What are the odds a woman with oleander flowers tattooed on her shoulder would be poisoned with oleander concentrate and bound by ropes woven with oleander blooms?
A soft, broken sound snaps my focus back to Grace. She twists under the blanket, breath catching in her throat. Her lips move, but no words come out—just choked sounds, her face pinched like she’s bracing for a blow.
Belle raises her head. “Shhh, girl. I’ve got her.”
Setting the laptop aside, I ease myself down and draw Grace against me. Her body fights me, caught in whatever hell she’s reliving in her mind.
Her pajama top slides off her shoulder enough to expose a bit of her tattoo—the spray of oleander flowers in pink and white and red. She got it years ago, not long after our wedding, to remind her how the blossoms framed us as we said our vows.
Fuck.
I don’t know what’s worse—her captors taking her because of the tattoo or them discovering it and turning it into the instrument of her death as part of some sick fucking joke. Either way, they’ve stained something that should have been untouchable.
Her choked cries coalesce into words, repeated over and over again. “AJ…please find me.”
My chest constricts. She needed me, and I wasn’t there. For three goddamn years. I failed her. I won’t fail her again. I can’t.
Tightening my arms around her, I press my lips to her ear. “You’re home. You’re safe. You’re loved.” I repeat the mantra half a dozen times. “You’re home. You’re safe. You’re loved.”
Her nails dig into my skin. “I’ll be good. I promise…”
Slowly, the tension starts to bleed from her muscles. Her rapid, wheezing breaths even out. She stops trembling.
Her eyes blink open, glassy and disoriented. “AJ?”
“I’m right here, darlin’. You were having a nightmare.” Grace fumbles for my hand, and I link our fingers. “Can you tell me about it?”
She curls into me, pressing her face to my t-shirt. “There were men. But…I can’t see them. I don’t…want to see them.”
The fear in my wife’s voice cracks my heart into pieces. I want to pull the duvet over our heads and hide away in this room for the rest of our lives. But that won’t keep her safe.
She’s not just your wife. She’s a victim. A witness. Treat her like one.
“Don’t look at them, darlin’. Listen. Tell me what you hear. What are they sayin’?” One hand curled around her trembling fingers, I run my other over her back in long, slow circles.
“I…can’t…”
“You can. You’re safe. Home. With me and Belle.” I keep my voice low so I don’t spook her. The dog wriggles closer, flopping across Grace’s legs like she’s trying to anchor her in the here and now.
She shudders once, then lets out a tiny cry. “‘You broke the rules. Again.’”
“What rules?”
“Not…supposed to talk. Not…Grace anymore. Can’t…I can’t…” Her words dissolve into weak sobs, and I rock her gently until she calms.
Not…Grace?
Did those fuckers give her a different name? Stop her from talking completely? I’m gonna cut out their tongues when I find them. See how they like bein’ forced into silence.
After a few minutes, she lets out a sigh. Her gaze flicks to mine, then shifts to the center of my chest, right where her wedding ring hides under my t-shirt.
“I’m sorry. I want to remember. I really do.”
“Grace, look at me. Please?” She doesn’t move, so I shift enough to nudge her chin up slightly. “After the MRI yesterday—after whatever memory it triggered—you were mostly out of it. But the doc explained a little bit about retrograde amnesia.
“Your memories are in there somewhere.” I press a kiss to her forehead, and when I pull back, she doesn’t look away. “They’re like a ball of rubber bands—all twisted together. But what you went through, combined with the head injury, covered the ball in layers and layers of bubble wrap. Peeling them away? It’s gonna take time.”
A tear glistens on her cheek. “They took me, AJ. What if they do it again?”
