Attracted to her 💘

Chapter 19

BRENT

The automatic doors to the emergency room slide open and I head straight for the reception desk. "Kennedy Randolph."

Behind the desk, the dark-haired woman's mouth hangs open slightly before she recovers. "Um . . . there's no Kennedy Randolph here."

She's lying. Even if she wasn't bad at it, spotting the automatic tells people do when they're nervous or hiding something is necessary for my job. This is the second hospital we've come to—and the receptionist at the first one wasn't lying.

One of Jake's contacts, a private investigator, called him after seeing the whole thing go down. He saw the pretty blond prosecutor get into a dark sedan with government plates, a driver at the wheel. And just a few blocks down the road, at an intersection, he saw that sedan get T-boned by an SUV—and flipped.

Intentionally.

Shots fired. FBI on the scene. Flashing lights and sirens. Injuries, medics.

Body bags.

So it's actually a relief that the receptionist is lying to me; it increases the odds that Kennedy isn't in one of those bags. Or wasn't when she got here, anyway.

I lean over the desk. "I know she's here, and I know why you're telling me she's not . . ." My voice wavers and my hands clench with frustration, panic—the urge to tear the hospital apart looking for her, or to go find the fuckers who dared to do this to her and tear them apart. "And you have to let me see her."

Even before she opens her mouth, I know she's going to shoot me down. "Sir—"

"I'm her husband."

It's not a smart lie; too easy to disprove. But it'll get me in—or at least get me to someone higher up in the chain who I can convince to let me in.

The desk lady's face softens. "Just a moment." She picks up the phone, turning her back to whisper into it.

Stanton, Sofia, and Jake watch me as I pace, fingers locked behind my neck, every muscle tight and straining. After a few minutes, a square-jawed guy wearing deceptively casual jeans and a button-down emerges from the door that leads to the bowels of the hospital. His eyes are quick, observant—but his face is deliberately blank.

"Can I help you?" he asks.

"Kennedy Randolph—" I start.

"Is not here," he finishes.

"I know she is."

"No, you don't."

"I'm her—"

"No, you're not."

It takes everything I've got not to grab him by the throat and squeeze the answers out. "Are you FBI? Are you with the Marshalls? Your department's job was security—keeping her safe." My cheek twitches. "Bang-up job they're doing, Skippy."

"I have no information for you. It's time for you to go. Now."

"Is she alive?" My voice sounds like a captive who's been tortured for intel, and is finally broken. "Just give me that, for fuck's sake."

I don't care about the rest—her hair, her face, her arms, her legs—they don't matter. I'll love her without them. As long as she's still breathing. As long as she's still her.

Stone-face gives me jack shit. "Information on an active case can only be given to immediate family. I'm not confirming that there is an active case, but if there was—you are no one's immediate family. So I have nothing for you. I won't be telling you to leave again."