meant; she knew and she was ripped raw about it.
Finally, Ava was put in a room, and Ghost and Aidan joined her. The whole night had an underwater, dream sequence feeling, like none of this could possibly be happening.
Through the glass wall of the room, Maggie watched the nurse check the IV one last time, ensure the blanket was tucked snuggly over Ava’s arms. She was fantastic, that nurse – Maggie had known that with one glance. Tall, African-American, with a tidy afro and purple fingernails, she moved with precision, had a no-nonsense sternness about her, but handled Ava with the gentlest, most maternal touch.
Ghost’s elbow glanced against her ribs and she forced herself to focus on the doctor standing in front of them out in the hall. She and Ghost stood side-by-side; Aidan lounged against the wall, staring at his toes, listening intently. The doctor was pretty and petite, straight out of a primetime drama.
“…the concussion is something I want to monitor closely,” she was saying. “So far, so good, but we need to be on the lookout for swelling.” She didn’t check the chart, just pressed on; kudos to her. “There’s scrapes and contusions, typical injuries given the circumstances.” Her mouth gave a little pull that spoke volumes about the circumstances: one look at Ava, and she’d wanted to bash teenage-boy brain as badly as Maggie. “I called in a gynecological consult; no signs of sexual assault. But” – little breath like she was worried what their reaction would be – “I’m afraid she’s miscarried.”
Ghost jerked, like he’d been electrocuted.
The doctor said, “I think it’d be best if she heard that from you” – glance to Maggie – “rather than our staff. It’s easier coming from a loved one.” She clasped the chart to her chest. “If you have any questions, just have Frances page me.” And she swept away with a little nod and bob.
Then Maggie was alone with her menfolk. Both of them were staring at her, waiting for her to start spewing answers.
“Miscarried?” Ghost’s face went into warrior-mode, furious and deadly calm. “Miscarried what, Mags?”
“You know what,” she snapped.
