Chapter Twenty-Six
AJ
I lean my elbows on the kitchen island, stretching out my back and watching my wife sleep on the couch. The house has been too quiet for the past three years. The sounds of another person existing in your private space seem so much louder when they’re gone.
I tried everything to fill that silence—beer, bourbon, running, working…
Fuck.
I need to hide the murder board in my office. And shove all the photos Jasper shared with me—her dress, the ropes, the burlap bag—into some deep, dark folder on my phone Grace will never see.
But first, I have to get some food into her.
The wind scraping against the windows lends a chill to the house that’s unacceptable. March in Texas is always a toss-up, but not long after we got home, it turned cold and bitter—the kind of weather that washes the color from the world and turns everything a dismal shade of gray.
I built a fire in the hearth an hour ago.
Grace was so tired from all the travel, she didn’t stir—still hasn’t.
Belle is pressed against her like a big, furry blanket.
The dog hasn’t left her side since we got home.
It’s gonna be damn near impossible to get her to go out and do her business tonight before bed. Not that I blame her.
I left the chief a message that I was taking a couple of days of personal time. But eventually, I’ll have to go back to work. How the hell am I supposed to leave Grace alone and do my job when we still don’t know who took her?
My phone screen lights up with a new text.
Connor: Overnighted the flower petals and that piece of plastic to Pritchard. Should know more soon.
I send him a thumbs up, then scroll through the rest of my messages from the past few hours.
Two from Jasper. Four from Parker. She went to the medical supply store for a wheelchair, walker, shower chair, and grab bar for the tub so my name wouldn’t be attached to the order.
She also delivered four bags of groceries and several hand-written recipes.
It knocked the wind out of me. As Parker quietly set the wheelchair in the corner of the room and left the walker next to the couch, I finally realized that I was never as alone as I’d thought.
Connor. Jasper. Parker. Not to mention Isabel and Emi… I was only alone because I wanted to be. Because the one person in the world I needed most was gone.
I stare at the recipes, trying to figure out what Grace might like now. But how can I know when she doesn’t even know herself? She used to love scrambled eggs, but according to the notes Reyes left in her medical file, she can’t even be in the room with them now.
Once she fell asleep, I read through the info on the flash drive. He cataloged every bruise. Every scar. Every stitch. So many injuries that a part of me hopes she never remembers what happened to her.
Enchiladas. Those seem…safe. Or maybe pasta? She could eat that one-handed.
Belle starts to whine. Tension gathers in Grace’s body, her fingers twitching where they rest against the dog’s fur. I skirt the island and kneel in front of the couch. I have to ball my hands into fists to stop myself from pulling my wife into my arms.
“Grace?” I say, keeping my voice as even as possible.
She jerks awake with a sharp inhale, panic flashing across her face before her gaze locks on mine.
“You’re home. We’re home.”
Sagging back against the cushions, Grace threads her fingers through Belle’s fur. “I couldn’t get out.” She shudders, a single tear balancing on her lower lashes. “There was a door. But it wouldn’t open.”
A part of me wants nothing more than to take her in my arms and tell her it’s all going to be okay. But I’ve interviewed enough victims in my time to know even the tiniest details in an investigation can matter.
I take her free hand between both of mine. “What kind of door? Wood? Metal?”
“Wood?” Her voice cracks with the weight of the word, and the tear tumbles down her cheek. “I don’t even know if it was real.”
“It’s okay, darlin’. We’ll figure it out. Together.” She’s so raw—so fragile—I don’t want to push her now. Filing the information away for later, I try to steer us to more solid ground. “Are you hungry?”
“A little?”
“Parker dropped off some groceries. I think she got everything I need for a spicy bolognese sauce. Usually it takes a good three or four hours, but I found a recipe for a quick version last year. Does that sound good?”
“I don’t know. Did I like it…before?”
There’s that damn wobble in her voice again. I’d do anything to give her back even a fraction of the confidence she’s lost. If only I could.
“You did. I used to make a big batch at least once a month. But if it doesn’t work now, we’ll try somethin’ else.”
Her gaze drifts from me to the kitchen island—and the two stools no one’s used since she disappeared. “Okay.”
She tries to untangle herself from the blanket and Belle’s solid weight, but the dog is having none of it.
I snap my fingers. “Belle. Off.”
The dog whines, but when I repeat the command, she lumbers off the couch and flops down on the rug with a very indelicate canine groan.
Grace watches, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “You taught her that?”
“I tried. Half the time she ignores me completely.”
I hold out my hand to help Grace to her feet, but she shakes her head. “I…need to do this by myself.” She stands slowly, her knuckles turning white as she grips the handles of the walker.
Giving her space is harder than it should be. Half a dozen steps later, her legs are shaking, but she sinks onto the stool with accomplishment shining in her eyes.
“Belle. Come.” I point to a spot on the floor right next to the stool, and the dog practically races over to us. “Sit. Stay.”
She’s already in position before the words leave my lips, steadying Grace with her solid weight.
“Good girl.”
While I prep the sauce, I talk. Nothing too serious.
The windstorm that took out one of the oldest weeping willows last month.
The inserts I got for the fireplaces after coming home to find Belle—and the entire house—covered in soot.
And the fight Parker and Hardison had their first day as partners when he insisted Shake Shack was better than Whataburger.
Grace doesn’t say much. She smiles at all the right times, but mostly, she listens and watches me.
When I set a bowl of pasta with the hearty meat sauce in front of her, she stares at it—and the fork—for a beat too long.
Fuck.
“If it doesn’t smell good, we’ve got other options.”
“No. It…does. It really does,” she says and scoops up a bite of corkscrew pasta.
She manages half a serving, which is more than I’d hoped, before her grip starts to falter. I don’t say anything—just slide the bowl a little closer and steady it with my free hand.
“Connor’s setting things up with the hospital,” I say. “We can go in through the service entrance. The tech genius he knows is sending us some sort of gadget that’ll shut down any security cameras in the hallways. And no records. This ain’t goin’ through insurance.”
“What about physical therapy?” She glances at the walker like it’s her mortal enemy.
“He found someone for that too. Or Pritchard did. She’ll come to the house once the neurologist gives the okay.”
Grace sets her fork down and nudges the bowl away. “What if we never find out who did this to me? Am I supposed to hide here forever?”
“No.” I turn the stool slowly so I can look her in the eyes. “You’re gonna get your life back, darlin’. I promise.”