25. Audra #2
That's an understatement if there ever was one. Her eyes sharpen slightly.
"What happened, Audra?" she asks. "No one's told us anything."
There it is. The real question. The reason she's here. Or part of it. I don't want to think of her like that. Of any of them like that. But I know how this works. News travels fast. And silence? Even faster. Still, Annette would've come anyway. I'm sure of it. Almost.
"I—" I start.
And stop. Because where would I even begin? My husband was tortured and killed. I was kidnapped. I cut a man's finger off a few days ago.
Yeah.
No.
"I'm not ready to talk about it yet," I say instead.
Soft. Final. She studies me. Just for a second. Then nods.
"Of course," she says, squeezing my arm. "Whenever you are."
"Audra."
Kelly. With Maggie by her side.
"A word?" she asks, already taking my arm.
Both of them look horrible. Their eyes are red and puffy.
No amount of makeup can hide the dark rings under them, and it's already smeared anyway.
Kelly looks like she's lost twenty pounds in the few days since her son was killed.
I don't hesitate. I let her and Maggie pull me away.
Away from the eyes. The questions. The suffocating sympathy.
I barely notice Gabe moving. But he does.
Always there. Always watching. Kelly notices too. And she does not like it.
"Do you mind?" she snaps, turning sharply toward him. "I'd like a word with my daughter-in-law."
Her tone is steel. Sharp. Protective. Gabe doesn't react. Doesn't move. He just looks at me. Waiting.
I nod. "It's okay, Gabe."
"Stay where I can see you," his voice doesn't leave room for argument. There's no mistaking it. It's not a suggestion. It's an order. Something in me bristles. Just a little. But I don't argue. Not here. Not now.
Kelly's eyes narrow. Sharply. She turns back to me, lowering her voice. "Who the hell is that man, Audra?"
The question lands heavier than it should. What is Gabe? Because I don't have a clean answer. Not one that makes sense. Not one that sounds… normal.
"A friend," I finally manage.
The word feels thin. Fragile. Like it could snap under the weight of everything I'm not saying.
"A friend?" Kelly repeats, her eyes narrow as she looks past me, at him. The way he stands. The way people give him space without being told. The way he watches everything.
"No offense," she mutters, turning back to me, "but he doesn't look like a friend."
I exhale slowly. No, no, he doesn't. Gabe looks like a lot of things, but just a friend is not one of them.
There is nothing just about him. From his expensive, tailored suit that stands out in this crowd, which probably cost more than most of these people's combined weekly salaries, to the way he's built and holds himself.
He would stand out in any crowd. Here? He looks like a prime predator, ready to hunt.
Not in the loud, obnoxious way some men do.
Not with wandering hands or leering looks.
No. Gabe doesn't need any of that. He stands still.
Calm and collected. Surrounded by an unmistakable edge that warns people to keep their distance.
Everything about him feels… contained. He's violence, carefully folded under skin and bone.
His posture sends an unmistakable message: push me too far, and it won't be a scene. It'll be over. Quick. Final.
Maggie moves from one foot to the other.
She looks like she doesn't like her mother's tone or questions, but she's waiting for answers all the same.
My mother-in-law's gaze sharpens, flicks in between us.
She sees it too. Maybe not what it is exactly, but she knows he doesn't belong here.
Not among casseroles and whispered condolences and polite grief.
"He's a colleague," I say, and the lie slips out too easily.
Her lips press into a thin line. She doesn't believe me.
Not for a second. Neither does Maggie. She knows most of the staff at the vet office, and I'm pretty sure she's met many of Pete's coworkers.
And then there's the fact that Gabe doesn't look like a man who sits behind a desk or attends staff meetings.
He looks like a man who takes what he wants and dares anyone to stop him.
And right now—his eyes slide to me—he looks like he's already decided I'm his.
A chill runs down my spine, sharp and confusing and… not entirely unwelcome. God, what is wrong with me? This is Pete's funeral. My husband isn't even in the ground, and I'm standing here noticing another man. Feeling him. Letting him stand too close. Letting him stay.
My palms burn remembering the weight of his hand around mine.
The steadiness of it. The way it grounded me when everything else was spinning out of control.
Guilt crashes into me, hot and suffocating, not just about Gabe, but because I was going to leave Pete that day, and Kelly doesn't know that either. Nobody does. I drop my gaze.
"I should go sit down," I murmur, though I don't move.
Because the truth is—as much as I hate myself for it—part of me doesn't want to step away from him.
"I've never seen him before," Kelly says, scrutinizing him. "Not at the house. Not at work. Not anywhere."
I look at Maggie, but she's shaking her head no too.
"He's… helping me," I press out weakly. Even to me, my words sound pathetic. They're not a lie. Just not the truth.
Kelly's gaze sharpens. "With what?"
I hesitate before I decide to give her something. She is Pete's mother. Was. "He's protecting me."
That gets to Maggie. Her entire posture shifts.
"Protecting you?" she repeats. Lower. More dangerous.
I nod. "The cartel…" I swallow. The word still feels unreal. "They're still after me."
For a second—just a second—I see it. Fear. Real, raw fear flickers in both their eyes. Then it's gone. Replaced with suspicion. Sharp. Calculating. Maggie's gaze cuts back to Gabe. Then to me.
While Kelly observes, "He's not with the police." It's not a question. It's a statement. A problem.
I shake my head. "No."
She looks at me full of suspicion. "Then who the hell is he, Audra?"
I don't answer right away. Because now that she's asking—really asking—I realize something unsettling.
I don't actually know. Not really. Not beyond what I've seen.
What I've felt. What I've… trusted. The realization should terrify me.
It probably does. Somewhere. But right now—with everything else crashing down around me—it doesn't feel like the biggest problem.
I settle on, "He's someone who can keep us alive."
My voice is steadier than I feel. Kelly studies me. Long. Hard. Like she's trying to decide if I've lost my mind. Or worse, if I know exactly what I'm doing. Maybe it's a little of both. Maggie bites her lower lip, and a tear slides down her face.
"Audra… I don't understand. I've always loved you like a daughter," Kelly softens a little.
"I love you too." That's the truth. I do. She's one of the kindest people I know. Just like Pete was.
"But right now, Audra," her gaze hardens again, "you're making it really hard for me to trust and like you."
I nod miserably. "I know."
"We need to talk, Audra," she scolds me like a little child, "and you need to talk to the police too."
I realize that. Just like I realize that I failed her.
She needs to hear the truth. She needs to know what happened.
She's Pete's mother. Maggie is… was his sister.
Pete would be so disappointed in me for adding to their grief.
He would have never said it, but I would have felt the disapproval coming off him in waves.
The loud clearing of a throat spares me an answer.
A priest who has walked up to the front waits until the soft rustling settles into something resembling attention. "Shall we begin?"
Everything that follows is a haze. Voices move around me, soft, measured, distant.
Words about love. About loss. About the kind of life that sounds whole when someone else says it out loud.
None of it sticks. There are speeches. Tears.
A couple of scattered laughs when Tom—Pete's best friend—stands up and, somehow, manages to entertain everyone with a few of their more questionable life choices.
Not many, of course. It was… well. Pete.
I don't remember most of it. Just pieces.
My name, said gently. A hand at my back.
The moment everything inside me gives way.
I don't remember what I say when they call me up.
Or if I say anything at all. Only that Gabe is suddenly there, solidly at my side, guiding me back down as the tears come too fast, too hard.
My breath catches. The room tilts. I can't seem to get enough air.
After that, everything blurs again.
On the way to the graveyard, Tom catches up to me. "Audra—hey. Just… what happened?"
His voice is quieter, now. No jokes. Just something searching. I don't answer.
"Not now," Gabe intervenes, quietly at my side. Never wavering.
The tone in his voice makes Tom hesitate. But he lingers anyway. "I just think someone should?—"
"I said not now."
That does it. Tom backs off, muttering words I don't catch as he falls behind.
I keep walking. The gravel crunches under my shoes.
The sky feels too big. The air too thin.
More words. More silence. The dull, final sound of earth hitting wood.
I stand where they tell me to stand. Sit when someone touches my shoulder.
Nod when it seems like I should. None of it feels real.
By the time we make it back to the car, I feel hollowed out. There's nothing left inside me to hold me up.
"Mrs. Hale."
The voice cuts straight through everything. I turn. A man steps toward us, wearing a cheap, off-the-rack suit. There is something official in the way he holds himself. "I've been trying to get a hold of you."
Next to me, Gabe goes still. Not tense. Still.
"You have her lawyer's number," he snarls. "Talk to him."
The man barely glances at him. "I'd like to speak with Mrs. Hale."
"Mrs. Hale," he says again, looking at me, "I'm Detective Green?—"
Gabe moves in front of me. Fast. Close enough that I can't see anything but his back.
"Didn't you hear me?" His voice is low and deadly in a way I've only ever heard once. Right before he burned the man's finger off. "Arrest her or call her fucking lawyer."
The detective doesn't flinch. "That is not how this works, Mr. D'Amato. And you know that."
Arrest me? A chill moves through me, and I automatically step closer to Gabe's back, putting my hands on the arm of his jacket.
Gabe doesn't move. "That is exactly how this works," he disagrees with an edge that sounds like it's costing him the last of his control. "Detective Greenwald."
For the first time all day, something cuts through the fog. And it isn't grief. I feel… protected. So incredibly protected, it sends a chill down my spine. Not because I'm afraid of what's in front of me—but because of what stands between me and it.