She’s warm. Solid. Real.
And she remembers me.
Her big, sloppy tongue laps at my chin, my neck, my arm. She wedges herself next to me, still whining, looking up at me after every tiny movement in case I disappear again.
“I’m here,” I whisper, pulling her close. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. I didn’t mean to leave you. I didn’t want to go…”
Sobs big enough to pull at my stitches punctuate each word, but I could rip them all open and not care. The only thing that matters now is reassuring her that I’m never leaving again.
AJ sits on my other side, one hand on my back, the other stroking Belle’s thick scruff. His voice is tight, hoarse. “She waited by the door for months. I moved her bed up there so she wouldn’t have to sleep on the tile. I put one of your hoodies in it and, fuck me… She started carrying it around with her.” He swipes at his cheeks with the back of his hand. “She never gave up hope, darlin’. Never.”
Neither did he.
I hold her tight. She’s my anchor to this place. To this life. I don’t remember the house. Our wedding day. I don’t even remember AJ yet.
But I remember love.
For this moment, it’s enough to make me believe the rest will follow. Someday.
With Belle’s head in my lap and AJ’s arms around me, I let myself break. But for the first time since I woke up not knowing my own name, it doesn’t feel like falling apart.
It feels like the start of putting myself back together.
Chapter Twenty-Six
AJ
I lean my elbows on the kitchen island, stretching out my back and watching my wife sleep on the couch. The house has been too quiet for the past three years. The sounds of another person existing in your private space seem so much louder when they’re gone.
I tried everything to fill that silence—beer, bourbon, running, working…
Fuck.
I need to hide the murder board in my office. And shove all the photos Jasper shared with me—her dress, the ropes, the burlap bag—into some deep, dark folder on my phone Grace will never see.
But first, I have to get some food into her.
The wind scraping against the windows lends a chill to the house that’s unacceptable. March in Texas is always a toss-up, but not long after we got home, it turned cold and bitter—the kind of weather that washes the color from the world and turns everything a dismal shade of gray.
I built a fire in the hearth an hour ago. Grace was so tired from all the travel, she didn’t stir—still hasn’t. Belle is pressed against her like a big, furry blanket. The dog hasn’t left her side since we got home. It’s gonna be damn near impossible to get her to go out and do her business tonight before bed. Not that I blame her.
I left the chief a message that I was taking a couple of days of personal time. But eventually, I’ll have to go back to work. How the hell am I supposed to leave Grace alone and do my job when we still don’t know who took her?
My phone screen lights up with a new text.
Connor: Overnighted the flower petals and that piece of plastic to Pritchard. Should know more soon.
I send him a thumbs up, then scroll through the rest of my messages from the past few hours. Two from Jasper. Four from Parker. She went to the medical supply store for a wheelchair, walker, shower chair, and grab bar for the tub so my name wouldn’t be attached to the order. She also delivered four bags of groceries and several hand-written recipes.
It knocked the wind out of me. As Parker quietly set the wheelchair in the corner of the room and left the walker next to the couch, I finally realized that I was never as alone as I’d thought.
Connor. Jasper. Parker. Not to mention Isabel and Emi… I was only alone because I wanted to be. Because the one person in the world I needed most was gone.
I stare at the recipes, trying to figure out what Grace might like now. But how can I know when she doesn’t even know herself? She used to love scrambled eggs, but according to the notes Reyes left in her medical file, she can’t even be in the room with them now.
Once she fell asleep, I read through the info on the flash drive. He cataloged every bruise. Every scar. Every stitch. So many injuries that a part of me hopes she never remembers what happened to her.
Enchiladas. Those seem…safe. Or maybe pasta? She could eat that one-handed.
