Declan
Twice in two days—either she’s trying to kill me, or I’ve well and truly pissed off the universe. Funny, really. I left this place thinking I’d be bringing my wife home; I didn’t expect I’d be marching her straight back with a fresh set of life-threatening injuries.
The NHS ought to name a bloody wing after us at this point.
Not that it really matters.
The night has been utter chaos.
Once Chelsea dropped—slack-jawed, lifeless, clutching the shovel she planned to use to bury my wife—Amerie dragged herself up the stairs, blood slicking her hands, shaking like a leaf in a storm. She found me where I’d been left, bound to the bed frame like some helpless wanker, and with trembling fingers she managed to undo one of the knots.
That’s all she had in her before she crumpled to the floor and lost consciousness.
But it was all I needed.
I ripped the filthy gag from my mouth and tore at the other knot tethering my left wrist to the bedpost. The second I freed myself, I was at her side, scooping her up with panic clawingat my insides. Her skin was cold and clammy. There was blood everywhere—hers, mine, Chelsea’s—I couldn’t even begin to tell what belonged to whom. I only knew she wasn’t waking up.
I called 999 as I searched the rest of the house for Willow and Emmett, still half in shock, still unsure if I was hallucinating the whole thing. I found them in separate rooms. Emmett was crawling on the floor in the kitchen. Willow was tied up and stowed away in the guest bedroom’s wardrobe, a strip of duct tape over her mouth.
Minutes later, the house was swarming. Paramedics, police, all of them shouting and bustling about, trying to take statements while checking pulses, while Willow cried and Emmett wailed and all I could do was bark at them to get Amerie in the bloody ambulance before answering another question.
They assessed us all for injuries. But Amerie… she was the one that needed to be rushed off to A&E. Stab wound to the abdomen. Fractured shoulder. Deep bruising. Hypoglycemic episode number two. Her blood sugar had dropped so low it was through sheer force of will she’d stayed conscious long enough to free me.
Now, it’s nearing five in the morning, and I’m on my third cup of shit coffee from a machine that eats notes and spits coins back at you like it’s doing you a favor.
My jaw aches from clenching it all night. I haven’t showered or slept. I’ve been pacing between her bedside and the entrance to her hospital room like a guard dog off the lead but still tethered by instinct.
I take the cup from the machine, the thin paper burning my fingers as I turn and spot him. The same officer who poked his nose in when they loaded Chelsea into a zipped body bag.
Late thirties, maybe early forties, broad build, and a tight-lipped expression that says he didn’t get enough sleep either.
“Mr. Keating,” he says, approaching me with a leather notebook already in hand.
I narrow my eyes. I’m not in the mood for more questions. Not while my wife’s in that hospital bed, barely conscious for the second time in two days.
I take a slow sip of coffee, keeping my tone even. “If this is about a statement, you’ll have to wait. I’ve given three already. And I told the lot of you, we’ll be getting a solicitor involved. You can speak to him.”
“Actually,” the officer says, shifting his weight, “I’m here to speak with your wife. I stopped by the nurse’s desk and heard she’s conscious again. I’d like to ask her a few questions about the ordeal.”
My jaw tightens, molars grinding so hard I hear it in my ears. My fingers curl tighter around the paper cup, the heat no longer registering. “What more is there to ask? I just told you, we’ve given our bloody statement. Anything else goes through our solicitor.”
I turn to walk off, ready to return to Amerie’s side, but I catch the sound of boots behind me. He’s following in my wake.
I stop dead.
The officer doesn’t. He nearly barrels into me, skidding short just as I pivot back round. I jab a finger hard at his chest, not caring if it creases his pressed shirt or earns me a goddamn citation. My voice drops to a growly snarl.
“Listen, you fucking prick. What part of we don’t want to talk to you right now don’t you understand?”
He blinks, momentarily stunned.
“My wife almost died tonight. Do you get that? Do you grasp how close we came to losing her? She’s lying in recovery, stitched up, drugged to the gills, and barely conscious—and you think now’s the fucking time for a chat?” I take a step closer and lean in, nose nearly to his. “Have some fucking decency and respectour privacy. Or you’re going to have to haul me off in handcuffs, because Iwilldeck you in the jaw if you keep harassing my wife.”
The silence that follows is taut, drawn like wire between us. His pupils dilate; I see the flicker of calculation behind his eyes. Whether to push or retreat.
Eventually, he gives a stiff nod, mouth thinning.
“We’ll… be in touch,” he mutters.
