"We met in high school. She was a year behind me. Took her three years to notice I existed." A faint smile touches his mouth. "But once she did, that was it. We were together from then on."
"What did she do?"
"Nurse. Worked at the hospital in Palmer. Night shifts mostly, because they paid better and we were saving for a house." He stirs the chili, movements automatic. "She was good at her job. Really good. Patients loved her. Other nurses loved her. She had this way of making people feel safe even when they were scared."
The way he talks about her, present tense slipping in, tells me he's never really let her go. Not fully.
"She sounds amazing," I say.
"She was." He adds more spices. "She would have liked you. Would have appreciated someone who actually knows what they're doing in a crisis instead of falling apart."
We fall into silence again, but it's companionable now. The chili simmers. Snow hisses against windows. The wood stove crackles and pops.
"What about you?" Rhys asks. "Tell me about Baker."
The name hits like it always does. Sharp. Immediate. I take a breath and let it out slow.
"We were partners for three years. Crisis Negotiation Unit. He was patient where I was aggressive. Calm where I was intense. We balanced each other." I watch the chili bubble. "We started dating about a year before Chicago. Kept it quiet because Bureau relationships are complicated."
"What happened in Chicago?"
I've told this story before. Review boards. Therapists. My own reflection in dark hotel windows. But telling Rhys feels different. He understands loss in a way most people don't.
"Hostage situation. Armed robbery gone wrong. One suspect, one hostage. I got close, established rapport, thought I was making progress." The details come out flat, practiced. "Baker told me to pull back. Let the tactical team take the shot. I didn't listen. Thought I could talk the suspect down."
Rhys doesn't interrupt. Just listens while stirring the chili.
"The hostage broke free. Suspect panicked. Shots fired. Ricochet caught Baker in the throat." I swallow against the tightness. "Arterial bleed. He died before the medics could get to him."
"His last words?"
The question surprises me. Most people ask if I'm okay, or say it wasn't my fault, or offer empty comfort. Rhys asks what matters.
"'Not your fault.'" My voice cracks. "But he was wrong. If I'd pulled back when he told me to, he'd still be alive."
"Maybe. Or maybe the suspect would have killed the hostage and Baker would still have taken that shot. You can't know."
"I know I made the call that got him killed."
Rhys turns off the heat under the chili. "I know I wasn't there when Emma's car went off the road. I know I didn't see the black truck that forced her over. I know I failed to protect her." Hemeets my eyes. "But she's still dead. And I still have to live with it."
"Survivor's guilt," I say.
"The worst kind of guilt there is." He ladles chili into bowls. "Because part of you knows it's irrational, but the rest of you doesn't care."
We eat at the small table, the conversation shifting to lighter topics. The logistics of off-grid living. The best books on his shelves. The way snow sounds different at altitude.
The tension from earlier fades. The awareness remains, but it's gentler now. Less urgent.
After dinner, I help clean up. The hand pump takes some getting used to, but I manage. Rhys feeds the wood stove, adjusting it for the night. The cabin is warm and close, the storm outside making it feel even smaller.
"I should probably get some sleep," I say. Even though it's barely eight o'clock. Even though I'm not tired.
"Yeah. Tomorrow might be a long day depending on the storm."
But neither of us moves. We stand in the main room, the wood stove between us, snow falling thick outside the windows.
"Thank you," I say. "For bringing me here. For trusting me with this place."
