The common room with its worn leather couches.
Garrett's room—our room now—with its bed and its dresser and its window that looks out over the compound.
I picture the brothers.
Ruger with his commanding presence and his protective instincts.
Maddox with his gentle hands and his quiet strength.
Coin with his daughters and his careful hope.
Ounce with his knowing eyes and his hard-won wisdom.
I picture the women.
Tildie with her fierce loyalty.
Aunt Ellie with her endless patience.
They're waiting for me.
All of them. A family I don't deserve but am being offered anyway.
Tomorrow, I go home.
Tonight, I let myself believe I'm ready.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bloodhound
The drive to Pennsylvania feels different this time.
Twelve weeks ago, I made this same trip with Vanna curled up in the passenger seat, shaking and sick, her body already screaming for the poison I was taking her away from.
The silence in the truck had been heavy with fear—hers, mine, both of ours tangled together until I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
Today, I'm making the drive alone, but I'm not coming back that way.
Today, I'm bringing my wife home.
The January sky is gray and heavy with the promise of snow, but I don't care.
I've got the heat cranked up, a thermos of coffee in the cupholder, and a feeling in my chest that I almost don't recognize.
Hope.
I pull into the facility's parking lot at 9:15—forty-five minutes early.
I tried to pace myself, tried to drive the speed limit for once in my life, but my foot kept pressing harder on the gas.
Couldn't help it.
After twelve weeks of phone calls and some weekly visits, of watching her fight her way back to life one day at a time, I finally get to take her home.
I sit in the truck for a few minutes, trying to calm my nerves.
It's stupid.
