And then, on Christmas Eve, some faceless monster had ripped it all away. Destroyed Seth’s family in a single explosion. Made sure that he came home to find?—
Heavenly couldn’t finish the thought.
She tried to brace herself on the nearby doorjamb. But her knees weakened. Her stomach turned. Her realization felt like a stab in the heart.
How had Seth survived such horrific tragedy? How had he kept breathing and living and pushing ahead when everything he’d known and loved had been cruelly incinerated in the blink of an eye?
Movement in her periphery pulled her back to the present. She turned to find Beck staring at the bassinet, his expression carved with fury and brutal restraint—as if his will alone was keeping something damaged and violent inside him from breaking loose.
Heavenly grabbed his hand. Squeezed. His trembled as he gripped hers in return, his jaw working.
Their eyes met—hers blurry with tears, his taut with glossy restraint. In that moment, they understood without exchanging a single word: We’re asking him to risk everything again. To put his heart on the line and trust that his future wouldn’t be ripped away a second time.
The magnitude of what they’d demanded of him was staggering.
“I’ll show you the rest,” Seth murmured behind them, his voice rough and raw.
She turned. He looked as if he was made of glass—like one whisper, one sympathetic touch might shatter him into infinite, irreparable pieces. She ached to go to him, wrap her arms around him, and promise him everything would be all right. But she couldn’t guarantee that. No one could.
For weeks, she and Beck had given lip service to the idea that tragedy could strike at any moment. But Seth alone had not only known that; he’d lived it.
Shame that she hadn’t listened, hadn’t really understood, engulfed her.
Beck wrapped a steadying arm around her waist. She leaned into him gratefully as they followed a rigid Seth down the hall in heavy silence.
They entered the master bedroom. The decor was basic—navy comforter, white shutters, and matching nightstands. Surprisingly dust-free surfaces and knickknacks combined with a closet full of clothes. It felt like a place where people still lived. Like Autumn might call out from the kitchen. Like Tristan might fuss from his nursery. As if they’d all return at any moment and resume their lives.
But they wouldn’t, not ever again.
Seth had carried that knowledge, adrift and alone, for nearly nine terrible years. And looking around her now, Heavenly wondered how he could possibly be ready to start over and create a new family. He swore he was…but was that wishful thinking? Or more kind lies than actual truth?
Seth stood in the doorway, shoulders rigid, breathing too controlled. He stared at the bed like it was a monster that might roar to life and swallow him whole.
She found Beck’s hand and gripped it tightly, fighting back fresh tears.
“Seth?” she finally whispered, aching to offer her love and support.
He didn’t reply, didn’t move. His carefully blank expression said he was trying desperately not to feel, as if giving into the past he’d never fully grieved would destroy him.
Woodenly, he turned the corner and made his way down another hall.
On the left, they encountered a guest room that held a daybed, a few stacked boxes, and not much else. Dust motes floated in afternoon light.
After a grunt, Seth turned away and led them deeper into the house. He stopped before a door on the right and wrapped his hand around the knob, dragging in a shuddering breath. Then he opened the door.
Tristan’s nursery.
The room was perfectly preserved, another horrific snapshot of life interrupted. A shape sorter sat neatly on a shelf with pristine board books, which had obviously seen little use in Tristan’s tragically short life. A plush elephant slumped against the wall. A padded rocking chair sat forgotten by the window, and Heavenly could picture Seth here, cradling the son he’d never hold again.
And in the center of it all, the empty crib. Cold, almost barren, except for the mobile of felt stars and moons suspended motionless above the mattress, as if waiting to soothe a baby who would never sleep there again.
The sight was a punch to Heavenly’s chest. Her knees threatened to buckle again. A sob stuck in her throat as her vision swam.
Beside her, Beck swallowed hard and gripped the doorframe for support. “Jesus, Seth. How did you survive this?”
Seth didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure he could. Instead, his throat bobbed once—hard—as if he’d swallowed a scream while he stood frozen in the doorway. His face was a mask of anguish as he stared at the crib like he was watching his son die all over again.
Heavenly’s heart threatened to shatter as she bent and picked up a criminally pristine teddy bear. Tristan had never teethed on it, never roughhoused with it. He’d barely had time to cuddle with it.
