Chapter Five
Parker
AJ and Grace’s place sits far enough back from the road that you can see the lake before you have any idea there’s a house nearby. I pull into the drive with the windows down and just sit for a second, engine off, the shimmering water almost like meditation.
Then Belle hits the screen door at full speed and the moment’s over.
The Bernese-Husky mix is almost eighty pounds of enthusiasm with zero concept of personal space, and I’ve loved her since the first day I met her—the day Grace went missing.
The dog didn’t understand where her person had gone.
I wasn’t even close to a good substitute, but on the rare occasions AJ asked me to dogsit over the past three years, I spoiled her rotten.
I sink both hands into Belle’s fur, and she leans into me, tail going like she might be able to fly if she could just wag hard enough.
After a full minute, I finally manage to get her to calm down enough I can grab the bottle of Chardonnay from my cup holder and head into the house. Grace is in the kitchen, and the smell hits me before I’m through the door—brown butter and cinnamon and the yeasty tang of fresh dough.
It reminds me of my mom. Of Saturday mornings when I was little. She always set a step stool next to the counter so I could watch her make kolaches to sell at church. Sometimes, she’d let me spoon out the jam. Even when I used too much, she never complained.
Shit. I miss her. For a second, my eyes burn, but I blink hard and force a smile.
Belle trots ahead of me, then settles on her bed in the corner with her head on her paws.
“You’re early,” Grace says, her voice steady as she rolls out a large rectangle of dough.
“AJ said cinnamon rolls. You’re lucky I didn’t show up at seven a.m.” I set the wine on the counter and take a seat at one of the stools.
“Still…thirty minutes,” Grace says, pausing for a moment the way she does when she’s working through a word or sentence her brain isn’t quite happy with. “Second…uh…batch. First one didn’t survive AJ.”
“Shocking.”
Her laugh lights up her whole face, flecks of silver dancing in her eyes. “Think…he almost made himself sick. Then…tried to run.”
“Oof. That couldn’t have gone well.”
“There was groaning,” she says, then starts cutting the dough into sections.
Grace’s hands move slowly, carefully, like she’s using all her concentration on those straight lines.
“Need any help?”
Her gaze lifts for a brief moment, and her lips purse as she searches for the right words. “Have to do this…myself. Important.”
I nod, then stay quiet until she starts forming the strips into actual rolls. “You started teaching that art therapy class this week, right? How’s it going?”
“Good.” She transfers them into the pan one at a time, left hand moving slower than the right. “I have a woman who’s—” She pauses for three full seconds, then brings both hands inward toward her chest quickly, fingers spread, palms facing her.
Afraid.
After another moment, she shakes her head, and whatever her brain was snagging on passes. “She keeps telling me she can’t draw.”
“Is she right?”
“Everyone can draw.” Grace covers the pan with a cloth. “That’s not what she’s really saying.”
“Oh? What is she saying?”
Grace looks at me. Just for a second. “That she’s not sure she’s allowed to take up space that way.”
I don’t have a response for that. Not one I know how to put into words.
“You should come to a class,” Grace says, turning back to the counter and swiping a rag over the leftover flour.
“I can’t draw either.”
“Mm.” She hums the word, and I recognize the tone. It’s the one she uses when she thinks someone’s wrong, but doesn’t want to push. “That’s what everyone says.”
“Grace.”
“Just a suggestion.” She pulls a fresh cloth over the second pan. “It’s open to anyone. No experience necessary. No—” she pauses again, shorter this time, “—judgment.”
I pick up the wine and move to the fridge, rearranging a few bottles of beer so there’s room for the Chardonnay. “I’ll think about it.”
She hums again. I ignore it.
“I’m picking the movie at girls’ night this week,” I say. “I want that on record right now.”
Grace scowls at me. “The Brutalist was supposed to be a masterpiece.”
“The Brutalist was three hours and thirty-five minutes long and I had to drive home afterward.”
“It won an Academy Award.”
“So do a lot of movies. This week, we’re going with something ridiculously funny or with enough pretty people no one cares about the dialogue. It’s decided. You had your chance, and you did not choose wisely.”
Grace laughs, and even after three months home, with more of her memories coming back every week, the act seems to surprise her. “As long as there’s queso, you, Emi, and Isabel… I’ll watch anything.”
The back deck was made for afternoons like this one—the lake catching the sun, with a gentle breeze taking the edge off the heat of the day. Belle tears across the yard chasing her tennis ball. And the scent of burgers makes my mouth water.
AJ’s at the grill, with Nate next to him, “supervising.” I can hear them from here, their voices carrying the tone men use when they’re arguing about something that doesn’t matter.
“You’re gonna burn ’em,” Nate says.
“I’ve never burned a burger in my life.”
Jasper sidles up to them, beer in hand. “Have you forgotten the camping trip Mom took us on when we were fifteen?”
AJ stares at his twin, eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t my fault, asshole. You’re the idjit who disturbed the hornet’s nest and sent us runnin’ for the lake.”
“And the Fourth of July the year after you and Grace first moved into this place?” Jasper shakes his head. “What happened then?”
“Mom brought vegan patties. I don’t know shit about cookin’ whatever the fuck is in those.”
Nate arches a brow. “No offense, Chief, but in the interest of public safety, maybe Connor should take over?”
As if his ears were burning from inside the house, the former FBI agent pushes through the door carrying a big bowl of pasta salad. “Smells damn good out here.”
The men—mostly Jasper and AJ—keep bickering back and forth, Nate and Connor watching over the grill like they can somehow turn back time if the beef edges a shade past medium.
Emi passes me a fresh bottle of beer, ice cold, and I twist the cap off with a stifled wince.
My hands still hurt sometimes. Prying my way out of that torture shed the cult’s Prophet called the Box, armed with nothing a rusty metal bar and rabid determination, left me with dozens of cuts to my palms and fingers.
A couple of the deeper ones hit nerves. And while it only took me six weeks to get range certified again, that was fueled by pure spite.
Anything that requires more strength than pulling the trigger of my service weapon is iffy at best, but I’ve gotten used to pretending otherwise.
I take a long pull on the Shiner. This is about as perfect of an afternoon as I could want, but for a split second, a thought cuts through the peace.
I’m so damn tired.
Before I can figure out what to do with that, Belle barks at something close to the water, and Nate drops into the chair next to me. “Parker, tell AJ this burger is practically charcoal.”
“It’s medium,” AJ calls from the grill.
I look at the plate, then take another drink rather than meeting Nate’s gaze. The chair creaks under his weight as he shifts forward, elbows on the table, as relaxed as always.
“Come on. Back me up,” he whispers.
Peering down at the burger, I eye the slight char around the edges. “It’s a shade more than medium.”
“See?” Nate jerks his chin toward me. “Parker’s the voice of reason.”
“Parker, when was the last time you had an eye exam?” AJ mutters.
I flinch. Nate notices. He always notices. He’s been watching me like I’m about to shatter ever since we got back from Mexico. “Two months ago. The department required it to clear me for active duty, remember? Twenty-twenty vision.”
“Truth hurts, Chief,” Nate says, already reaching for the tray of condiments. He slides it closer with a practiced hand, then, without sparing me a glance, taps the top of the ketchup bottle against the table, twists the cap, and sets it in front of me.
I should thank him, but I don’t know how.
Connor snorts at something AJ says, Jasper fires back, and for a moment, the noise is too much. Voices over voices, Belle barking, the metal spatula scraping against the grill…
My heart thuds against my ribs. I search for my Loop earplugs buried deep in the pocket of my shorts.
The one good thing to come out of the two weeks of therapy I managed before I gave up.
I don’t want to know how they turn the volume down on the world, but still let me hear the conversations around me.
I don’t care how or why they work so well.
I just want to find them and let them do their thing.
I fumble with the case, pull out the left earbud, and shove it into my ear. Once the other one is seated, my hair hiding them well enough, I can focus on the plate in front of me. And the ketchup bottle there’s no way I could have opened on my own.
“Don’t encourage him,” I call over my shoulder, then give my partner the side-eye, like nothing in my head is half a bubble off plumb. “Nate’s gonna start thinking he knows what he’s doing.”
“Too late,” Nate says, dry as dust. “I’ve been right for years. Nobody listens.”
AJ scoffs. “You’ve been loud for years. That’s not the same thing.”
The laughter that follows soothes the overwhelm from earlier. I even manage a small chuckle.
The breeze comes off the lake again, cooler this time, lifting the hair at the back of my neck. For a second, it carries the scent of char and smoke, and my body reacts before my brain can catch up—spine locking, lungs forgetting how to pull in air.
I press my thumb into the heel of my other hand, right over the thickest scar, grounding through the ache.
I’m outside. With the men and women I consider family.
Belle skids across the grass, nails scratching, tennis ball clenched in her mouth, eyes bright. The ball lands in Grace’s lap, and with a laugh, Grace tosses it a good twenty feet.
Nate nudges my plate a little closer. “It’s not an art installation, Parker. Eat.”
I pick up the burger, relieved my hands are steady, and stifle the sigh trying to slip out. “Make yourself useful. Get me some pasta salad.”