Maxwell's POV
For the next few hours, I watched helplessly as Olivia paced the small motel room like a caged animal.
Back and forth. Back and forth. From the window to the door to the window again.
Her phone was in her hand, her thumb hitting Kennedy's contact over and over, bringing it to her ear, waiting through the rings, then lowering it when it went to voicemail.
Again. And again. And again.
"Olivia," I tried, standing up from where I'd been sitting on the edge of the bed. "He's probably just busy dealing with everything. The hospital, the police, taking care of your mom. He'll call when he gets a chance…"
"Stop," she said, her voice flat and cold. "Just stop talking."
The words hit me like a slap.
I reached out to touch her arm, to offer some kind of comfort, but she jerked away from me like my touch burned.
"Don't," she said, still not looking at me. "Don't touch me."
I let my hand fall, feeling like I'd been punched in the gut.
She kept pacing. Kept calling.
