Chasing River (Burying Water #3)(87)

Just enough time to catch Rowen’s eyes.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Amber

“Amber.”

“Hey, Ivy!” I’m surprised to hear from her, especially at eight in the morning. I got an early start to the day, wanting to explore a bit more before heading back to Dublin. River told me he’d come pick me up at the house by three. “Have you been to Cork before?”

“No.”

“Ugh! You have to come. Even you would appreciate this place. It’s so charming. I’ve never seen anything like it.” My gaze absorbs a kaleidoscope of colors as I stroll down the narrow sidewalk. Each storefront is painted in vibrant hues—a bed-and-breakfast in gold and rust, a tea shop in peacock blue and brick, a woman’s dress shop in canary yellow and indigo—and adorned with flowers and kitschy signs.

I sigh, sipping on the latte that Mrs. Harrington made for me before I left the quaint little inn. Such a sweet old lady. Her husband, too. They let me leave my car in their driveway for the morning.

“I guess you haven’t seen the news yet?” There’s something odd in her voice that I can’t quite grasp.

I stop walking. “No . . . why?”

“You need to come back to Dublin. Like, right now.”

I clocked well over two thousand hours in the hospital last year. Enough time that I’ve gotten used to the smells and the beeping sounds and eerie quiet. Enough time that I find comfort within those walls, able to navigate wings and signage without a second thought.

Today, though, after a white-knuckled three-hour drive home, turning onto the wrong side—or right side, in my opinion—of the road a dozen times, a frenzy of terrified thoughts distracting my focus, I’m finding no comfort within these Dublin hospital walls.

“Hey.” Ivy’s face so rarely shows any emotion that just the sight of her now—her brow pulled tight, a black mascara streak on her cheek—nearly unravels me.

“Have you heard anything?”

“Nothing.”

I heave a sigh, but it brings no relief to the tightness in my chest. “Thank you. For calling, and for tracking them down.” I passed out five minutes after talking to River last night. I figured he was still sleeping this morning when I texted him, though I was anxiously awaiting a response.

Now I know why I haven’t gotten one yet.

She simply shrugs and then leads me down a hall toward the reception desk in the emergency room waiting area. A young, mousy nurse sits behind it, chewing on the end of a pen. Her badge says her name is Sally, and it makes me think of the McNally sisters.

“Hi, our friends were brought in this morning after an incident at their pub. I was hoping you could give us some information.” I cross my fingers, having no idea how willing she’ll be to share details with me, seeing as I’m not family.

“Names?” Sally’s voice—deep and husky and laced with a heavy Dubliner accent—is a complete contradiction to her appearance.

“River and Rowen Delaney.”

Her glasses shift with her frown. “Right. Terrible thing that happened.”

My stomach clenches with her words, tears ready to flood my cheeks. This doesn’t sound promising.

“You’re American. You must be,” she checks a sticky note, “Amber Welles?”

“Yes.”

When she catches my curious frown, she explains, “River’s been asking for you. Sent his mother here to make sure we let you in. Room 114—through that door and take a left.” Her gaze shifts to Ivy.

“She’s with me,” I say.

She hesitates. “I’m not supposed to—”

“Look, I get it, Sally. I’m a nurse too, back home.” I plead with her compassionate side, the one that may overlook policies. “She’ll be in and out. She just needs to see Rowen. Even if it’s for a minute.”

The nurse’s voice drops. “Go quickly, before the regular desk nurse comes back from break. She won’t let you back there.”

“Thank you.” Tugging at Ivy’s arm, I hurry her along as I follow the directions, my worry growing with each step. I hold my breath as I peek through the window of Room 114, unsure of what I’m about to see, fearing the worst.

“Oh, thank God,” slips through my mouth with a heavy exhale as I immediately spot River sitting upright on the edge of the bed closest the window, already dressed in jeans and a shirt. Aside from a few mild scratches on his cheek and a small bandage above his left eyebrow, he appears to be fine. The crushing weight that’s been sitting on my chest all morning lifts. Not fully, though, because the bed next to River’s is empty and stripped of all bedding.

Where is Rowen?

River’s not alone. An older couple occupy the space between his bed and the window. His parents, no doubt. The squat woman paces, wringing her hands nervously, her sable-colored hair a frizzy mess pinned on top of her head. The man, with a full head of coppery hair, sits in a chair, his hands folded over the handle of a cane. He appears older than the woman.

They’re people I never thought I’d meet. People I would never want to meet under circumstances such as these.

The man’s gaze catches me in the tiny window and his mouth begins moving. River’s on his feet immediately, a limp in his gait as he takes a few steps, then waves me in. “Amber!”