Page 14 of Love What's Left
When I reach the bench at the end of our bed, my knees give out beneath me, and I drop heavily to sit.
I can’t breathe. No matter how hard I suck in air, my lungs need more. My pulse pounds and white spots bounce in my vision.
Panic attack, some conscious part of me whispers.Calm the fuck down.But all of it plays like a reel in my mind. Markov’s face as he turned toward her with his gun. Sydney, broken, lost, damaged. The days and nights as she stared sightlessly and I prayed wordlessly for her to come back. The moment she climbed on that chair.
I press my fist to my chest, my heart pounding beneath my knuckles. She could have been gone in seconds. My mind plays it out like it happened, and I shake like a man with the bends.
Markov died too quickly. He didn’t suffer for what he did to her. I should have made him suffer.
I breathe through my nose. Slow down. Count. Blow it out. Instinct whispers that a bottle would bring relief, but bourbon is a liar. Tequila calls itself a friend and robs you blind.
Sydney is here and alive. She woke up, and she’ll heal, but I can’t help her if I don’t get a handle on myself. I drop my head between my knees until the spots clear from my vision.
The old me wouldn’t have made it this far. I’d have lost myself in a bottle when she was taken. And if I had, she’d have died.
I straighten, press my fist to my chest one more time. And I wait.
Ten minutes later, a knock sounds on our bedroom door, and I rise to my feet. “Enter.”
Josh Granthy, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, steps inside.
“I thought your dad was coming?” I ask.
Jaw tight, he drops a red duffel onto the bench at the end of my bed. “It’s his first day off in more than a week. I told him I’d cover if anything came up.”
“I appreciate your help.” Considering he’s avoided anything to do with me for close to a decade, there’s no question the favor is for his father’s benefit, not mine.
“Is the chaos out there yours or hers?” he asks in a clipped tone.
I lift my eyebrows, stung.
“Which? Or is it both?” He insists on an answer.
“Not mine,” I grate. “She sort of . . . woke up . . . but she doesn’t recognize me or our home. She thinks she’s still a prisoner.” I swallow hard. “She tried to climb over the balcony to escape.”
Josh frowns. “Where is she now? Is she still in a state of agitation?”
I indicate the door to my right. “She locked herself in the bathroom. We can get in easily enough, but I don’t know if she’s hallucinating, paranoid, or confused, and I didn’t think unlocking the door would help the situation. She called my phone to ask me to save her, then shut me out when she saw me.”
“All right.” He moves to the door and speaks through it. “Mrs. McRae, my name is Josh Granthy. I’m a physician. Will you come to the door?”
My phone vibrates, and I answer. “What is it, Kurt?”
“Some NYPD officers are on their way up to speak with Sydney for a welfare check.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Let me guess. My wife called 911.”
7
Gabriel
Iswing open the door to our penthouse to two uniformed officers standing on the threshold. The last time I spoke with Officer Paul Riley, he’d told me it wasn’t a crime for a woman to leave her dickhead husband.
Riley dips his head in the closest thing I expect I’ll ever get to an apology. “Your wife called to report a kidnapping.”
“I’m aware.” I stay in the doorway, not blocking them, but not welcoming them inside either. “She had a dissociative episode related to trauma from her kidnapping. She’s under medical care. A doctor is with her now. She’s not a threat to herself or anyone else.”
“We need to verify that information and that she’s here voluntarily. Your wife reported she was being held against her will.” Officer Shanae Price, younger than her partner by at least fifteen years, doesn’t look at me with the subtle shame that Riley does. Instead, her dark eyes hold suspicion. Her hand hovers close to her sidearm, her posture ready for trouble.
