alive. “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
Emergency. Yes. The glass. The door exploding. He remembered that part clearly. And then he must have blacked out. He remembered coming to. And possibly blacking out again. What was left of his French door hung from one hinge, flopping in the wind.
“Yes, there was a break-in. I need an ambulance, please.”
The handkerchief he pressed to his temple was no match for the blood streaming down his face.
“What’s your address?”
“Nine Eighty South Lake Shore Drive.”
“All right, sir, an ambulance is on the way.”
The 911 operator went on to ask for more details—something about the nature of the break-in and his injuries. But the room was going topsy-turvy, and the woman’s words made no sense. He tried to speak, but his voice failed him. In the end, he could latch onto only one thought.
Monica was going to kill him.
The room dimmed, then went black.