After another seven minutes, that niggling feeling is now a full-blown boulder threatening to crush me if I don’t get in my car to go find him.
Randy comes outside, and I give him a fake smile. “You okay?”
“Eli isn’t answering the phone or my texts, and he said he’d be here at eight.”
He looks at his watch and back to me. “I’ll go to the house and check on him.”
I shake my head. “No, I mean, he has no idea you’re here.”
Randy’s eyes flash with something, but I don’t catch it. “You should do that . . . so it doesn’t ruin the party . . .”
“Okay,” I draw the word out.
“My brother has no idea how lucky he is.”
I smile and shrug. “I think we’re both lucky.
I’m fully aware of how blessed I am that Eli thought enough to chase after me. All those times I tried to get rid of him make me grateful that he doesn’t like to be told no. Otherwise, I wouldn’t know what real love is like.
I enter the house and explain to everyone that I’ll be back. “I’m going to check on him. It’s been an hour, and he still isn’t answering.”
I hop in my car, telling myself the entire way to remain calm no matter what. He’s given me no reason to distrust him, and he’s probably sleeping. Who am I kidding? He’s not sleeping. The only reason I feel as though I’m a good cop is because of my intuition. It’s something so many of us brush aside, but I believe it’s a gift not to be squandered. How many times did I think Matt was unhappy and pretended I was being stupid? So many I lost count. I think back to when Stephanie’s symptoms started, how the doctors told us she didn’t need the extra tests, but I demanded they do them. I knew there was something we were missing, and I refused to budge.
Right now, my nerves are screaming that something isn’t right, and he isn’t where he should be.
I pull up to his house, and the lights are still on. I use the key he gave me and head inside.
“Eli?” I call out, but no one answers.
I hear noise coming from the family room off the kitchen. I turn the corner, but it’s just the television. I check the pool deck before moving on to the rest of the second floor. This freaking house needs to be smaller.
My heart starts to quicken as I get closer to the bedroom. I don’t know where he is, but each step I take makes my stomach grow tighter. I close my eyes, steeling myself for whatever I might find, and open the door.
He lies crumpled in the middle of the bedroom floor.
“Eli!” I scream and rush toward him. Sweat covers his body, he has a gash on his head where blood leaks from. His breathing is labored, and his eyes flutter open to closed. “Oh my God.” My hands shake as I try to turn him over. “Eli, can you hear me?”
He struggles for breath, and I’m not sure if he’s conscious when he mutters something incoherent. I lean closer, listening, and swear I hear the word “Help.”
“Stay awake,” I say as I tap the side of his face.
I dial 9-1-1, and my mind switches immediately into police mode. My voice shakes, but I’m able to give the dispatcher his address, my badge number, and a rundown of the situation. They instruct me to keep him awake if possible and to wait for help.
It shouldn’t take long for the paramedics to arrive, but each second feels like hours.
I sit on the floor with his head in my lap. “Can you open your eyes?” I ask, but he doesn’t respond. “Can you hear me, baby? Can you tell me what happened?”
“Heather,” Eli’s eyes open, and he starts to struggle. “Have to get . . . to . . . phone.”
“I’m right here, Eli. Don’t move, just stay with me,” I command as I wipe a bead of sweat from his forehead. “Help is on the way.”
He pants again, and I take his pulse several times, watching the clock move. His heart rate is all over the place. I hear the banging on the door below, and I now understand what it feels like on this side of the door. My fear of leaving him to let them in but knowing I have to makes my heart plummet.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, even though I know he probably doesn’t understand.
I rush down the stairs faster than I knew I could move and throw the door open. Two of my fellow squad members, Whitman and Vincenzo, stand there.
“Covey?” Whitman asks with surprise.
“He’s upstairs. Where are the medics?” I ask without answering the questions in their eyes.
“They’re pulling through the gate now,” Vincenzo replies. “Are you on duty?”
“Why aren’t they here? He needs medical help!”
“Relax.” Whitman touches my arm. “Wait, is this . . . this is . . .”
I don’t answer him. I don’t care if he’s figuring out whose house this is and why I’m here. The man I’m so deeply in love with is going in and out of consciousness, and he needs help. My legs start to shake, and Whitman catches me as I start to crumble.
He steadies me, and I turn toward the staircase. I can’t wait for help, I am the help. We need to get him to the hospital now. “You guys can transport him, fuck the ambulance. I can’t carry him. I don’t know what happened, but he needs help now!” I say with so much emotion that their faces fall. I’m not sentimental at work. I don’t cry. I don’t whine. I do my job and kick ass. I’m a warrior when I’m in uniform. Even through my sister’s illness, I never once appeared weak. Right now, I can’t hold it together. “He can’t wait! I can’t lose him!”
Tears spring in my gaze, and I can’t stop them. I feel helpless.
“Heather,” Vincenzo says in his calming voice. I know that tone. I’m the master at that tone. “They’re almost here, relax.”
“Go with her,” Whitman instructs. “I’ll get the medics upstairs. I’ll radio when they arrive, okay?”
I know he’s right. We can’t take a patient with a head injury to the hospital in the cop car.
We rush back up the stairs and into the room where Eli still lies helpless on the floor. I move back to him, checking his pulse again. Tears continue to fall as I brush back his dark brown hair.
“They’re here,” I hear Whitman over the radio.
The paramedics enter the room, and I see the recognition as they realize they’re in Eli Walsh’s house. They look at both of us and back to him.
Questions are fired off as they try to gather information about his injuries and medical history. So many things I don’t know . . .
“Is he taking any medication?”
“I don’t know.”
“Any medical conditions?”
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“Allergies?”
“I . . .” I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“Has he taken any drugs? Been drinking?”
“No, I’ve never seen him take anything. And I wasn’t here, so I have no idea if he drank anything.”
They both look to each other and then ask more questions that I can’t answer. It takes me three minutes to realize how much Eli and I don’t know about each other. He has no idea I’m allergic to penicillin or that I had surgery eight years ago for an ovarian cyst. We’re so in love and so oblivious.