Grace’s slow breathing only a few inches away.
Her fingers are still laced with mine. The pale, morning light peeks through the blinds, painting stripes on the wall above her head.
No nightmares. No midnight flinches or cries. She slept. Easily. Finally.
She might not be able to call up memories of home, but her subconscious believes she’s safe here.
Carefully, I ease my hand free and sit up. Every muscle aches like I’ve been carrying her weight in my sleep. In some ways, I probably have.
Belle lifts her head when I slide out from under the duvet, but she doesn’t give a lick about breakfast. Not when she has her best friend back. I scratch her behind the ears. “Good girl,” I whisper.
Out in the kitchen, I dump some coffee beans in the grinder, then cringe at the noise. It’s almost ten a.m., but Grace needs all the rest she can get.
Starting a fresh pot of coffee, I lean against the counter and stare out at the lake. It’s a lighter gray this morning, the thin clouds fighting a losing battle against the sun.
The scent of the dark brew wafts over me. I drink my coffee black—no sugar, no cream—strong and scalding. Grace, though…
I open the cabinet and withdraw the tin of Cafe Vienna.
Memories of before hit hard and fast. Grace handing me her cup with a smug smile. Me, taking a sip, pretending to gag on it, and teasing her about drinking hot, flavored water. Her smirk as I always took a second sip…because it tasted like her. Sweet and warm.
For months after she disappeared, I made myself a cup of the weak instant coffee every morning, carrying on a one-sided version of what I once considered a silly little ritual.
Some mornings, it was everything. Others, it was the only thing that kept me going.
As the months gave way to years, I couldn’t bring myself to keep up the tradition every day. But I always made a cup of her coffee on Saturdays. Every week. Without fail.
Now, I measure out the powder, add hot water, and give it a stir.
Grace always said it smelled like cinnamon and vanilla and everything good in this world. For almost three years, I thought it smelled like grief. Today…it calls up a new emotion. Hope.
When I slip back into the bedroom, Grace is still curled on her side. Her eyes are open, but unfocused. Like she’s searching for something far away. She blinks when she notices me, and releases her breath on a sigh.
“I made coffee,” I say softly, setting the mug on the nightstand, then taking a seat on the edge of the bed next to her.
She struggles to sit up, and I slide my arm around her shoulders to help.
The cup only wobbles a little as she lifts it to her lips. “You take yours black?”
“Yeah.” I hold my breath, hoping—praying—she’ll remember. But she takes a sip from her mug, smiles a little, and takes another. She doesn’t know the ritual. Doesn’t know it’s missing.
But I do.
I don’t understand why it hurts so much. She’s alive. Home. In our bed. That should be enough. It has to be enough. Yet…
My phone buzzes on the charger, and I glance at the screen. “It’s Jasper,” I manage over the lump in my throat. “I’ll be right back.”
I don’t answer until I’m halfway to the kitchen again. “Jas? Everything okay?”
“You make it through the night?” My brother’s voice is about as rough as I feel. Yet, there’s a gentleness to it I haven’t heard in years. Not since I stopped listening.
“She slept. We slept.”
“That’s somethin’,” he replies. “The doc Connor found has a break from noon to three. Go to the parking garage and find the service elevator marked E7. Parker and I will meet you there.”
“She’s workin’ today.”
“Didn’t you hear? She ate some bad sushi last night. Been puking her guts out in the bathroom at the station all mornin’.” Jasper chuckles. “The chief sent her home. She figures that’ll buy her forty-eight hours.”
