Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72863 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72863 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
The man who shot him shifts the gun in my direction, I recognize him from the police station when I had go to in there to collect Carrie, and I reach for the knife in my waistband. I don’t think twice before I throw it, and it hits him directly in the stomach, making the shot he fires miss me by inches and embed in a nearby tree. I keep running toward Boston, my hair trailing behind me, my adrenaline pushing me faster.
The smart thing to do would be to go after the man as he flees, but for some reason, my heels won’t carry me that far, and I drop down next to my husband.
“Boston. Boston.” I caress his cheek, but he doesn’t stir.
Fuck, where was he hit? I’m careful as I search him for a wound to see where the blood is coming from. He grunts, and I release a relieved sigh, knowing he’s at least still breathing. I feel something wet seep through my pants and look down at the blood covering the cement below me.
Immediately, I call an ambulance, putting the phone down as I tell them where we are and try my best to slow the bleeding, pressing my hands over the wound. He’s been hit in the stomach, and, fuck, it looks bad. His whole front is covered in blood.
“Boston, talk to me,” I beg. “Don’t you dare die on me. I need that milkshake,” I whisper, and for some reason, my vision is blurry, which I don’t understand. I wasn’t shot; I’m perfectly fine. I raise one bloody hand, making sure to keep pressure on his stomach with the other, as I hear the wail of the sirens getting closer, and wipe my face so I can see better.
Tears.
I’m crying.
“Fuck,” I grumble as his eyelids flutter but remain closed. My phone starts ringing; it’s probably Carrie calling me back with the name of the person who ordered the hit. But that information might be unnecessary now since I saw the shooter’s face.
Footsteps approach from behind me, and a hand gently touches my shoulder, the person telling me to let go of Boston. At first, I don’t want to move my hand, because what if I do and the blood starts pouring out even faster? They whisper something to me, or at least I think they whisper, because I can hardly hear them talking. Someone pulls me away as another takes over and immediately starts packing the wound with gauze.
I fall onto my ass and stare down at my feet. And for the first time in forever, I’m really mad at my heels. It wasn’t my husband’s blood I ever wanted them to be covered in. Maybe when I first met him, sure, but now I can’t think of anything worse than what I’m witnessing.
I can tell they’re trying to do everything they can to save him, and he makes another grumbling sound, which loosens something in my chest I didn’t even realize was squeezed so tight. I manage to catch my breath as they put him on the gurney and wheel him toward the ambulance. Before anyone says anything, I’m climbing in the back of the ambulance with them.
They continue to work on him, and his eyes remain closed as they shout a bunch of stuff at each other. I chew my nails as I sit and watch, completely helpless.
My phone keeps ringing, and I turn it off as we pull up to the hospital. I follow him in, and the paramedics turn to me as Boston is wheeled away. They’re asking me if I’m hurt, and all I can do is shake my head as I watch him disappear.
“You’re covered in blood. Is it all his?” one asks. I nod, my stomach tight and my heart heavy.
One of them shows me to the waiting room and tells me I’ll get an update when there’s information to share with me.
I sit, bouncing my leg and chewing my nails for what feels like an eternity before a doctor enters. They look around the waiting room until their gaze lands on me.
“Are you the detective’s family?” the doctor asks.
“No—” I stop myself and shake my head. “I’m his wife,” I whisper. The words echo in my head, over and over again. Tears I didn’t know had formed run down my cheeks, and I angrily swipe them away.
I’m his wife.
“We were able to remove the bullet.” I hang on to every single word that leaves the doctor’s mouth until he finally says the last words, which somehow completely dissolve the stiffness in my body. “He should make a full recovery. He’ll be out of it for a while and will need rest.”
I nod and smile at him. “Can I see him?”
“Yes. This way.” He takes me into a room where I find Boston lying in a bed. There’s a tube in his mouth, and he’s hooked up to so many machines that I don’t know where I can touch him. I pull a chair closer to his bed, sit down, and reach for his hand.