Henry watched me for a long moment, steady as ever.
“You don’t know that she hates you.”
“I know the way she looked at me when she realized Jacob and Ben were the same man,” I rasped. “People only look at you like that when you’ve broken something they trusted you not to.”
His jaw flexed.
“You didn’t break her, Ben. You hurt her — badly. But Chrissy Jones is stronger than that. She’s the kind who bandages strangers’ hands without flinching. Give her time.”
The shadows in the room deepened. My chest tightened — not the wound, but something deeper clawing for a do-over the universe wasn’t likely to grant.
Three days until Christmas Eve. Three days until Vivian swept in, smiling that venomous smile, claiming everything my father had built because his reckless son couldn’t grow up in time. I’d pictured marrying Chrissy a thousand ways in my head — honest ones, after confessions and forgiveness. Now it all felt like a pipe dream, slipping away with every hour I spent bleeding on Henry’s couch instead of fighting for her, but I was exhausted and hurting too badly to go anywhere or do anything else tonight.
“So what’s the plan?” Henry asked, dragging me back to practical like always. “Hole up at the lodge and wait for Vivian to waltz in on Christmas Eve?”
I shook my head.
After everything — the rogue actors, the bloody massacre in the barn, Chrissy dragging me inside while cursing my name — it wasn’t sanctuary anymore. It was a graveyard of mistakes.
He nodded, like he’d expected it.
“Where, then?”
“Ashgrove House,” I said. The words tasted like childhood ghosts and ashes. “Whether Chrissy comes with me or not.”
“About damn time,” Henry muttered. “Crews have been in and out for weeks, getting it ready since you haven’t set foot there since the coma. Vivian’s people probably think it’s prep for her triumphant return.”
“What if I can’t get Chrissy back?” I asked, voice low. “What if Vivian takes everything on Christmas Eve?”
“Then you’ll get a job and crash here until you’re on your feet,” Henry said flatly. “You’re resilient. I’ve seen you survive worse.”
I huffed a breath, rolling my eyes despite the pain.
“You’re a real comfort.”
“It’s all part of my charm.” He pushed up from the coffee table, his knees popping. “Get some rest, then go home, kid. Go find Chrissy and do your best to fix shit with her while there’s still time. I’ll stay with Lucia until I’m sure she can sleep without jumping at every noise and having panic attacks.”
I looked again toward the guest room door. The idea of leaving anyone else behind while I still had breath in my lungs scraped against every protective instinct I had. But this was Henry. The man who’d pulled me out of my wrecked car. The man who’d stood between Vivian and my ventilator. The man who’d taughtme to shoot and drive and read people and survive. If there was anyone I could trust with my family, it was him.
“Once I do go home, promise me you’ll call me if that asshole has friends who come sniffing around,” I said. “I’ll find a way to make sure they conveniently disappear.”
Henry’s eyes crinkled.
“It’s sweet that you want to help, really, but I’ve got this, kid. I’m not going to let anything happen to Lucia ever again, that much I can promise you. Now sleep, and go get your girl when you wake up.”
Chapter
Thirty-Five
CHRISSY
December 21
The hollow achein my chest had settled in like an old tenant, refusing to budge. It wasn’t sharp anymore. I hadn’t cried any fresh tears, no more dramatic sobs. All I had now was this gnawing worry that chewed at me every waking second, especially about Lucia.
I kept seeing her face in the kitchen during the Game: the tiny smile she gave me when she slid an extra roll onto my plate, the way she whispered ‘cara’ so softly I almost missed it, the quick squeeze of my hand when she thought I looked too tired.
She had been the only person in that whole place who made me feel seen without wanting anything in return, and now she was gone… fucking vanished along with Ben and Henry. The ransacked lodge kept replaying in my head: the basil jar shattered, green flecks on the floor, drawers hanging open like mouths screaming. If her husband did that — if he came looking for her and found an empty house — then God knows what he would do next time he actually found her.
