Prologue

"Help—please, you have to send someone now!"

Will's voice crackled over the phone line, his usual composure shattered into a thousand sharp-edged fragments.

"Sir, I need you to calm down and tell me what's happening," the dispatcher's voice, steady and clear, cut through the static.

"Angela—my wife—she's… she's not moving. She's lying at the bottom of the stairs. I think she must have fallen. There's so much blood." The words tumbled out in a rush, each one punctuated by the ragged edge of panic.

"Is she breathing?"

"Can't… I don't think so. I don't know. God, please. I can… I can feel a pulse. I think she's still alive, but I…."

"An ambulance is on the way. What's your address?"

"16… 164 Hawthorne Road. Hurry!"

"Stay with me, sir. Help is coming."

"Please, faster!" Will's plea was a whisper, a prayer flung into the void as he stared at his son, who was crying for his mother to wake up.

"Her eyes… they're open, but she's not…. Why isn't she looking at me?" Will's voice hitched as he knelt beside Angela, her body crumpled unnaturally. "I should be able to fix this. Fix her. I'm a doctor, damn it!" His voice rose, a crescendo of helplessness and self-reproach.

"Will, you're doing great. We're trained for this. Tell me, is there anything obstructing her airway?"

"Obstructing? No, no obstructions. Just blood. So much blood… she must have hit her head on the way down the stairs or something." His sentences were breaking, fracturing under the weight of the scene before him.

"Keep talking to me, Will. Paramedics are en route. Can you press gently on her forehead, tilt her chin up?"

His hands, which had healed so many sick children, now trembled uncontrollably as they followed the dispatcher's calm commands. He couldn't think straight. Panic rushed through him like a wildfire. "It's done."

"Good. Now, place your ear close to her mouth. Do you feel any breath?"

"I do. I do feel it. But it's so weak…. This can't be?—"

"Stay with me. Check again for a pulse, carotid artery, gently on the side of her neck."

"Checking… I feel it. It's weak, though. Dear God, Angela…."

"Will, listen to my voice. Help is almost there. You're not alone."

"Please, just get them here! She needs help. I need help." His plea was raw, exposed nerves laid bare.

"Help is coming, Will. Stay with me. Stay with Angela. You're doing everything right."

"Angela, please," he whispered, his polished exterior splintered by the chaos of emotion, the relentless ticking of time.

"Angela… she's so pale, the color just—gone," Will choked out, the words a jagged shard in his throat. "She won't wake up. I can't?—"

"Will, help is on the way. They'll be there any minute," the voice cut through the line, steady as an anchor in stormy seas.

"Minutes? No, that's—it's not fast enough!" His voice cracked with the tension that wired his every muscle. "She doesn't have minutes!"

"Focus on your breathing, Will. In and out. Keep her safe until they arrive."

"Safe?" he spat out bitterly, one hand pressed to Angela's icy cheek. "How is this safe?"

"Your strength is what she needs right now. You're her lifeline."

"Strength?" The word felt foreign, hollow. "I'm falling apart here!"

"Will, you are her rock. Hold on. They are close."

In the distance, faint but growing steadily louder, sirens wailed—a harbinger of hope or doom, he couldn't tell. Each moment stretched into eternity, each second a lifetime as the high-pitched keen drew nearer.

"Can you hear that, Will? That's them. They're coming for Angela."

"God, let them be quick," he murmured, almost to himself, his gaze fixed on the stairwell, willing the flashing lights to appear.

"Keep talking to me. What are you seeing right now?"

"Nothing. Nothing's changed." His voice was a frayed rope, fibers snapping one by one.

"Stay with me, Will. Stay with her. It's what you do best."

The sirens grew louder, a clarion call piercing the fog of despair. He strained his ears, the sound promising action, demanding urgency.

"Almost there, Will. Any moment now."

"Please…." His plea was simple, a singular word carrying the weight of his world. "Hurry."

"Stay strong. For Angela."

"Angela…." Her name was a prayer on his lips as the sirens reached a crescendo outside, announcing the arrival of salvation.

"Her chest… it's not moving. It stopped, " Will's voice broke over the line, fingers trembling as he pressed two fingertips to Angela's neck. The stillness under his touch was a void, screaming silence.

"Keep trying, Will. Sometimes it's faint," the dispatcher's steady voice instructed through the phone.

"Nothing," he gasped, the word searing his throat, tasting of panic. "I can't feel anything. There's no pulse!"

"Stay calm. Paramedics are entering your neighborhood now."

"Angela, please…." His plea was a whisper as he began CPR, his cries for help drowned by the crescendo of sirens outside. He pressed, breathed, then leaned closer, his breath hitching, a prayer for a sign of life.

"Will, talk to me. What can you do right now?"

"Angela, come on!" He shook her gently, a man roused from reason by fear. His heart thundered, a wild drumbeat against his ribs.

"Will, focus on my voice. You're doing great. Help is seconds away."

"Seconds? She doesn't have seconds!" Desperation clawed at his words, raw and edging into hysteria.

"Take a deep breath. They're at your door."

"Please, just—Hurry!" His voice cracked, shattered like glass under the strain. "She's… she's everything."

"Help has arrived, Will. Let them take over."

"Angela!"

His call was a lifeline thrown into the abyss as the front door burst open, the sound of boots on hardwood flooring a staccato rhythm to the symphony of urgency that had taken over his home.

Will's gaze snapped to the doorway as paramedics rushed in, a blur of navy and fluorescent yellow. Their equipment clattered, the rapid thud of their boots syncing with the hammering of his heart.

"Here! Here!" He scrambled back, hands slick with fear, making room for them to reach Angela.

"Sir, step back," one commanded, voice authoritative yet not unkind.

"Will." The dispatcher's voice was a tether now fraying. "They've got her."

He nodded, though the dispatcher couldn't see. The line clicked dead, severance complete.

"Angela," he whispered, but the paramedics were a flurry of motion over her, blocking his view. A cuff snapped around her arm, the beep of a monitor slicing through the chaos. They continued the CPR and got a pulse back.

"Prepping for transport," someone announced.

"Stay clear," another instructed as they slid a board beneath Angela's limp form.

"Is she—" Will began, but his throat closed around the words.

"Sir, we need you to step back," a paramedic told him, eyes sharp yet empathetic.

He staggered, reaching out to steady himself against the wall while his son clung to his leg. The commotion had awakened his daughter, who had come out of her room and was now crying in his arms as well. He rubbed her hair, every movement mechanical, like he knew he was doing it but couldn't feel anything. The world tilted, sharp edges and sterile smells enveloping him. He blinked rapidly, trying to anchor himself to the moment.

"Oxygen's on. Pulse is weak, but it's there," a voice cut through the fog of his shock.

"Got a pulse," he repeated to himself, clinging to those words as if they were a lifeline.

The sirens wailed, a relentless echo as more responders arrived. Officers with stern expressions and notebooks entered, glancing between Will and the medics. Whispers of "accident" and "statements" buzzed around him like flies.

"Sir, can you tell us what happened?" an officer asked, pen poised.

"Stairs," Will managed to say. "She fell. My son found her."

"Any idea how?"

"Can't… I don't know. I was sleeping. When my boy cried for help, I ran out and found her like this."

"Okay, take a breath. We'll sort it out," the officer assured him, scribbling notes.

The stretcher's wheels clicked rhythmically as they rolled Angela toward the door. Will's eyes followed, fixated, as they disappeared into the waiting ambulance, its lights painting the night in urgent strokes of red and blue.

"Sir, we'll need you to come down to the station later," the officer said, snapping Will back to the living room, which was now a crime scene.

"Of course," Will replied, voice hollow, a shell of composure forming around his shattered state.

The ambulance doors slammed shut, a dull thud against the crescendo of the sirens that now began to fade, whisking Angela away, her life hanging by a thread.

"Angela," Will murmured once more, a vow forming amidst the chaos: to unravel the mystery of the staircase, to piece together the fragments of the night, for her. But first, he drove himself and the kids to the hospital, praying and hoping for good news.