“You’re saying she just passed out?” James asks coolly, despite the panic I can see trying to escape his eyes.

I nod feverishly, not daring to look at the woman lying on the couch. The couch I lay her on after carrying her through two wings of the house to find James, because that’s all my addled mind could think to do. This is the second time she’s passed out in my home. Heaven only knows what the other guests are doing, but I can’t bring much energy to care about that right now.

James starts to rake his hand through his perfectly groomed hair before stopping himself. “And you’re sure she didn’t hit her head first?”

“She hit it on her way down, I think. But she was just talking at first, normal as can be.” Except the whole bit about hiding in a closet, and the pain etched in her expression.

To my surprise, James actually does rake his hand through his hair. In the lifetime that I’ve known him, I think I can count on one hand the amount of times I’ve seen James in a disarray. And all of those times were because of weather or some situation beyond his control.

But he doesn’t seem very in control now. “We should take her to the hospital.”

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