Disoriented but functioning, I wrench my door open and emerge on wobbly legs. Glass crunches under my rubber boots as I stumble toward the other car. Dizziness threatens to overwhelm me, making me slow. But soon, I refocus as my brain processes the sight yards away from me—a mangled car cupped by trees like a fallen nest.

I did this. This is my fault.

I move toward the wreckage, boots dragging over glass and my vision clearing. An airbag deflates. A door screeches open. A red-haired woman stumbles out. Heels. White lace. Blood.

Is that a wedding dress? Is that a… knife?

A debilitating second passes as I close the distance between us. It’s a fucking nightmare. It has to be. Any second, Colin will whack me with a pillow again. Or the dogs will bark. Anything to shake me from the senselessness of what I’m seeing—a bride stepping from a car wreck with a pearl-handled knife jutting from her lower gut.

It can’t be real.

She doesn’t think so, either. Frightened and stunned, her eyes go from mine to the knife plunged almost sideways into her abdomen. In eerie disbelief, she seems to assess the situation, grabs the handle, and yanks the knife out, dropping it with a shaking hand. Now, a step away from her, it clinks against the concrete between us, joining her chilling moan at the fresh pain.

It’s real.

Blood pours through her delicate fingers as she tries to stay upright. She wobbles on her white, blood-stained heels before they twist under her, and she falls.

I catch her, my arms reacting before I tell them to. We drift downward like feathers caught together in the wind.

Easing her against the glass-covered pavement, her red hair sprays fan-like behind her.

This is my fault. She’s bleeding because of me.

Bleeding heavily because of me. The red inkblot around her midsection spreads over her white dress alarmingly fast.

“I… I’m sorry,” I choke, head still spinning, “I’m sorry. What can I⁠—”

“He forgot the cake knife. It kept sliding across the seat, so I put it…” Her voice trails into a pained grunt, and she gulps for air.

“Breathe. Just breathe.” The words shuffle out from another memory—me calming Gil during a panic attack. “I’m here. I-I can help. I-I have to get my phone.”

“Stay with her,” a familiar voice orders gruffly behind me. “Ambulance is on its way.”

“How long?”

A beat passes. “Twelve to fourteen minutes.”

I spare a glance at the looming shadow—my fucking Uncle Wade. The universe is shitting all over me today. Even so, my head stops spinning, as if Wade’s presence jerked the needle off the skipping record.

“Do what needs to be done,” he barks, focusing me further.

“Okay. Get my med bag in the truck. Backseat. Paper towels. And stop blocking my light.”

Sunlight breaks through when he moves.