Grace
I wake up with the taste of metal in my mouth. It isn’t real. A ghost of a memory. Electricity from the taser that let someone I still can’t see steal me away.
For a moment, I can’t move. Can’t breathe. I’m on the ground at the side of the trail, every nerve ending on fire, staring up at the sky.
But then AJ shifts next to me, his breath tickling my neck.
I’m home. I’m safe. I’m loved.
And a little sore. But only because last night, I found a piece of myself I feared I’d lost forever.
The soft smile curving my lips banishes the last of the nightmare. For now—for these few minutes at the break of dawn—I’m at peace.
If only it would last. In a few hours, we’re supposed to talk to Zephyr, the tech genius Connor works with. And I’ll have to tell her everything I can remember. AJ will want me to go deeper. To dive deeper into my memories—maybe deep enough to trigger another panic attack.
I decided days ago that I wouldn’t keep shoving the dark fragments of my memory away. I have to face what happened to me. If only it were that simple.
Belle sits up in her plush doggie bed, staring at me like I should know what to do.
Shit.
I do.
My legs tremble, and the world lurches so quickly, I grab the edge of the nightstand before I fall on top of AJ. The throbbing in my head is deep and dull, almost like the headaches I had my first few days in Mexico.
The floor ripples, like I’m walking on water, but I manage one step. Then two. Belle pads over to me, pressing herself against my legs to steady me.
She stays by my side all the way to the living room, where I scoop up my sketchpad and the little pouch with my pencils, erasers, and blending sticks, then wobble down the hall to my studio.
The empty, white walls stare back at me. I can’t believe AJ did all this. The room still smells vaguely like paint—latex, not oil—and lavender spray cleaner. Even the window is sparkling and clear. The lake glitters, a million tiny diamonds scattered over the surface, and I open the sketchbook to a blank page.
My thumb finds the familiar groove in the pencil, and I draw a faint line. Then another.
Shit.
The lantern. Again.
How many times do I need to draw the damn thing before my broken brain lets me move on? Why can’t I see faces? Landmarks? Or even the writing on the cover of that old book?
I try to tear the page free with my left hand, but it slips from my traitorous fingers. The sketchbook tilts, and so does my perspective.
I can’t draw the rest of the image fast enough. The sides slant upward, narrowing to a point, like it’s hanging above me. My chest tightens with each line and curve I couldn’t remember until now.
There’s something there. On the base. Something…new. A mark carved into the metal.
I trace the image with the edge of the pencil. The unbroken circle mirrors the moon high above the lantern. And cutting across it? Is that…a leaf? It’s long, with narrow edges that look almost…sharp. It’s not from an oak or maple tree. Maybe a rhododendron? Or…
Shit.
My pulse won’t settle. This is too important. I hug the sketchbook to my chest and push up from the chair. I wish Belle had stayed with me. But I heard AJ get up somewhere between the etched glass panes and the base of the lantern, and she went in search of food.
The floor doesn’t tilt sideways, thank God, so I risk a few wobbly steps toward the door. So far, so good.
The low hiss of the coffee maker carries down the hall, along with the rich scent of his dark brew. The faint clink of mugs has become the sound of home.
Shirtless, wearing only a pair of loose pajama pants, my husband stares out the kitchen window with Belle at his side, her tail thumping.
She notices me first, barks, and runs over to her bowl. “In a minute—” AJ’s whole face softens. “Mornin’, darlin’.”
