Chapter 74 Flying Home—Elliott
Flying Home—Elliott
The idea had slipped into Elliott’s mind somewhere over Alabama, halfway between thought and instinct. He barely understood what had happened in those thirty impossible seconds with Violet; words alone felt useless. He could only show it. And for that, he needed an artist.
He thumbed open his phone, the cabin’s dim light glinting off the screen, and typed a message: Meet me tonight in yer new office.
The reply came within seconds: Where is that?
A low hum vibrated in Elliott’s throat as he read the reply, his eyes narrowing in thought. He tapped back: Welcome Center.
He glanced at his watch, the old reflex kicking in as he automatically ran the time zones—flight math, transatlantic hours—the calculations he’d made most of his adult life. The habit steadied him, something precise to counter the abstract swirl in his mind.
Another vibration buzzed through his palm: What time?
Ten fifteen. Bring a sketchpad and pencils.
His thumb hovered over the send icon for a second before pressing it. He’d considered bringing Sophia Orsini to the meeting. Her talent for merging imagination with perception was unmatched—but Clay deserved to be there.
“Why are you meeting Clay?” Meredith’s voice drew him back. The glow from her laptop lit her face, catching the tension she hadn’t fully masked.
He turned the phone over in his hand, thumb tracing the beveled edge, grounding himself in the familiar weight. “It’ll be easier to explain what happened if there’s visual evidence,” he said quietly. “I want Clay to draw what I saw, or try to.”
Meredith looked up, and for a moment the words didn’t come. Her breath caught, then steadied. “You don’t need interpretation,” she said carefully. “You need accuracy.” Her gaze held his—searching, too intent. “You need someone who can see through your eyes.”
An ache spread through his chest—more anchor than pain. He nodded once.
A muffled voice drifted from across the aisle. “Clay’s still suffering from headaches and dizziness,” Remy said. “If you want accuracy, ask Sophia.”
Elliott blinked. “I thought ye were asleep, lad.”
Remy cracked one eye open. The cabin’s night lighting skimmed his face, exposing the fatigue he couldn’t hide.
“You were making a racket,” he said, slurred, as if it took effort to shape the words.
“Invite them both—Clay and Sophia. Two sets of eyes beat one.” He paused, then added, “Clay can barely make a fist these days, let alone hold a pencil. His hands are so damn swollen he dictates his messages.” Remy shifted on the flat-reclining seat and winced.
“At least a meeting tonight gives me something to think about besides how many new ways my body can disappoint me.”
Elliott let out a quiet laugh that sounded more like a sigh. “We’ll handle the art. You handle the healing.”
He meant it lightly, but watching Remy sink back into the pillows stirred something older and deeper—a protective instinct that never let go.
Meredith’s hand found his arm, steady and warm, the gesture gentle as a heartbeat. “You need to rest, too,” she said.
“I will,” he lied. His throat tightened as he pulled Meredith’s hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. The gesture was half reflex, half promise. “After tonight.” Elliott turned back toward the window.
Beside him, Meredith’s voice floated softly through the cabin, calm and certain. “Ten, fifteen, then.”
He nodded without turning, the reflection of the window catching just enough of her smile to ease the tightness in his chest. Outside, the stars burned quietly over the curve of the earth, as if they were waiting for answers.