Her Silent Revenge novel Chapter 116

Stupid. Messy. Dumb.

Pure jackass, and yet I'm doing it anyway.

I inhale sharply and accept my fate as my finger swipes the call. "Hey, Salem. I've been meaning to call—"

"Patton." My name feels like a gunshot, the word sharp, panicked. My grip on my phone tightens as it rips through me. "Something's wrong. Arlo, he just—he won't wake up." A sob rattles her voice.

What. The. Fuck.

It's a gut punch, so swift my lungs deflate.

I have to lean on the old railing to stay upright.

"What happened? What do you mean he won't wake up?" I try to keep calm, my voice clipped like I haven't heard since my Navy days. She needs strength right now, not this roaring frustration surging up that threatens to blow me into a thousand pieces and scatter me to the winds.

"I don't—I don't know. I was just driving. He started vomiting everywhere. I called an ambulance as soon as I could pull over."

There's no siren wailing in the background. They must've already reached the hospital, I hope.

"Where are you? The university hospital?"

"Y-yes," she strangles out, choking on the words. "He's with the doctors now. They took him straight in."

"Okay. Salem, sweetheart, I need you to breathe." I can't think straight enough to give her better advice. I'm just barreling through this damn house until I'm back outside, fumbling with the keys to lock the door. "I'm on my way. Is anyone else with you?"

"No, no, it's just me."

Of course it is, you idiot, I tell myself bitterly.

She has no family here. The closest thing she has to a friend is a vapid Instagram girl who cares more about her looks than human decency.

I close my eyes for a furious second before getting in my SUV and starting the engine.

"I'll be there soon," I promise. "Stay put and wait for me. It's going to be okay."

I hope like hell I'm not wrong.

Nothing about this makes sense.

I hate that I can't make any big promises and she knows it as well as I do.

But Arlo should be fine. Kids don't just up and die for no reason, do they?

Then again, if he's out like she's saying, if he won't wake up— My throat burns, the same acid feeling clawing at my eyes.

Goddammit, my son is hurt.

I don't understand what's happening.

Salem.

She's tucked away in the corner of the waiting room, her legs crooked under her. She's just staring at the wall.

It's like someone picked her up and poured her soul out.

"Salem," I call, and her head jerks up. Some of the emptiness drains from her face, replaced by relief, and she uncurls herself, holding out a hand.

Then her face crumples.

"Salem," I growl again, pulling her into my arms.

Awkwardness forgotten—everything but this, the painful knowledge that our son is seriously sick and there's nothing either of us can do.

She wraps her arms around me and buries her head in my shoulder. I cradle her closer, wishing I could whisk her away. There's nothing more depressing than a waiting room filled with worried souls, just like the woman in my arms.

This is where people go to wait for miracles. Waiting and hoping because no one can guarantee life, not even if they have an MD behind their name. What else is there to do in a hospital waiting room but quietly scream at God and the universe?

Salem's hand pulls me closer, just for a second, before she shrinks back.

I slide a hand through her hair and smooth it down her cheek, though she isn't crying. Her red eyes say there's been too much of that already.

"I'm so glad you're here. I missed you," she whispers, one hand gripping my wrist like she's scared I'll disappear into thin air if she stops.