Page 87 of The Hitman’s Final Job

The hospital comes into view, and everything becomes even more real. I park the car but can’t get out. What if Rowan didn’t make it? What if I can’t keep Vaughn safe?

I leave the two guns in the glove box and examine my reflection in the mirror. My face isn’t swollen, but I can see two small bruises starting to form on my cheek.

My feet are heavy with each step toward the building, and I feel like I’ve lived five lives since this morning.

One second I’m kissing Vaughn and celebrating our friend winning a giant pumpkin competition, and the next my whole world is upside down. In the middle of all of this, I remember Rowan’s look of betrayal when he saw me with his dad.

As messed up as it may be, I wish for him to be well enough to rip me a new one for sleeping with his dad.

TWENTY-SEVEN

VAUGHN

The waiting room at Millfield General has twelve chairs, a water dispenser, a television with the sound turned down mounted high on the wall, and a window that looks out onto a parking lot.

I know all this because I’ve been here for over an hour and I’ve counted everything.

I can’t sit, so I pace the length of the room and back. I stare at the door that leads to the surgical wing every time I turn, as if staring at it often enough and hard enough will make it open sooner.

It doesn’t open.

I stop pacing in the middle of the room. The television is showing something with people talking and laughing. I sit in the nearest chair and put my face in my hands.

My son is god-knows-how-many feet away, fighting for his life.

If the surgeon doesn’t come out, it means he’s still alive after he almost lost it in the ambulance.

This is my fault. I’ve been receiving lowkey threats for two years and got so good at ignoring them that when the real threat came in, I didn’t take it seriously.

My son is fighting for his life on a surgical table because I didn’t call Dale sooner.

Because of me.

I press my hands harder against my face. I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose him.

Rowan is my life. He has been my life since the day he was born and even more so since the day his mother walked out on us. Although my parents were around, he was my teammate. The impetus that got me going in the morning even when I’d been kept up most of the night because he was my responsibility, not my mother’s.

And I loved it. Those nights when he was colicky and fussy, I held him in my arms and talked to him. Told him about my dreams, about going to college and taking him with me. And eventually he’d settle and fall asleep. So I often kept on holding him.

If I lose him⁠—

My phone keeps dinging with messages. Our friends want news, but until I know for sure, I can’t handle speaking to anyone.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor pulls my attention, and I look up immediately, expecting to see a doctor, but instead it’s Silas.

I get on my feet and cross the room to meet him.

He catches me, and his solid embrace is everything I need right now.

“I’ve got you,” he says quietly. “I’ve got you.”

I breathe.

After a moment, I pull back.

“How is he?” Silas asks, his hands on my face, his thumbs caressing.

“He’s in surgery. They”—my voice breaks, so I clear my throat—“they had to resuscitate him in the ambulance. His heart—” Tears run down my face, and I take deep breaths. I don’t know what to do.