Chapter 2: The Call

The world stopped. All at once.

"What?" The word came out as a whisper. My hand went to my chest. "What do you mean, an accident?"

"Your mother and father were in a car on the M25. We have them both in our trauma unit. Can you come now?"

My fingers were shaking uncontrollably. I couldn't feel them anymore.

"I'm coming. I'm coming right now," I said, my voice climbing higher, bordering on hysteria. "Are they—are they conscious? Can they talk?"

"Please just come as quickly as you can, Mrs. Whitmore."

The line went dead.

I dropped the phone. I'm not sure if I hung up properly or just let it fall. My legs moved without my permission, carrying me out of the bedroom, down the stairs, searching for my keys with trembling fingers that wouldn't cooperate. My breath was coming in short, sharp gasps.

"Elena?" Adrian's voice came from above. He was still in bed, his dark hair messy against the pillow, his chest bare. He looked confused, like I was the one not making sense. "Where are you going?"

"The hospital. My parents. There was an accident." My voice was shaking so badly the words barely held together. I couldn't get them out fast enough. "I have to go. Now."

I was already moving toward the door, my purse falling open, my hands fumbling with the zipper. My mind was fragmenting. Hospital. Parents. Accident. The words kept circling, each one worse than the last.

Adrian was out of bed in seconds. He didn't hesitate. "Which hospital?"

I pressed a trembling hand to my forehead. The room seemed to sway around me. "St. Thomas'. On the M25. There was a car accident and they're in the trauma unit and I don't, I don't know how bad it is—”

"Okay. Okay, baby, just breathe." He was pulling on clothes, moving quickly, his movements sharp and purposeful. "I'm coming with you. We'll go together."

He grabbed his keys from the nightstand and caught my arm gently. "Elena, look at me. We're going to get there and we're going to find out they're okay. Your parents are strong people."

"I hope so," I said, my voice breaking. "I really hope so. Cause I don't know what I would do without them."

"I know. I know." He pulled me close, pressing a kiss to my forehead. For just a moment, I let myself lean into him, let myself believe he was right. "Let's go. I'm driving."

The drive to London was still a blur of panic, but Adrian's presence steadied me slightly. His hand found mine at every red light. He kept talking to me, kept my mind anchored to something other than the spiraling terror.

"Your mother's tough, Elena. Remember when she fell off that ladder last summer and was back to gardening in two weeks? And your father. He's one of the strongest people I know."

"This is different," I whispered. “This one is a car accident. Trauma unit. Adrian, what if—"

"Don't. Don't go there yet,” He cut me off quickly. “We don't know anything. We get there, we talk to the doctors, and then we figure out what comes next. Together."

Together. The word felt like a lifeline.

When we arrived at the hospital, the smell hit me first. Antiseptic and something underneath it, something that made my stomach heave violently. Adrian's arm went around my waist, keeping me upright.

"My parents. They were brought in. A car accident. Where are they? I need to see them right now," I said, my voice rising to the nurse in blue scrubs. I could hear myself getting louder, more frantic, but I couldn't stop it. "Their names are Richard and Clara Whitmore. Please, where are they?"

The nurse's face softened with that particular sadness reserved for people in crisis. "Let me get a doctor."

Adrian guided me to a chair and sat beside me, his arm still around my shoulders. He didn't let go.

An older doctor appeared. Gray at his temples, with eyes that had seen too much pain. He pulled up a chair across from us and explained things in medical terms that felt like violence.

"Blunt force trauma, intracranial bleeding. Your mother was conscious when she arrived, but your father—"

My fingers dug into his arm before I realized how hard I was gripping him. My heart pounded against my ribs.

"But what?" My voice cracked. "What about my father? Is he alive? Tell me he's alive.”

"He's in surgery right now. We're doing everything we can."

"Surgery. What kind of surgery? How bad is it?" I was shaking now, my whole body trembling. Adrian pulled me against his chest, his hand stroking my hair. "Can I see them? I need to see them. They need to know I'm here. They need to know—"

My voice broke completely. I couldn't finish the sentence.

"Your mother's in recovery. Your father is still in surgery. As soon as we have updates, we'll tell you."

I sat down because my legs gave out. Adrian stayed pressed against my side, his arm never leaving me. There was a coffee table with magazines from last year, their pages curled and worn. Someone had left a half-empty cup of water on it, the liquid cloudy and stale.

Hours blurred together.

A nurse brought me a blanket. Adrian arranged it around my shoulders, kissed my temple. When I couldn't sit still anymore, he walked with me to the window. 

The first tear slipped down my cheek, then another. My shoulders shook, and I folded into him. His arms came around me without hesitation, steady and warm. He said nothing, only tightened his hold when my knees threatened to give way.

"I'm here," he whispered against my hair. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here."

Around two in the afternoon, Adrian's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and I felt him tense slightly. He silenced it without answering, but I'd seen his mother's name flash across the screen.

"It's okay," he said when he caught my look. "It doesn't matter."

But there was something in his voice. A note of conflict, of being pulled in two directions that I registered even through my panic. It was so small, so subtle, that I almost didn't notice it.

A younger doctor approached us. In his late thirties, with kind eyes and a clipboard. He pulled up a chair and sat down, which felt ominous. Adrian's grip on my hand tightened.

"Mrs. Whitmore, I wanted to speak with you about your parents' accident." He paused. "Have the police discussed the details with you?"

"No. I don't understand. What details? What happened?" I was gripping Adrian's hand so hard my nails dug into his skin. "What's going on?"

"The preliminary investigation is ongoing, but something unusual has come to light,” The young Doctor said. “Your parents' vehicle had brake failure. The brakes didn't just fail from mechanical breakdown. According to the preliminary examination, they appear to have been deliberately compromised."

The words landed like stones. Deliberately. Meaning, someone did 

this on purpose.

"What are you saying?" My voice cracked. I looked at Adrian, then back to the doctor. "What do you mean deliberately?"

"I'm saying your parents' accident may not have been an accident at all."

Adrian stood up abruptly. I felt the sudden loss of his warmth like a shock. He walked to the window, his hand running through his hair, his shoulders tense.

"Adrian?" I whispered.

He turned back to me, and for just a moment, I saw something flash across his face. Fear, recognition. Something he knew that I didn't.

Then it was gone.

He came back and knelt in front of me, taking both my hands in his. His eyes were wet.

"Who did this?" he said, his voice thick. "Who deliberately did this to them?"

Another doctor rushed into the waiting area, her face urgent, her pace quick.

"We need family authorization immediately. Your father's condition has suddenly worsened.”