* * *
I thought I knew what grief was—a clawing feeling of finality that could only be soothed by liquid spirits that haunted me like ghosts. But nothing came close to the purgatory hell I lived in, wondering if I had to plan my wife’s funeral.
“Grant, I’m—”
“Don’t… just don’t, Casey,” I said, staring down at the shiny, white linoleum tiles. “Focus on keeping Pete calm.”
“I shouldn’t have said those things about her and dissuaded you from looking for her,” he apologized.
“Stop, Casey,” I replied, unable to drag my eyes up to meet his. “What you said was fucked up, but not going after her? That’s on me, and I have to live with the fact that I failed to protect her.”
Doors swung open hard enough to rattle, and frantic footsteps broke the hush of the hospital wing. Seconds later, Dad pulled me into a hug that offered more comfort than I had expected. Piece by piece, I lost any composure I had left and collapsed into him.
“Grant, what’s going on with Kiyah? I need an update,” Mom pleaded. Her voice was taut like a piano string that would snap at the slightest mention of bad news. “Grant, what is happening to my baby?” she pressed, asking me questions I didn’t have the answer to. “Grant—”
“Kierra,” Dad said, cutting her off. “I know you’re worried, honey. We’re all worried but give him a moment to catch his breath.”
She didn’t hesitate to storm off towards the nurses’ station, heels furiously clicking. I overheard her receive the same update I had received thirty minutes ago.
She’s still in surgery. The surgeon will provide an update as soon as possible.
“C’mon, son. Let’s sit,” he said, leading me to a set of gray plastic chairs. We sat, and I leaned my head back against the wall. “When you can, tell me what happened.”
It took seven minutes for me to learn how to breathe again, and two more to convince the tears to dry up and my nose to stop leaking. In the meantime, the rest of our family had gathered with faces hollowed by unconfirmed loss. Daisy, still recovering from her life-threatening injury, clutched Nori’s hand like a lifeline. Her mouth moved in a silent prayer, imploring God for mercy.
Finally finding the strength, I relayed what happened—Kiyah’s suspicious disappearance, the crash, her wounds, and Pete.
“Jesus,” he muttered when I was finished, sitting back and absorbing it all in. He eased his glasses off his face and repeatedly wiped the lenses with the hem of his shirt.
“I’m killing him,” I whispered, staring at my hands that I wished to be stained with Branson’s blood. Dad let out a deflating breath and placed his hand on my thigh.
“Son, trust me. I understand the urge, but this is big. Branson is a political public figure, and you would be the prime suspect. You need to let the authorities handle this.”
I barked a laugh. “The authorities? Are you referring to the same ones who are probably in his pocket? The same man who probably owns an elite security firm?”
“The reasons you presented are exactly why you should stand down. God forbid we lose Kiyah. I can’t lose you, too.”
I shook my head. He wasn’t hearing me. “What aren’t you fucking getting?” I asked, looking at him with furious disbelief. “Are you still under the false assumption that Daisy and Noriwere randomly involved in a hate crime? Who’s fucking next? Mom? Ms. Simone? Kieran?”
He raised the same hand that was on my thigh to pause me. “I hear you, Grant. I do. Let’s just… let’s just get through the night.”
The surgeon entering the waiting room stole my attention. I bolted to my feet and rushed towards him while everyone stood at attention. I met him at the end of the hallway, chest heaving while anxiety did its thing and clung to my lungs.
“How is she?” I rushed out before he could address me.
“The surgery was successful, and Mrs. Baker is being taken to recovery. She should start coming around in the next hour or so. She has a moderate concussion, so she’ll be a little groggy at first and may experience minor difficulty with recall, maybe even some confusion. That is normal. What we would be nervous about is worsening headaches, repeated vomiting, trouble waking or staying awake, weakness or numbness to one side, increased agitation, slurred speech or worsening speech, unequal pupils, and seizures. Those are indications of something serious going on that we want to address immediately.”
I swallowed hard. “And the stab wound?”
“We found glass in the wound; however, vital organs were graciously spared, and luckily, we didn’t need to perform a blood transfusion.”
“How long will she be admitted, and when can I see her?”
“We want to keep her for at least forty-eight hours to monitor and ensure there are no further complications. Also, earlier, when she was admitted, medical staff relayed that, according to you, Mrs. Baker didn’t have any known allergies and was not currently pregnant. We determined that she is approximately nine or ten weeks along.”
My brain fizzled out, and static replaced reasoning. “Eleven weeks along, what?”
“Mrs. Baker is nine to ten weeks pregnant. The baby appears stable, but we’ll run additional tests once she’s fully awake.”