Slamming my fists on the steering wheel, I’m about to lose it. Then in the distance, I see smoke rising.
No! That’s not her! It can’t be. My mind searches for an explanation, unable to face the possibility, the reality. Maybe there was a gas explosion, an earthquake, a brush fire. Anything but Kailey being . . .
She’s just stopped in this traffic somewhere. Same as me. I couldn’t have heard what I thought I heard. I didn’t hear her crash. No!
People start to get out of their cars, since traffic won’t start moving anytime soon. Jumping out of the car, I’m hit by the smell of smoke and sound of sirens filling the air. Someone yells out my name, but it’s not Kailey’s voice.
I start to run, leaving my car in my wake. I don’t even close my door. Running past the line of traffic, weaving in and out of the parked cars, hoping that one I pass will be hers, but I’m disappointed each time.
A Mercedes, a Ford, a Land Rover, a Chevy, a Porsche—all not hers. There are dozens more after those—still, not hers.
The smoke is coming closer, thicker, making it harder and harder for me to see. The sirens are ringing my ears louder than any stadium I’ve ever sung in.
Kailey?
Please, God, please! My heart pounds against my chest as I move, faster and faster each second, my eyes straining to see, my muscles burning from tension.
Suddenly, I skid to a halt. It’s a war zone before me, two cars twisted together, making it hard to know where one ends, and another begins. Debris litters the street—glass, metal, screws. An ambulance, police cars, and a firetruck are all on the scene, each of their sirens creating a deafening roar. A slew of emergency personnel are trying to manage the situation, to provide some order and assistance, to attend to one or more people. I can’t tell how many. A few police officers are trying to hold back a line of reporters and photographers with their fucking cameras in hand.
“Sir, you need to get back in your car,” an officer, who looks like he’s been around the block a few times, orders me.
I’m never been one to play the “Do you know who I am?” card. Celebrities who do that shit are entitled assholes. But if there was ever a time to use it, it would be now. Still, I don’t. I just continue my frantic search, while everything moves in slow motion. But the fog of smoke is so thick, the noise so great, so many personnel on the scene, it’s hard to process. Nothing is making sense.
My eyes land on the ground, the unmistakable emblem of her new car.
“That’s my . . .” I yell and start pushing against the officer’s chest, trying to make my way through.
He blocks me. “Sir, I can’t let you through.”
“She’s pregnant! Kailey?” I call out, but there’s no answer—and he’s not budging. “Get the fuck out of my way!”
The smoke lifts a bit, and I make out the outline of her car, mangled and twisted. I start to shake. My body, my mind, both are on the verge of explosion. Fear grips my soul like a snake coiling around its latest victim.
Falling to my knees, I crumble under the weight of everything. Tears stream down my face, dripping onto the pavement. My entire world is in that tangled web of metal.
“Sir,” the officer says, placing a hand on my shoulder.
I look up at him. If he were a priest, I’d confess everything.
I never told her. I never told her I loved her. She never knew.
I see something change in his eyes—it’s not pity, but recognition.
“Shit, you’re Ryder . . .”
From my knees, I beg, “Help her, please.”
“Mr. Merrick, I need you to stay here,” he orders before adding, “I’ll go find out what I can. But can you stay here?”
I hear his words, but can’t speak or move. I just stare at the car, paramedics and police officers surrounding it, moving deliberately. The last words she said to me echoing loudly in my head.
You don’t love me. The father of my baby doesn’t love me.
Through the remaining smoke, a stretcher rolls in front of me, carrying a body bag, being slowly guided to an ambulance by two expressionless paramedics. Is she dead? Oh my God, is she dead?
“No!” I cry, rushing toward them. “No!”
The officer hustles back to stop me, bringing another officer with him. Each of them grabs one of my arms, and I kick and flail with all my might, while they pull me back. I’ve got to get through, get past them, see Kailey one last time. She can’t have died thinking those words!
It can’t be. It just can’t be. This isn’t real.
“Let me see her,” I cry out. “Please, don’t take her out like that, please.”
They’re trying to tell me something, but I can’t focus, continuing my fight, pushing and shoving, desperate to get to her. “I’ll carry her! Let me carry her, please! One last time!”
The officers get a bit rougher with me now, more forceful, each grabbing one of my shoulders, hard. They lift me off my feet then pin me to a nearby car. I can’t move, but I’m trying, still trying to fight. I won’t ever stop trying, though it seems all the strength in my body has left me.
Once they have me under control, motionless, the more seasoned officer tells me, “That’s not her, Ryder. That’s not her.”
I stop and search their eyes for some promise of hope and ask, “It’s not her?”
They relax their grip on me. “Your wife is still in the car.”
My wife? I wish. Regret flows through my veins. She’s not my wife. But even if she was, she’s so much more than that—so much more than the mother of my child. She’s . . .
The only. My only!
“Is she . . .” I start, but the words get caught in my throat.
If they know what I’m asking, they don’t answer. “I need you to help me right now,” the older officer says. “You said she’s pregnant.”
“Yes,” I say, my eyes glued on the car.
“How far along?”
“Not quite nineteen weeks,” I say quickly.
“Who’s her OB-GYN?”
The crowd around her car thins out a bit, parting just enough that I catch a glimpse of Kailey—her blonde hair against a panel of glass.
She’s not moving.
Lifeless.
“Kailey,” I cry, stumbling that way, but quickly being restrained again.
“Ryder,” the older officer says, his hand gently landing on mine. I see his hands are worn and spotted, wrinkled with the highs and lows of life.
“It’s a new car,” I say. “I just bought it for her.”
“Airbags were deployed.”
“She was talking to me over the Bluetooth.”
His eyes pop. “You heard the accident?”
“Please,” I say. “Help her.”
“Stay here,” he says, warning me with his eyes not to move again. “I’m going to make sure they know she’s pregnant, and how far along she is.”
I watch him walk, ever so often turning back and making sure I’m where I’m supposed to be. The younger officer stays beside me. My cell phone rings in my pocket. Maggie’s name appears. Lifting the phone to my ear, I hit the button to answer but can’t speak.
“Is she alive?” Maggie asks.