Chapter 8
We ran to the car. Boone drove like a maniac, ran red lights, cut off other cars, sirens blaring in his head if not on the roof. I called the hospital, got the charge nurse, got updates every two minutes.
V-fib. They’d shocked her twice. No pulse. Working on a third round of epi.
I hung up. Held Boone’s hand. It was ice cold, shaking so hard I could barely hold it.
“She’s gonna be okay,” I said. I didn’t know if I believed it. “She’s a fighter. Just like her dad. Just like her uncle.”
Boone didn’t answer. He stared at the road, his face like stone, his eyes wild.
We skidded into the hospital parking lot ten minutes later. Ran into the ER, up the stairs to the NICU, fast as we could.
The doors to Wren’s room were closed. A crowd of doctors and nurses was inside, moving fast, quiet, the beep of the monitor flat and steady. The worst sound in the world.
A nurse stopped us at the door. Held us back.
“Family only,” she said.
“We are family,” Boone roared. He tried to push past her. “That’s my niece! Let me in! Let me see her!”
The doctor came out then. Her face was tight, her scrubs splattered with antiseptic, her hair sticking up in clumps. She looked at Boone. Shook her head.
My heart stopped.
No.
No. Not after everything. Not after we’d just won.
“I’m so sorry,” the doctor said. Her voice was soft. Broken. “We worked on her for twenty minutes. We did everything we could. The hole in her heart—we knew it was there, but it was bigger than we thought. It tore. There was nothing we could do.”
She paused. Swallowed hard.
“Time of death was 2:17 p.m.”
Boone made a sound. Not a cry. A roar. A raw, animal sound of pain that came from the very bottom of his soul. He fell to his knees in the hallway, his hands clutching his chest, like someone had ripped his heart out. Margaret fell with him, screaming, holding him, both of them sobbing so hard they could barely breathe.
I stood there. Frozen. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe.
Wren.
Our Wren.
The tiny baby who’d fought so hard. Who’d survived being born three months early, survived every drug in her system, survived being abandoned, survived Jax and his threats, survived the courts and the liars and the corrupt system.
Gone.
Just like that.
I walked into her room, slow, like I was in a dream. The nurses were gone. The machines were off. The room was quiet. Too quiet.
She was lying in her isolette, so small, so still, surrounded by her stuffed wrens. Her face was peaceful. Like she was just sleeping.
I walked over. Touched her cheek. She was still warm.
I picked her up. Held her to my chest, just like Boone had done that first day. She was so light. So fragile.
“I’m so sorry, baby girl,” I whispered. My voice broke. “I’m so sorry we couldn’t save you. We tried. We tried so hard.”
I held her. Rocked her. Sang to her, the same lullaby I’d sung to Grace when she’d died.
I don’t know how long I stood there. Minutes. Hours. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
The door creaked open. Chloe stood there. She’d followed us from the courthouse. Her face was white, her eyes wide, like she already knew.
She walked over to me. Looked at Wren. Let out a tiny, broken whimper.
“Can I hold her?” she whispered.
I nodded. Handed Wren to her. Chloe held her tight, pressed her face to Wren’s hair, and cried. Quiet, broken sobs, the kind of cry only a mother who’s lost her child can make.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry I was sick. I’m so sorry I left you. I love you. I love you so much. I’ll love you forever.”
She kissed Wren’s forehead. Handed her back to me. Walked out of the room.
I heard her scream in the hallway. A sound of pure, unadulterated agony.
Then a gunshot.
Loud. Sharp.
I ran out.
Chloe was on the floor, in the hallway, a gun in her hand, a hole in her temple. Blood pooling under her head. Her eyes were open, staring at nothing.
She’d killed herself.
Couldn’t live without Wren.
Couldn’t live with all the things she’d done.
The nurses ran. The doctors ran. Security ran. People were yelling, screaming, running everywhere.
I stood there, holding Wren, and felt nothing. Nothing at all. Just empty. Cold. Hollow.
Boone was still on his knees in the hallway. Margaret was holding him, both of them broken.
Detective Carter ran up. Saw Chloe. Saw Wren in my arms. Her face crumpled.
“Jax,” she said. Her voice was raw. “He got away. The roadblocks didn’t work. He vanished. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
She walked away, talking into her radio, barking orders, her voice tight.
Jax was gone.
Chloe was dead.
Wren was dead.
Everything we’d fought for. Everything we’d lost. All of it. For nothing.
I looked down at Wren. Her tiny face, peaceful in my arms.
No.
I refused to believe it.
I walked back into the room. Laid Wren on the bed. Put my hand on her chest. Felt for a heartbeat.
Nothing.
I put my ear to her mouth. Felt for breath.
Nothing.
And then.
Faint. So faint I almost missed it.
A tiny flutter. Under my hand.
Her chest moved. Just once. Barely.
I pulled back. Stared at her.
Her lips moved. A tiny, gasping breath.
“She’s alive,” I screamed. “SHE’S ALIVE! SHE’S BREATHING! GET A DOCTOR! NOW!”
The doctors ran in. Fast. Pushed me out of the way. Hooked the monitors back up. Started CPR again. Shouted orders.
The monitor beeped.
Once.
Twice.
A steady, strong rhythm.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The lead doctor looked up at me. Her eyes were wide. Disbelieving.
“She’s back,” she said. Her voice was awed. “I don’t know how. I don’t know why. But her heart started beating again. On its own. She’s alive.”
I fell against the wall. My legs gave out. I slid to the floor, sobbing, happy and scared and overwhelmed all at once.
Wren was alive.
Chloe was dead.
Jax was gone.
May you like
But Wren was alive.
That was all that mattered.
