Belle starts to whine. Tension gathers in Grace’s body, her fingers twitching where they rest against the dog’s fur. I skirt the island and kneel in front of the couch. I have to ball my hands into fists to stop myself from pulling my wife into my arms.
“Grace?” I say, keeping my voice as even as possible.
She jerks awake with a sharp inhale, panic flashing across her face before her gaze locks on mine.
“You’re home. We’re home.”
Sagging back against the cushions, Grace threads her fingers through Belle’s fur. “I couldn’t get out.” She shudders, a single tear balancing on her lower lashes. “There was a door. But it wouldn’t open.”
A part of me wants nothing more than to take her in my arms and tell her it’s all going to be okay. But I’ve interviewed enough victims in my time to know even the tiniest details in an investigation can matter.
I take her free hand between both of mine. “What kind of door? Wood? Metal?”
“Wood?” Her voice cracks with the weight of the word, and the tear tumbles down her cheek. “I don’t even know if it was real.”
“It’s okay, darlin’. We’ll figure it out. Together.” She’s so raw—so fragile—I don’t want to push her now. Filing the information away for later, I try to steer us to more solid ground. “Are you hungry?”
“A little?”
“Parker dropped off some groceries. I think she got everything I need for a spicy bolognese sauce. Usually it takes a good three or four hours, but I found a recipe for a quick version last year. Does that sound good?”
“I don’t know. Did I like it…before?”
There’s that damn wobble in her voice again. I’d do anything to give her back even a fraction of the confidence she’s lost. If only I could.
“You did. I used to make a big batch at least once a month. But if it doesn’t work now, we’ll try somethin’ else.”
Her gaze drifts from me to the kitchen island—and the two stools no one’s used since she disappeared. “Okay.”
She tries to untangle herself from the blanket and Belle’s solid weight, but the dog is having none of it.
I snap my fingers. “Belle. Off.”
The dog whines, but when I repeat the command, she lumbers off the couch and flops down on the rug with a very indelicate canine groan.
Grace watches, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “You taught her that?”
“I tried. Half the time she ignores me completely.”
I hold out my hand to help Grace to her feet, but she shakes her head. “I…need to do this by myself.” She stands slowly, her knuckles turning white as she grips the handles of the walker.
Giving her space is harder than it should be. Half a dozen steps later, her legs are shaking, but she sinks onto the stool with accomplishment shining in her eyes.
“Belle. Come.” I point to a spot on the floor right next to the stool, and the dog practically races over to us. “Sit. Stay.”
She’s already in position before the words leave my lips, steadying Grace with her solid weight.
“Good girl.”
While I prep the sauce, I talk. Nothing too serious. The windstorm that took out one of the oldest weeping willows last month. The inserts I got for the fireplaces after coming home to find Belle—and the entire house—covered in soot. And the fight Parker and Hardison had their first day as partners when he insisted Shake Shack was better than Whataburger.
Grace doesn’t say much. She smiles at all the right times, but mostly, she listens and watches me.
When I set a bowl of pasta with the hearty meat sauce in front of her, she stares at it—and the fork—for a beat too long.
Fuck.
“If it doesn’t smell good, we’ve got other options.”
