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  “He’s right, Gabrielle,” the paramedic says. “You need to keep the mask on to help you breathe. It’s better if you don’t talk more than necessary until they assess your lungs and larynx at the emergency room. Then you can chew this guy’s ear off. Deal?”

  She nods. It’s a pathetic little nod, that means sure, whatever you say. But she’s not feeling it.

  The ambulance pulls into the emergency bay, the double doors open and several people in scrubs are waiting on the landing to usher her inside. There’s a lot happening all at once. It’s controlled chaos and a jarring contrast from the relative calm inside the ambulance. Gabrielle begins to cry.

  I bring her hand to my lips. “It’s going to be okay. So many people love you.” I love you. But I can’t say it. I haven’t said it once since she’s been back in my life. It’s not that I don’t feel it. I don’t want to feel it, but I do. Every single fucking day. But I don’t feel worthy enough to love her. And I won’t be—not until I can protect her. “You’re strong. You’ll get through this.”

  It’s a lie. All a lie. We left her dream crumpling under the flames. I’m not sure how she’ll get through it. How any of us will get through it.

  2

  Julian

  Nobody at the hospital gives a shit I’m JD Wilder, or Gabrielle’s fiancé. They make me wait outside the trauma room while they work on her.

  “Did everyone get out? Georgie?” Gabrielle asks right before they kick me out of the room. There’s terror in her eyes. It slices through me, grabbing my soul, and strangling what little humanity is left there.

  “Everyone got out,” I assure her, even though I have no fucking clue if everyone got out. “Let the doctors and nurses take care of you. Do everything they say, and I’ll go find out about Georgie. I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

  I pace the hall, not venturing far from her doorway until the ward secretary tells me I need to move. “There’s been a multi-car accident and the victims are on their way in. We need the hallways clear. She shows me to a small waiting area. “I’ll let the nurse know you’re here in case they have any questions.”

  “Do you know anything about Ms. Duval’s condition?” I know she doesn’t, but I’m desperate for any scrap of information, so I ask anyway.

  She shakes her head. “I’m sorry.” She starts to leave, but turns before reaching the doorway. “I apologize, Sir, I just realized who—you’re the president’s son. I can find somewhere more private for you to wait. This is a public area and patients’ families will be in and out.”

  Money and power get you a special place to wait, but they don’t change the bottom line. Not in this case. I can’t buy Gabrielle peace of mind or health. I can’t order it up for her, threatening anyone who doesn’t comply. The last thing I need is to be around strangers, but I don’t want to be holed up in some out of the way place and forgotten, either. I want the hospital personnel to know exactly where they can find me if she needs anything. “I’m fine here.”

  Gabrielle might have believed I was out of her life all those years, but I kept close track of her to make sure she wanted for nothing. Watched her grow into a beautiful, smart woman who came into her own while learning the ins and outs of the luxury hotel business. I cheered every success from the shadows.

  She should have never returned to Charleston. It was a huge mistake. I knew it at the time, but there was nothing I could do to stop it. It was too damn late by the time I found out she’d bought the hotel.

  When the ward secretary leaves, I call my father’s personal cell phone, the one he’s not supposed to use anymore, but he doesn’t answer. He’s probably still at one of the ridiculous balls. And if he’s behind this, he won’t take my call, anyway. Scratch that. He’ll take the call just to hear the fury in my voice. The pain. He’ll listen intently for any hint of fear.

  This is what my father does. What he does to me.

  This has been my life for the past twenty years, since he first suspected I knew something about the accident that killed my mother and Sera, and left Zack brain dead. I first went to him about the conversation I overhead between him and Olson. I didn’t accuse, because I didn’t suspect him at the time. At least I didn’t want to, not until I saw his reaction to my questions. Since then, I’ve been parsing truth from lies, all of it shrouded by layers and layers of evil.

  I try Smith, but the call doesn’t go through. I’ve been to this emergency room many times with my brother Zack, and the reception in this part of the hospital is bad, but I don’t want to leave the ward in case there’s news on Gabrielle.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Wilder?”

  I swivel quickly, thinking it’s someone with news about her, but then I notice the tall pushcart with the computer screen and I know it’s nothing. “I need some information on Gabrielle Duval,” the intake specialist says. “I was told you came in with her.”

  “I did.” Information, of course. Like how the hospital is going to be paid. The middle-aged woman will ask me a dozen questions, but that’s what she really wants to know.

  “What’s Ms. Duval’s address?”

  The image of the collapsing hotel, sparks flying into the wind, is all I see when she asks the question. The fire leveling Gabrielle’s home. Destroying everything she owns. “77 Sweetgrass Circle. Charleston.” That’s my address.

  “Religion?”

  “Huguenot. Catholic.”

  “Race?”

  “Her father is Caucasian. Her mother’s biracial.”

  She glances up at me. “How about Ms. Duval?”

  I don’t know. “Why the hell does it matter? Do you treat people differently based on race?”

  “No. Of course not,” she stammers. “It’s for statistical purposes only. The government requires us to ask everyone who comes in for care how they classify themselves. We certainly don’t verify that information or use it for nefarious purposes.”

  As asinine as some of these questions seem, answering them correctly would matter to Gabrielle. If she were here, she’d endeavor to respond to every ridiculous question carefully and honestly. Especially this one.

  I want to get this right—all of it right—for her. It’s the one thing I can do. But I’m not entirely sure. And it bothers me that I don’t know something so basic, yet so fundamental. Yes, you do, JD. She would take great pride in telling this woman to count her as biracial. “Biracial.”

  “Mixed race,” the woman paraphrases banging on the keyboard.

  She asks a half-dozen more questions. My head’s pounding and I’m about to lose what’s left of my self-composure. Not one damn question she asks will make anything better for Gabrielle. But I answer them anyway. Even after so many years, I know a surprising amount of personal information about Gabrielle. That’s because there was a time when we shared everything.

  I’m nursing a sharp pain in my chest, and don’t hear the intake specialist at first.

  “Sir. I need insurance information.”

  I pull out my wallet, and without thinking, hand her my insurance card, like I always do for Zack. She takes it. “This has your name on it. Do you share the same policy?”

  Jesus, JD. Get your head on straight. “No. We don’t share a policy. I don’t have a card for Ms. Duval.”

  “Is she insured?”

  “Yes.” There’s no way Gabrielle wouldn’t have health insurance. She’s not much into obeying me, but she’s a rule follower at heart. And responsible. Something like this should have never happened to her. I want to knock over the cart, and kick the computer around the room until it’s broken into miniscule pieces unrecognizable to anyone without a magnifying glass.

  “Any information you can give me will help us track down the insurer.”

  I have no information. I pull out my wallet again and shove a credit card at her. “Put all her medical expenses on this. Anything she needs. I’ll assume all financial responsibility for her care. Where do I sign?”

  “That might not be necess
ary. She might be insured.”

  “Just do it.” Why can’t one fucking person ever do as I ask? Just one.

  I scribble my name on the document. When I look up Antoine is in the doorway. His eyes are wet.

  I hand the woman back the pen without sparing her a glance. “You have everything you need. We’re done for now.”

  “Actually, I need to make a copy of your credit card.”

  “Take it.”

  “I’ll return it immediately.” I wave her off, still watching Antoine.

  “How’s Gabby?” he asks while the intake specialist packs up to leave.

  “Her right palm and fingers are injured, probably second-degree burns. The paramedics weren’t too worried. They’re running some tests on her lungs to see if there’s damage from the smoke and heat. I think that’s the biggest concern right now.” Tears stream down his face while I’m talking. “It’s all I know.”

  His reaction makes me uneasy. Antoine is a big guy. He spent more than a decade in the Marine Corps. Served three combat tours in the desert. We’ve known each other since we were kids, and I’ve never known him to be much of a crier.

  I squeeze his shoulder. “Hey. She’s going to be okay. It might be a rough road. But she’s tougher than either of us.”

  “Georgina didn’t make it.” It comes out as a sob, echoing in the small room.

  What? The blood rushes into my ears, hammering so loud I can barely hear myself think. “Georgina was inside the hotel?”

  Antoine nods. “I think so.”

  Jesus Christ. It takes me a full minute before I begin to grasp the full impact of his words. “The baby?”

  He shakes his head. “They’re both gone.”

  Gone? No. No. The news comes like a punch to the gut. The one delivered when you’re least expecting it. When you think the fight is over, and you’ve paused to lick your wounds.

  “Are you sure?” My first instinct is always to push back. To brawl. Especially in times like these. I shove my hands in my pockets so I don’t shake Antoine. “Who told you this?”

  “The firefighters pulled someone from the smoldering rubble. The body was badly charred. Couldn’t immediately identify the remains. But whoever it is—was—she was pregnant. Very pregnant. They pronounced her dead at the scene. It was gruesome. As bad as anything I saw in combat.”

  This is too much. Too damn much. Not for me, I can take it. But I can’t bear to watch Gabrielle take the second punch. This one will be even worse than the hotel burning to the ground with everything she owns inside. No comparison. “So you’re not certain it was Georgina?”

  “The FBI showed up because of the warehouse fires. They wanted to see if there was any connection between them and the hotel fire. They called in a forensic examiner who specializes in dental identifications. They don’t waste time. They’ll know soon. They might already know.”

  “Gabrielle kept asking for Georgina. But it was after ten when the fire started. It had to be, because I was on the phone with her until ten. Georgina isn’t on evenings when Gabrielle’s at the hotel. She’s told me this. More than once.” I’m pacing the room, muttering to myself. Trying to wrap my head around Georgina didn’t make it. Wondering if she might have been saved if I’d just listened to what Gabrielle was trying to tell me.

  “Who else would it be?” Antoine asks, pulling me from inside myself.

  “Someone from housekeeping,” I reply. “A guest.” As tragic as any death would be, nothing will hit Gabrielle harder than Georgina dying. And the baby. The baby they were going to spoil rotten. I rest my forehead on the wall.

  “In the back office after ten o’clock?” Antoine asks, like I’ve lost my mind.

  Pregnant woman. In the back office. Who else would it be? No one. No one else. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck! I slam the heels of my hands into the pale green wall, over and over, until small fissures appear in the drywall.

  This is a huge crater, a bottomless pit of pain for Gabrielle. And we’ll never get to the bottom of it. That’s how it is with him and that prick Olson who has always been willing to do anything for my father—lie, cheat, steal, murder—nothing’s out of bounds for him. And they’ll get away with it. He has the money and power to pay off anyone who knows anything. There’s no shortage of scum suckers willing to do his bidding, and it will all be covered up expertly. Just like the accident.

  When I was younger, there were times I was sure I was losing my mind. Sometimes I still feel as though I have a tenuous grip on sanity, but it’s only for seconds or minutes at a time now, not for entire stretches of days.

  My father is a psychopath. No, I’m not just saying it to blow off steam. He’s a dyed-in-the-wool psychopath. This is how psychopaths behave. They gaslight their targets until it’s impossible to think straight. Until you don’t know left from right, up from down. Crazy from sane. Until you question everything, all the time, even your sanity. Especially your sanity. It’s how they operate. My father could teach a master class.

  Antoine rests a hand on my back. “Smith called me on my way to the hospital, said you can’t be here without more security. It’s too risky. Not just for you, but for the country.”

  To someone wanting to do harm to the country, I would make an attractive hostage, although the joke would be on them, because there’s no way my father would negotiate for my release. Right now, I don’t give a fuck about myself, and it’s hard to feel any concern for a country that elected that monster. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “He said you wouldn’t. Told him I’ll stick to your side until he can get some more guys over here. No one’s getting to you on my watch.”

  Antoine wouldn’t hesitate to take a bullet for me. But I don’t expect that from him, or from anyone else, either. And I don’t want it. It’s not why I gave him the job. “I’ll take my own goddamn bullets. You worry about yourself.” Before he can respond, a man in Carolina blue scrubs walks into the room.

  “Mr. Wilder?”

  “Yes.” I search his face for some small clue about Gabrielle.

  “I’m Doctor Adler. Ms. Duval gave us permission to speak with you.”

  The first damn thing that’s been easy tonight. “How is she?”

  He glances at Antoine. “Maybe we should step outside.”

  “We can, but he’ll be coming with us, so why don’t you just cut to the chase?”

  His eyes dart from Antoine to me, and he stiffens, crossing his arms over his chest in a guarded posture. “Physically she’ll be fine. Her right hand sustained second degree burns. It’ll be painful for a while. Is she left or right handed?”

  I don’t even need to think about it. “Right.”

  “Then she’ll need someone to help her change the bandages. She’ll also need to be careful about getting it infected.”

  “What about her lungs?”

  “Her lungs appear to have sustained minimal damage.” Finally, some good news. A huge weight slides off my back. “She’s likely to have some asthma-like symptoms for some time, and there’s a chance they could linger indefinitely, but we expect a full recovery.”

  “Will you prescribe something for the symptoms?”

  “Yes. And she should have a nebulizer on hand.” He pauses for a second, and glances quickly at Antoine before he continues. “I’m not too concerned about her physically, although we will need to keep her overnight for observation. But she’s pretty shaken up. Does she live alone?”

  Not anymore. “No. And we have a nurse on duty around the clock at home.”

  “That’s unusual,” the doctor says, waiting for me to explain. Don’t hold your breath.

  I look him straight in the eye. “Not to me.”

  He nods and scribbles something on a piece of paper. “Good. One more thing. She keeps asking about Georgina, Georgie, and a baby. I’m not sure if it’s related to the trauma, or if it’s someone she knows. She’s groggy and in shock. We can’t figure out what she’s trying to tell us. Do you know anything about them?”r />
  The weight returns to my shoulders with a force that makes my knees buckle for a second. It’s even heavier than before. “Georgina is her childhood friend. She works at the hotel. And she’s pregnant. Gabrielle is very invested in the baby.”

  He looks at me as though he’s expecting me to say more. I suppose this time, I should. “She might have died in the fire,” I mutter.

  “Ughhh,” the doctor groans, rubbing a palm along his jaw. “That’s a gruesome way to die. Death is always difficult on loved ones. But that’s a particularly grisly death for family and friends to come to grips with.” There’s that word again, gruesome. It’s exactly how Antoine described it. “Ms. Duval is going to need a lot of support.”

  “We’re still waiting on word of a definitive identification. Until we know for sure, I don’t want Gabrielle to hear anything about anyone dying in the fire.”

  “As tempting as it is, I don’t recommend lying to loved ones in this type of situation,” the doctor says, like I’m a child and he’s fucking God. “If she asks, you might tell her someone died in the fire. That way she can start to become accustomed to the possibility. You don’t need to tell her it might be her friend, unless she asks. But it will come as less of a blow later, if you lay the groundwork. Trauma recovery is a long, difficult road with lots of bumps. She needs to know she can trust you to be straight with her.”

  I nod. Why did this have to happen to her? Why? She’s never done a damn thing to hurt anyone. Just like my mother and Sera, and Zack. They never did a single thing to cause anyone pain. Why couldn’t it be me? Or my father, who doesn’t let a day go by without destroying someone.

  “You can see her, if you’d like.”

  I blink. I want to see her, but she’s going to ask about Georgina again. I dread the moment. I dread watching her heart break. Maybe it’s not Georgina. Who else would it be, JD?

  “Her best friend likely died in the fire. If not, it will be a hotel employee or a guest. Regardless of who it is, it will be devastating. She’s going to ask about it as soon as I step foot into the room. You’re sure she’s strong enough to hear the truth? Because I’ve known her for most of my life, and I’m not sure.”