Footsteps pounded against the hardwood. Colby appeared above me, his face arranged in the perfect mix of fear and control.
“Call emergency,” he barked, then dropped to his knees and pressed two fingers to my neck.
His hand was warm. His fingers trembled, but not from grief.
“I don’t… I don’t feel anything,” he said loudly, just as Frank came in from the side door in his role as head of security, already on the phone with a private medical team we kept on retainer.
Moments later, two men and a woman in discreet uniforms hurried into the house with a stretcher. They looked like paramedics from a private clinic. In reality, they were Frank’s most trusted people.
Vanessa’s sobs filled the hallway as they lifted me.
“Please,” she cried. “Please do everything you can. He’s been so fragile. He hasn’t recovered since we lost Chloe.”
As they carried me out, I heard Colby’s voice, steady and low.
“If the worst happens,” he said to one of the staff, “we’ll need to handle things quietly. No need to involve too many people. He always said he wanted privacy.”
The door closed behind us.
They did not take me to a hospital.