“My head was still such a mess, so I didn’t…I pulled back. And when he offered to come back to town with me, I liked the idea of having someone?—”
“At your back,” he finishes quietly. “I get it, Gracie. I know he’s not staying. I overheard his phone call yesterday. Something about his mother setting him up on dates.” Braxton’s expression is contemplative, so I don’t answer, letting him process everything.
This is the moment that will make or break us, but I never truly thought there would be a chance in hell that we would ever be sitting here, talking everything out like reasonable adults.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be okay with Nolan or who he isto you,” Braxton admits. “But I can appreciate that he was there when I broke you.” There’s anguish threaded through his voice, and when his eyes meet mine, he doesn’t do anything to shield that agony from me.
“Braxton…”
“You asked for boundaries around Paisley,” he says quietly, and it takes everything I have not to screw my face up, hating that we’re back to her.
“Full transparency,” I mumble, dropping my chin, unable to hold his stare, but Braxton doesn’t pull away.
“Right,” he agrees. “I let you down, even when you told me you were uncomfortable. But I won’t let you down again, Rumpel. If we want even a chance of building that trust back, we need to lean into those boundaries now.”
“Even though we’re not together,” I say, my voice full of doubt and questions.
Braxton flicks up a cocky eyebrow, his thumb shifting to brush lightly over my lower lip. “Yet, Rumpel. We’re not togetheryet.”
“Alright, Gracie,”Detective Jerome says quietly, tapping the manila folder on the table. “We have six photographs for you to look at.”
I wet my lips, looking around the barren room—gray walls, white popcorn-textured ceiling, and beige carpet that looks thirty years old. The only furniture is the scarred table and three chairs, with the detective on one side, and Nolan and me on the other. Nick, in full uniform, is standing against one wall, his arms crossed over his chest.
It has taken over a week before I could move without the skin of my back feeling like it was going to split open. The bruising on my face has faded into a putrid yellow, butthe swelling has gone down. Coming here today is my first time leaving the house, all previous attempts almost ending with me sinking into another panic attack.
Braxton has been coming over whenever he’s not on shift. It feels like he can’t bear to even think of putting space back between us, and it’s been…nice.
We spend most of our time just sitting and talking, avoiding any sensitive subjects—an unspoken truce after our heavier conversation earlier in the week.
Sometimes, he helps Nolan paint the living room, the two of them working together to finish and put the furniture back to rights. It’s probably my imagination, but everything feels easier between us, like there was an oppressive shadow clouding our relationship before, and now it’s been pulled away.
Regret pools in my chest. I should have called Braxton straight after I got off the phone with Detective Jerome. He’s on shift today, and I didn’t want to distract him when it felt like this was something I should be able to handle. I insisted on coming alone, but when Nolan wasn’t able to change my mind on ringing Braxton, he had grudgingly taped himself to my side.
Jerome told me what would be happening when he called this morning to ask me to come in, but as I watch the detective pull several photographs out of the folder, my mouth goes dry. The air conditioning is pumping out chilly air, but I feel overheated and sticky, my hands trembling as I twist them together in my lap.
“If anyone seems familiar, I want you to point to them. Okay?” Jerome’s waiting for my nod, but his brows draw together as he watches me. “Are you alright, Gracie? We don’t have to do this today.”
“N-no,” I croak. Nolan nudges his elbow against mine, his expression set in the same scowl that’s been there sincewe left the house. I infuse more confidence into my voice. “I want to get this over with.”
Jerome gives me one last long look before tipping his chin at Nick, who leaves without a word. A minute later, he’s back, setting a paper cup of water in front of me.
“Thank you,” I murmur, giving him a weak smile. He nods back at me, his eyes solemn before he takes his position against the wall.
“Here we go,” Jerome warns softly, reaching out to slowly line the photos up in front of me. I wait until he’s finished before looking at them, digging my knuckles into my thighs. I start from left to right, studying every aspect of the men staring back at me, but nothing stands out as familiar until the fifth one.
“What is it?” Nolan prompts when I freeze, a sharp exhaling escaping.
“Him,” I whisper, pressing a shaking finger to the very edge of the glossy photo. “He was in the florist’s about an hour before I closed.” I look up, catching the look that Jerome and Nick share before adding uncertainly, “I didn’t see the guy who attacked me, though…”
Nick steps forward, giving me a reassuring smile. “Are you sure, Gracie?”
I look down at the photo again, eyes tracing over the man’s average features and messy brown hair. He’s not smiling, his eyes cold as they stare back out at the camera, but it’s him. “He was buying an orchid for his sister. Hailey?” I frown, the word itching my brain wrong. “No, but something starting with anH. He was polite, pleasant, but there was something about him…”
Jerome sits back, his expression contemplative. “That’s Floyd Gerard. He wasn’t lying about his sister. Halsey Ward moved to Sterling Creek almost two years ago. She works at The Sterling Thread, which isn’t too far from the florist.”
“I know it,” I say numbly. The Sterling Thread is a small artisan boutique that showcases local artists and craftspeople, and they sell their wares through the store.
“From what we can gather, Halsey and Gerard are estranged, but…” He trails off, and Nick’s expression sours. He doesn’t say a word as the detective continues, “Floyd Gerard is up to his neck in priors. There’s a warrant out on him for”—he pulls out a phone, checking something—“possession with intent to sell, and deadly assault with a weapon.”
