Page 90 of Bombshell

“What is going on, Adair?” Poppy sounds genuinely scared. She has to have pieced together a bit of what’s going on. She knows I’m hiding something.

None of that matters. I dart closer to the room, trying to get to the door. I just need to see her. I just need to know she’s okay. The officer looks up from his conversation and places one warning hand on his holster.

I nod as if to say I understand and that I’m not going to try anything.

Poppy joins me, watching but not speaking, and we creep to the open door. There’s another officer in the room, taking photographs, and a pair of medics blocking the view of the bed. My heart beats like a an animal caught in a trap, desperately trying to break free but knowing the effort is futile. There’s a balled up diaper on the floor. My bags are gone from the table. The room is bare and sterile until a shrill cry shatters the somber scene. I’m vaguely aware of Poppy’s startled jump, but I don’t think. I just go.

“I’m going to need you to back up,” the officer says.

“Please,” I sob, my own tears matching Ellie's panicked cries. “She needs me. I didn’t leave her. I won’t take her. Just let me calm her down.”

The officer looks over, her eyes meeting that of the female medic’s. Some silent conversation passes between them, before the medic nods.

“Just get her calm,” the female officer says, “but don’t go anywhere. Don’t make this any worse.”

I rush to the bed, snatching Ellie up and trying to ignore the medical instruments strewn around her. They had to check her out after they found her like this.

“Is she okay?” I ask the medic, cuddling her close. Ellie’s face turns into me, quieting for a moment before she begins to root.

“Cold,” she says warily. “But otherwise in excellent health.” I hear it there: doubt.

Can she see how this doesn’t make sense?

“I didn’t leave her,” I say numbly, lifting her tiny hands to kiss her fingers. “I will never leave her.”

Another look is exchanged, but neither speaks. They’ve been given their orders.

Poppy steps into the room, hesitating near the door. She’s smart enough to understand what’s going on. I owe her an explanation. We both know it, but now isn’t the time, because I don’t know how much time I have left.

“Should I call Captain Larkin?” she asks, but the question rings hollow. We both know that he’s already been called by someone with more power and money and influence, by a man you don’t say no to if you want to keep your public service job.

I shake my head. I just want to be here while I can. I push aside anxious images of what comes next: fighting and threats and loss. Because even as I try to focus on this moment—on the feeling of my daughter in my arms—scenarios play out in my mind, and they all end the same way no matter what path I take.

Two weeks ago, I’d sat in London trying to figure out how to say goodbye and knowing it was impossible. It still is. But sometimes goodbyes are a luxury the world doesn’t give you. Sometimes life just takes and leaves you with more scars than memories. If you ever heal at all.

I don’t have enough memories. I never will.

“Miss MacLaine, we need to take her now,” the officer says gently. She doesn’t try to pry Ellie out of my arms. She’s giving me time, precious little of it, but still time.

“Please, don’t.” But I know no one is coming to save us. There’s only one person who might have once, and he doesn’t even know we need him. He never will. Because of me. This is all because of me.

“What is going on?” The officer from earlier stomps into the room, and I can’t bear to look at him. I hear everything I need to know in his tone. He’s not going to let this ruin his career. He’s got his orders. Whatever crisis of conscience won me a little leniency from the others doesn’t afflict him.

I bury my face against Ellie’s soft head and breathe in her scent, feel her downy hair tickle my nose, pray that the world stops spinning and we stay in this one moment forever.

And then it’s ripped away.

She’s ripped away, torn from my arms, along with my heart, torn from my chest. I lunge and reach and stretch to reach her until a metal cuff clamps around my wrist. A small voice reads me my rights, but all I hear are my own screams and her cries. I fight and fight and fight.

And lose.

I wait outside the dance studio, sunglasses hiding my swollen eyes. The tears have finally stopped, but in their place is a hole that hollows me to the core. When Ginny’s white Lexus pulls into a handicapped spot close to the entrance, I scramble out of the Jag before she can beat me inside.

“Hurry up, Ellie,” Ginny snaps as Ellie chats animatedly, unbuckling herself with the distracted air of someone mid-story.

“But I was just getting to the part where Felix told me—” Ellie protests.

“You are five minutes late.”