Chapter 18

Graham immediately backed away from Emma in horror. He stared down at the gun again. He'd done this to Emma? He'd, by the looks of the horrible mess in the station, brutally attacked her and then shot her, the woman he loved? No. That was not possible. There was no way in hell that he'd done that.

But the gun in his hand and the ache in his nose proved otherwise. If he just had a broken nose, then it was highly possible that he'd fallen on the ice outside and blacked out while someone came and attacked Emma. But the gun? It was undoubtedly Emma's gun. She'd had it specially made to fit her small hands.

There was such a disconnect in Graham's mind. On one hand, there was overwhelming evidence that he'd, based on the finger shaped bruises blooming on her neck, strangled her and then shot her. But on the other hand, he refused to believe that he'd done this. He loved her so much. How could he have so heartlessly attacked and quite possibly killed her? Did he have some sort of violent streak that even he didn't know about?

The smell of blood brought Graham's attention back to Emma. Right. He needed to take her to the hospital. Gingerly, afraid he'd hurt her again, he pressed his jacket to the blood seeping out of his chest while he dialed 911, quickly shouting urgently at the operator that there had been an attack and they had to get here ASAP. He hung up the phone, and then looked at Emma's gun which was still in his hand. Afraid he'd get arrested before he had a chance to see her arrive safely at the hospital, he stashed the gun in his pocket. No one would question a deputy carrying a gun.

The next several hours were a blur to Graham. The ambulance had arrived fairly quickly. They'd quickly loaded Emma inside, and didn't protest when Graham insisted to ride with her. He'd her hand the whole way there, brushing her hair off her face and begging her not to die. Once at the hospital, they'd taken her into the OR, where he wasn't allowed in. The nurses had assured him that she'd be fine, and steered him into the waiting room with a cup of coffee with orders to relax, where he'd sat, mind growing numb as the coffee grew cold. He could not relax, instead choosing to review over and over what had happened.

All he remembered was offering to get coffee for them, Emma's grunt as she acknowledged him, driving to Granny's, picking up the coffee and donuts (he figured he'd get them, since he knew Emma had a sweet tooth), fumbling with his keys, dropping them, and then bending down to pick them up while trying to balance the coffee and donuts. The next thing he knew, he was in the station, Emma's gun clenched in his fist and Emma bleeding on the ground. He had no memory of attacking her. It was as if it'd never happened.

He knew he had to turn himself in eventually, but he didn't want to leave yet on the off chance that the surgery finished while he was gone. At the very least, he wanted someone to be here waiting for Emma. Then, it occurred to him that it would be a good idea to call her parents and Henry. In a numb, toneless voice, he'd explained that there had been an attack and they had to get to the hospital immediately. Hearing Snow's choking sob over the phone was more painful than Graham could bear to hear, so he rattled off the necessary details as fast as he could and hung up the phone with the awful knowledge that Snow's pain was his fault.

After a while, some nurse noticed his broken, swollen nose and offered to X-ray and put a cast on for him. But he waved her off. The pain in his nose was nothing compared to the crushing pain in his heart. How could he have done this? Had he subconsciously been so mad at Emma for rejecting him that he tried to kill her? For the past several weeks that she was back, he'd tried to ignore her despite her attempts at apologizing, for it hurt too much. But never would have thought that'd he tried to kill her. His gut instinct told him that something was off about this whole thing, but evidence didn't lie.

Then, he heard footsteps approaching. Three sets, to be exact. He looked up to find Snow, James, and Henry rapidly walking towards him. Snow's face was streaked with tears, and James and Henry looked no better.

"Graham." Snow's voice wobbled. "How is she?"

"Still in surgery." He answered, casting his eyes down. His guilt was overwhelming.

"What happened?" James asked the inevitable question.

Graham told them an abridged version of the truth, describing how he'd stepped out for coffee and then came back to a badly wounded Emma. When he began describing the extent of her injuries, Snow burst into tears and buried her face in her husband's shoulder.

"I'm so, so sorry." Graham said, but the words were nothing compared to how he felt. "I don't know how this happened."

"It's not your fault." James reassured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You did the best you could, getting her to the hospital in time. It's not like you caused this."

Uh-oh. Those were exactly the wrong words. "But I did." Graham whispered softly. Three sets of eyes looked at him in alarm.

"Huh?"

Graham simply held up Emma's gun. "Because I found this in my hand."

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