The explosion of sound is so sudden, so violent, that my brain barely registers what's happening. The Windows shatter inward, spraying glass across the floor like glittering shrapnel. The air fills with the sharp crack of gunfire, each shot louder than the last. My body freezes in shock, my fingers clutching Zeke's shirt as instinct takes over. Zeke reacts before I do. He grabs me and throws us both to the floor, covering me with his body. The weight of him is heavy. Someone is screaming, a raw, terrified sound that claws at the air. It takes me a moment to realize the scream is mine. The fear ripping through me is gut-wrenching, primal.
The final shot rings out, echoing through the house. Then silence before we hear tires squeal outside. The sound is sharp and desperate. Whoever did this is making a fast getaway.
Zeke groans and tries to push himself up, but his body collapses back onto mine. Panic surges through me. I push at his chest and roll him onto his back. My hands skim over his chest and arms, searching for blood, for wounds, or anything wrong. Everything looks okay until my gaze drops to his left thigh. A dark pool of blood spreads across his sweatpants. My breath catches, my eyes widen, and my stomach drops.
"Z, are you ok?" I ask, my voice cracks. "Oh my god, you were shot!"
"Yeah," he breathes, pain tightening his features. "I was," he says breathlessly.
The sight of him like this hurts because he was protecting me. It hits me harder than the gunfire. Scrambling off the floor, I run to the kitchen and grab my phone. I left it there after dinner, too distracted by the diary and everything I'd discovered. My hands shake as I dial emergency services, my voice trembling as I explain to the operator what just happened.
The dispatcher tells me to get a rag and apply pressure to the wound. I run back to the living room, grab the blanket I used earlier for my nap, and press it firmly against his thigh. He groans loudly, the sound rips through me. Guilt crashes over me in waves because this wouldn't have happened if it weren't for me. He's always protecting me, but I can't protect him.
The distant wail of the ambulance sirens grows louder and louder, cutting through the night. It feels like an eternity before the slamming of doors announces their arrival. My tears fall on Zeke's chest as we wait. He lifts a shaky hand and wipes my cheek.
"Don't cry, Rocky, I'll be okay," he gasps in pain as he reassures me. He was the one bleeding, the one in pain, comforting me. How is that okay? Right now, it's hard to believe things will be okay. That thought alone breaks something inside me, and the tears just kept streaming down my face.
The ambulance arrives; the sound of the stretcher wheels is loud, jarring as it rolls over the gravel driveway. The paramedics knock and identify themselves. Zeke takes over, holding pressure on his wound as I rush to let them in, lead them straight to the living room, where he still lay on the floor.
They cut his pants to get a better look at the wound. Once they assess him, a paramedic walks over to me to let me know that a major artery wasn't hit. He was lucky, and he should be okay. He will still need to go to the hospital for a doctor to clean it out and look at the damage. Relief floods through me so fast my knees almost buckle. I nod my head, unable to speak.
Before they left, I promise to deal with the police and come to the hospital as soon as possible, but Zeke was in too much pain to respond. As soon as the paramedics left, law enforcement officers step in. To my utter disappointment and dread, Sheriff Dawson walks in behind them with his cocky smile I've come to hate.
"Well, Miss Sleighton, long time no see," he says, smirking. It grates on my nerves.
"You just saw me last night with your unwanted visit, Sheriff. Coincidental, don't you think?" I snap. My tone is sharp, dripping with annoyance. Normally I'm more respectful with law enforcement, but his presence makes my skin crawl.
"I'm not sure what you're suggesting, little girl, but I would watch my tone," he says, his smirk gone. His face hardens. "Oh, and by the way, the living room is off limits until our investigation is finished."
I roll my eyes and walk away. I know I'm pushing my luck with him, but I don't have the energy to care. I close my bedroom door behind me and rest my head against the door, releasing a deep breath. After a moment, I start to pack a bag for myself and one for Zeke: clothes, chargers, laptops, and phones—anything we might need for a few days.
Before leaving, I slip into the office to gather all the information that we found and collected; no way it's going to be left behind for the sheriff to find. After shoving it all into my bag, I made my way into the hallway and lock the office door behind me.
As I pass by the living room, Amber's diary catches my attention. It was partially under the couch. The deputies hadn't seen it yet. Thankfully, they were all outside, roping off the driveway. Perfect. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, I hurry in and grab it, throwing it in my bag. It has all the information I need about Andy. It's too important to leave behind. When I finally head to the door to leave, Sheriff Dawson notices me carrying two bags I'm carrying and looks surprised.
"Miss Sleighton, where are you headed? We still need a statement from you," he says gruffly. I stop and look him in the eyes. Even though he scares me and makes me nervous, I refuse to let him see it.
"I'm checking into a hotel near Zeke. I don't want to be here without him," I answer. It's true but strategic on my part. What would happen if I were here alone? I would be a sitting duck. No, thank you. The sheriff seems pleased with my answer, probably thinking it would be easier for him to snoop. Jokes on him. The incriminating evidence will not be here. It's in my bag.
"Okay, that's fine," he says, "just stop by the station and give us your statement tomorrow." His voice is more pleasant; he thinks he has the upper hand.
"Yeah, sure, whatever," I mutter, wanting nothing more than to get away from him. If he's offended by my tone, he never shows it.
On the way to the hospital, I call Zeke's parents. They're upset, not at me but at the situation, and promise to meet me at the hospital. They thanked me for calling because no one had contacted them yet, and I hated to be the one to deliver the news, but they needed to know. He is their only child.
As soon as the door opens to the emergency room, I make my way to the front desk.
"Hi, I'm looking for Zeke Anderson; he was brought by ambulance not too long ago." The woman types his name into the computer and makes eye contact with me.
"Sorry, we can only give information to his family. Who are you to him?" she asks.
"I'm his wife," I blurt, frustration spilling over.
She smiles; her expression softens. "Oh, in that case, honey, go through the doors, and he's in bed four."
"Thank you," I say and hurry away. It took me a moment to find him, but when I finally do, he was sitting up on the bed, his thigh wrapped, watching TV. Relief crashes through me, and happy tears blur my vision.
"Zeke!" I sob. He opens his arms; I rush into them, careful not to cause him more pain. His hands moved in gentle circles on my back, soothing me as I struggle to contain my emotions. Everything from relief to guilt assaults me. The guilt is for letting him comfort me when it's my fault he's been shot; he was protecting me. Carefully, I push away from him, hoping not to hurt him. I sit down beside his bed and hold his hand.
"Have they come in to look at your leg yet?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
"No!" He groans as he shifts onto the bed to see me better.
"Zeke, I'm so sorry you got hurt because of me."
"It wasn't because of you; it's not your fault," he says, squeezing my hand tightly.
A soft knock on the door interrupts our conversation as a middle-aged man in a long white coat strides into the room. He introduces himself as the attending doctor. He did a quick assessment of his wound and informed us he needs stitches to help the healing process, and they want to keep him overnight for observation because he lost so much blood. Zeke would be released in a day or two, as long as infection doesn't set in.
"Rocky," he says, " please don't go home until I'm able to be there with you. Promise me."
"I won't, Z, I promise at least for tonight."
"Where are you going to stay tonight then?"
"There is a hotel down the road. It's close to you." There was no way returning to the house tonight was an option. I didn't feel safe after everything, and Sheriff Dawson was lurking around.
As promised, I didn't go home that night and went straight to the hotel. After checking in, finding my room was easy, but with each step, my body grew more tired, and I couldn't wait to enter. Once inside, exhaustion took over. It felt cozy with beige walls and flower curtains. It was larger than I thought. The bathroom was to the left as you walked in, and the bed was straight ahead with a TV sitting on a dresser. There was also a small kitchenette inside.
Although the room is cozy, I feel alone without Zeke beside me. His presence has become a constant comfort, and when he isn't around, the loss is profound. Gabbing my clothes, I head to the bathroom; It's about all the strength I have. Once the bath is run, I slide into the hot water, letting it ease the tension and pain in my muscles. While soaking, my head lay on the back of the tub, my emotions came loose, and tears fell freely. I sob. We had come so close to losing our lives today. Zeke was injured, our house was assaulted, but we made it out with our lives. When the water cools, I dry, get dressed, and crawl into bed; sleep claims me instantly.
It's already ten in the morning when my eyes open. At first, my brain is disoriented trying to figure out where I was, then it all came back to me, making me sit straight up in bed.
"Oh, crap! I need to call Z and see how he is or if they're discharging him," is running through my head. I grab my phone to call him.
"Hey, beautiful," he answers.
"You ok, Z?"
"Yeah, except for some pain, I'm good. Stop worrying." It's a relief to hear him sound like his usual self. The fear of losing him was still fresh in my mind, and I didn't know what I would do if that ever happens because of me digging into the Catalano family.
"Are you sure you still want to stay with me?" I ask quietly. "I mean, you have been through so much already because of me."
"Rocky baby, listen to me," he says, voice soft but firm. "I am not going anywhere. We will face this together." His words reassure me and bring a smile to my face. We talk for a few more minutes, then hang up. He promises to call me once they say he can leave. He doesn't want me sitting around the hospital worrying.
Instead, this was an opportunity to continue investigating Amber's boyfriend, a crucial piece in determining my paternity. Using my laptop, I find two Andrew Dawsons in my state. Only one fit Andy's age. He was forty-three and lives two towns over; the other one was in his seventies in a nursing home, which rules him out right away. I quickly write down Andrew's information and enter it into my phone's map app. It would take me roughly an hour to get there. I can make it there and back before Zeke is released. After deciding on this plan, I quickly get dressed, grab my things, and head out. Once in my car, I sit for a moment, wondering if this is a crazy idea or not. After all, I have only found an address and nothing else about him. It could be the wrong person; maybe Andrew Dawson was a popular name. I know thoughts were an attempt to talk myself out of going through with this crazy plan, but I also know I had to go. Before I change my mind, I pull out of the parking lot and head toward the address. The truth is waiting, and I'm done running from it.