Chapter Seven Mercy #3
A king-size bed dominated the center of the room, skinny windows on either side of its massive upholstered headboard, and a slider door led out onto a deck with two wicker chaise lounges.
The bed was made up in varying shades of blue and, with the layered quilts and big pillows, looked like the softest, most inviting bed I’d ever seen.
There was art on these walls, too, restful and romantic.
Softer than the pieces in the rest of the house.
Watercolors of green meadows and blue skies and peachy-pink sunsets.
The stained nightstands held more clues, small items on each that spoke to a shared bed, and as I walked closer, my heart bowed uncomfortably in my chest at the sight of the one that must have been mine.
I picked up a small jewelry dish that I’d received from one of my students in my first year of teaching, pressing my thumb into the center of the imperfect bowl he’d painted blue and green.
Behind it, a framed picture of me and Connor, from his college graduation.
He was wearing his gown, and I stood in front of him with his cap tilted crookedly on the top of my head. His big hands were on my shoulders, and we smiled identical smiles straight to the camera.
Grant had been the one to snap the picture.
My ribs threatened to turn inside out at the sight of my brother’s smile.
I pressed them back, shoving everything uncomfortable into the dark corners of my mind.
Sometime in the last year, I’d found the strength to keep pictures of my brother out in plain view.
Good for fucking Mercy, but I wasn’t that girl. Not yet.
His face, his smile, was death by a thousand cuts, and I opened the top drawer of the nightstand with my free hand and shoved the picture inside. It hurt. It hurt so badly to see his face.
I wanted to go home. My home.
My things. My postcard on a corkboard and the hand-me-down couch from Rae with the rip on the left arm that I covered with a blanket.
My bed. The one that was smaller than this and dipped in the middle.
I wanted my brother to come give me a hug and sing me show tunes and pour me a glass of wine and tell me this would all be okay.
But he wouldn’t, because he was gone.
I screwed my eyes shut, setting the jewelry dish down with a loud clatter and walking away from the nightstand before I dropped the reins on my emotions. My shoulder bumped against a doorframe, and I opened my eyes, finding myself in an obscenely large walk-in closet.
“What the fuck?” I whispered.
My wardrobe, much like everything else in my life, was virtually unrecognizable.
Nicer fabrics. Cleaner cuts. Yes, there were still Michigan hoodies galore, and a healthy section of T-shirts, but my fingers trailed over dresses and jackets I’d never seen.
So, so many of them. Not cheap stuff either.
I plucked a hanger off the rod and held out the sheath dress in a rich wine color with a deep V in the back.
Simple. Stunning. And when I saw the tag still attached, I felt positively ill.
There was no way I could look at Grant’s clothes, which dominated the other half of the room.
Before I knew it, I was on the floor, my knees tucked to my chest and my breath coming in short, choppy pants. I couldn’t feel my hands. Or my feet. Someone was pressing their full body weight onto my chest, making it almost impossible to breathe.
That’s how Grant found me.
“Breathe.” He rubbed his hand up and down my back. “Tell me something you see.”
I pried my eyes open and focused on the first thing I could. It didn’t help, because all I could see was red soles.
“Really pretty shoes,” I wailed miserably. “Are those mine too?”
“Yes.”
“Shit.” I dropped my head to my folded arms and took a few deep, gulping breaths. “This is so embarrassing. Who has a panic attack over clothes?”
“I’d venture a guess it’s about more than that.”
“It’s still stupid.”
He clucked his tongue. “Nonsense. You’ve dealt with plenty in your life, Kincaid, but none quite so big as this.”
I raised my head, even though it felt big and fuzzy as the bracing wave of anxiety passed.
“Can I ask you something?”
His lips flattened, his brow furrowed. “I don’t know, maybe you should rest—”
“One thing,” I whispered. “Just one . . .”
Grant exhaled. “Just one thing.”
I licked my lips, thinking about everything I’d seen. The concrete facts that I couldn’t ignore any longer. And the one question that was burning a hole in my chest.
“Did we marry for love?”
Grant’s face went slack with shock, but he recovered quickly, blinking the expression away before I could study it further. He was on his knees next to me, and his hand dropped from my back as the thick line of his throat moved on a swallow.
With his hand back on his own person, resting on top of his thigh, Grant finally sank back and let out a ragged exhale. He stared at the floor for a long moment, the silence in the closet pulling between us until the air was tight and uncomfortable.
His eyes locked on mine, and before he uttered a single syllable, my stomach pitched inside out.
“No, love had nothing to do with it.”
“Then . . . why? Why did we get married?”
Again, Grant didn’t answer right away, his gaze unwavering.
“Money.”