“No. It…does. It really does,” she says and scoops up a bite of corkscrew pasta.
She manages half a serving, which is more than I’d hoped, before her grip starts to falter. I don’t say anything—just slide the bowl a little closer and steady it with my free hand.
“Connor’s setting things up with the hospital,” I say. “We can go in through the service entrance. The tech genius he knows is sending us some sort of gadget that’ll shut down any security cameras in the hallways. And no records. This ain’t goin’ through insurance.”
“What about physical therapy?” She glances at the walker like it’s her mortal enemy.
“He found someone for that too. Or Pritchard did. She’ll come to the house once the neurologist gives the okay.”
Grace sets her fork down and nudges the bowl away. “What if we never find out who did this to me? Am I supposed to hide here forever?”
“No.” I turn the stool slowly so I can look her in the eyes. “You’re gonna get your life back, darlin’. I promise.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Grace
With Belle pressed against me on the couch, I should feel safe. At peace. Even loved.
And part of me does. Somewhere beyond the reach of any memory—deep in my soul—I know I’m home. But until I can piece together what happened to me during the past three years, how can I trust it won’t happen again? Or that this time, I won’t cheat death simply because it was cold outside.
I’d hoped being home would unlock at least some of my memories. But so far, nothing here is familiar.
Maybe after I see more of the house, I’ll feel better. I’m so tired, I haven’t ventured beyond the kitchen.
But this room feels so…lived in. I sank into the cushions like they still held the memory of my butt—or would have if I weren’t at least thirty pounds lighter than when I…left.
If I don’t remember home, maybe I don’t remember healing either. What if it does feel like this, and I’m worrying for nothing?
I glance at AJ in the kitchen. He moves with ease, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair mussed from running his hands through it one too many times.
He keeps trying to fill this hollow space inside me with pieces of our lives—memories he carries like they’re treasures—but they don’t belong to me yet.
Exhaustion that only comes from years of stress and strain weigh on his face. This isn’t “I’ve had a long day” tired. This is so much more.
Still, when he catches me watching him, his eyes soften, and he smiles at me. “Almost done. Relax. I’ll be there soon.”
It’s too hard to keep my eyes open, and I jolt as the couch cushions shift.
“I made you some tea.” AJ presses a mug into my hands, and a scent that’s almost familiar wafts over me.
“Is that…lavender?” I ask.
“And chamomile. Honey. A splash of milk.” He says the words like they should have a deeper meaning. But I don’t understand until I take a sip.
My eyes close on a sigh, and I sink deeper into the cushions.
He knows how I like my tea. Even when I don’t.
“Is it…?” He runs his fingers through his hair again, which I’m slowly starting to realize is what he does when he’s in pain.
“It’s perfect. Thank you.” The heat of the mug anchors me, along with Belle’s soft snores and AJ’s scent.
“Did we spend a lot of time in this room?” I ask and take another sip.
“On Friday nights, we’d usually get takeout and watch a movie,” he says, his gaze straying to the TV mounted over the fireplace. “You liked your popcorn with extra butter and a truly unhealthy amount of salt.”
That pulls a laugh from somewhere deep inside me. “That’s probably still true.”
