“Hardly,” he replied, opening the driver’s door and settling behind the wheel. “But one does strive for the appearance of it.”
The car pulled smoothly away from the curb, and I let myself lean back against the seat, the first true breath of relief leaving me since Connor had been taken.
For reasons I couldn’t yet articulate, I trusted Ellsworth completely.
For a few blocks, neither of us spoke.
Paris passed by the window again, but now it felt distant, like scenery rather than a place I belonged. My mind replayed the moment Connor had looked at me as they took him—somethingunspoken in his eyes, protective even then, as if he were trying to shield me from the weight of what was happening.
Ellsworth broke the silence first.
“He’ll be fine,” he said calmly.
I swallowed. “You sound very certain.”
“I am,” he replied. “This is inconvenience, not catastrophe.”
I glanced at him. “You’ve said that before.”
“Yes,” he agreed mildly. “Experience has a way of refining one’s definitions.”
Despite myself, I huffed a small laugh. It felt brittle, but real.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“We go home,” he said.
I hesitated. “Home?”
“The Sanctuary,” he clarified. “At least, for the evening.”
I nodded. I didn’t have the energy to argue. Or the desire. The thought of Connor’s space—of being closer to him, even in his absence—settled something anxious inside me.
The car moved smoothly through traffic, and I watched the city shift from sunlit afternoon into something duskier, quieter. By the time we turned onto the familiar street, my shoulders had eased a fraction.
Ellsworth parked in the underground garage and walked me inside. The Sanctuary greeted us with its particular hush—thick walls, muted lighting, the sense of being sealed away from the world without being buried by it.
He guided me through the corridors I already recognized—the quiet turns, the soft echo of footsteps, the particular hush that lived in this part of the building. I’d walked these halls less than twenty-four hours ago with Connor’s hand at my back, my body loose and open, my guard lowered in a way that now felt almost reckless in retrospect.
We stopped near the back, outside a door I remembered intimately—not because of what it looked like, but because of how it had felt to close behind us the night before.
“This is Mr. Ward’s room,” Ellsworth said gently, as if naming it aloud carried weight.
I nodded, my throat tightening. “I know.”
I hesitated, my fingers hovering near the handle. “Is it all right if I wait here?”
Ellsworth studied me for a moment, his gaze sharp but kind, assessing something beneath the question I’d asked.
“He would expect it,” he said at last. Then, softer, “And he would be comforted by it.”
The words settled into me, steadying and warm.
Ellsworth opened the door and stepped aside. “If you need anything at all, I’ll be nearby.”
“Thank you,” I said, and meant more than the words could carry.
The door closed softly behind me.
