Rose was rushed to the hospital. She lay on the gurney, a pale unconscious ghost of the vibrant woman she usually was, as the nurses whisked her behind the double doors of the emergency wing.
Tate stood by the vending machines, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his gaze fixed on the floor. Beside him, Jacob was restless. He kept stealing glances at Tate, his eyes darting toward him and then away again, his jaw working as if he were chewing on glass.
"What?" Tate asked, his voice a low tone that cut through the hum of the hospital.
Jacob shook his head, looking down at his boots. "Nothing."
"You’ve been staring at the side of my head for ten minutes," Tate said, finally looking up. His eyes were bloodshot and hard. "If you have something to say, say it."
Jacob blew out a breath,
