After I was shot, I spent more than my fair share of time in hospitals. Between surgery and rehab, the Army doctors were really good at trying to patch me together again. It pisses me off I have to knock out of work for an appointment with a shoulder specialist, including a new CT scan about a week after Ali’s birthday at the farm. Unfortunately, my bosses don’t give a shit. They want to make sure the Army doctors didn’t miss anything when they pulled the bullets out. Things that could cause a split-second difference if I was sent into the field with my team.

Begrudgingly, I agreed. Caleb said, “Suck it up. You’re not paying a dime for the tests.”

“Maybe they should add in an appointment with a shrink to get the idiot flushed out as well,” Keene drawled.

Charlie assured me, “Don’t worry, that’s not covered. Otherwise, Caleb would have sent Keene before he got his shit together about Ali.”

Keene gave Charlie the middle finger, and I laughed, which earned me Keene’s infamous stare.

I ended up spending the better part of the afternoon taking up space in the radiology department, flipping through year-old magazines in the waiting room and surrounded by people who have actual medical concerns.

My shoulder is mostly fine. I actively work out using the modified PT discharge routine and have had no hiccups. When Jack examined me, he couldn’t tell there had been any internal damage. In fact, his last words to me were “If I didn’t see the scars, I’d be hard-pressed to tell you’d been shot.”

I considered that a ringing endorsement.

I stretch my legs out, trying to relieve some pressure from my lower back due to diabolically awful hospital waiting room chairs. Unfortunately, I don’t see the elderly woman until it’s too late. She’s not looking and walking backward, intent on complaining to someone about how long she’s been waiting. Her arms start to windmill as she falls backward. Leaping up from my relaxed position, I catch her before she falls. “Ma’am,” I say respectfully.

“Oh, my,” the little snow-haired angel says. Blinking at her husband, who she had just been sniping at, she gasps. “Harold! Did you see how fast he moved? It’s like that Captain America we’ve seen in the movies.” She gives me another look. “Just as handsome too.”

I smile down at the little treasure as I make sure she’s got her feet under her. “Just making sure you don’t take any unnecessary falls, ma’am,” I assure her. Resuming my seat, I hear her bickering about the hospital change into murmuring about “What a nice young man.” I start to relax until her voice gets louder and she asks her husband, “I wonder if he’d be interested in Priscilla.”

Shit. Elderly hospital hookup. Someone had better call my name.

As if by divine intervention, a large male nurse appears at the door. “Hunt!” he barks out.

I jump up quickly and stride over. As much as I find the task of having my shoulder scanned again tedious, anything and I do mean anything to get me out of that waiting room is more preferable.

“Name and date of birth?” the nurse asks. I respond as we make our way down the hall. The nurse pauses at one of the doors. “First stop is your IV for contrast. Then I’ll be back to take you down for your CT scan.”

“Got it.” Sitting down in one of the soft recliners, I hold out my right arm. Quickly, my arm is punctured with the IV that’s capped off after its been inserted. I’m shuffled back toward a room down a long hall. Before we veer off to the right, what I see through a one-way mirror stops me in my tracks.

Masses of hair, brown interwoven with natural blonde highlights. Hands quickly reach up to braid it before it’s tied off with a band that would make her sisters cringe at the damage it’s likely causing to her luscious locks. I watch in stunned silence as she lies down on the table before they lower a cage over her face.

I don’t need to see her face to know who she is. I’ve memorized everything about that hair. I know how fast those hands move as they decorate a cake or when she’s animatedly telling a story. What I don’t understand is the IV similar to the one puncturing my own arm.

“No,” I whisper. Frantically, I look around at the technicians moving around both in and out of the room. The ones inside the room are strapping her down to hold her immobile. She doesn’t protest. Not then, nor when they take pieces of green foam and shove it in through the holes in the Hannibal Lecter–like mask to further inhibit her movement. The technician steps forward and injects her with something, then places a device with a red button in her hand. A fucking panic button. Within seconds, a blanket is lowered over her, and everyone scurries out of the room.

My chest heaves. My ears tune in to what’s happening outside the room. I must be hearing things, because the technicians at the consoles are muttering about “last scans” and “size of the mass.”

Before I can move my legs to brutally force one of these puny pricks to tell me why my Corinna is now being shoved into a space that’s no bigger than an above-ground coffin, my technician has realized I’m not where I’m supposed to be.

“Mr. Hunt, I apologize. I must have lost you. Thank you for waiting for me to find you. Your room is this way.”

Before I move, I nod toward the one-way glass. “What’s that procedure?” I’m proud my voice hasn’t betrayed more than a bland curiosity.

The burly man shudders. My insides wither. “Head and spine MRI. In my opinion, the worst there is. Most people can’t handle the time in the tube. Depending on what images they want, they can last between sixty minutes to two hours. Your head and body are completely immobilized. Patients go in headfirst…” His voice trails off.

“Is there any light in there?” From all accounts, Corinna’s fear of the dark hasn’t decreased over the years.

He shakes his head. “Very little. Most patients have to be sedated. Some even have to be strapped down to avoid the panic. It’s imperative they remain as still as possible to get the clearest images.”

The injection. The straps.

Fuck me.

And she’s going through this all alone.

Why?

I shake my head in utter disbelief. Fortunately, it’s misinterpreted. “You don’t have that concern, Mr. Hunt. Ten, fifteen minutes tops,” he consoles me. “Worst you’ll feel is a desperate need to relieve yourself once we inject the contrast.”

“Great.” I couldn’t care less if I actually crap on myself in these stupid-ass scrubs. Just as long as Corinna comes out of her test with her mind intact.

I follow the technician down the hall, then enter my room, and minutes later, I’m done. My IV is removed. I’m assured the results will be ready within the week. I pass Corinna’s MRI room on my way out.

“Jesus,” my technician mutters to himself. “That’s the head of radiology doing a live read. Whomever that poor person is, something serious is going on.”

Come on, Corinna, I beg silently. Get out of that damned room and come rage at me. Yell at me. Scream at me. Just tell me this is nothing.

And as I walk away, I hear her scream over the open mic. Her voice is gasping, “Oh God, the

dark. The dark. Get me out of here!”

A male voice says, “After this series, pull her out and amp her meds. We’ll have to rerun this set if we can’t get the picture. Moser wasn’t kidding when he said she was petrified of the dark.”

“Not even close. And to have no family here to get her through this? It’s a damn shame,” a woman’s voice responds.

And my heart shatters in the radiology department of Greenwich Hospital, knowing I could turn around and tell them they don’t know shit.

Her family doesn’t know. I didn’t know.

But I will find out everything. God knows it’s time for Corinna and me to put the past behind us. I’ve never let go of the promises I made to her. But first, I need to know why she pushed me out of her life.

As I’m almost dragged out of the hallway, I see the technicians roll her out on the narrow table to inject her arm again. I’m left asking myself, what the hell happened?

I’m quickly processed out once my tests are done. Changing back into my own clothes, I debate on whether I should linger for a few hours to confront Corinna here but decide against it. There’s hitting someone when they’re vulnerable, and then there is kicking someone when they’re at their absolute lowest. I’d be doing the second if I confronted her at the hospital after she’s been through something so visibly traumatic.

But the time for our come-to-Jesus meeting just became a lot shorter, because I don’t know how long I can keep this from the people who love her the most, and who apparently have less of a clue of what’s going on than I do.