“She’s stable for the moment,” Hudson says. “We’ve talked. A lot.”
My heart pounds against my ribs. “And?”
“She admitted she stopped taking her medication," Hudson continues. “That’s a good first step. Awareness matters in these cases. It means she’s still in there.”
Dad’s breath shudders beside me.
“We’re going to need to restart her meds carefully,” Hudson adds, looking between me and my father. “With strict monitoring and possibly an adjustment to the levels. I’m going to stay for a while to help with the plan.”
“And hospital?” Dad asks, his voice breaking on the word.
Hudson meets his gaze. “Not tonight. Not unless she becomes a danger to herself or others. We can manage this at home for now, provided we maintain a twenty-four-hour watch.”
I close my eyes, my head dropping between myshoulders.
Thank God.
“She took a sedative,” Hudson says. “Her brain needs the sleep as much as her body does.”
Beckett glances at me then. “She asked for you. She wants to see you before she sleeps.”
I’m on my feet before he finishes the sentence.
I take the stairs slowly this time, grounding myself with every step, forcing the “Strong Girl” back into her box so I can just be a daughter.
When I open the bedroom door, my mother is lying back against the pillows, her eyes heavy but clearer than they were earlier. She smiles when she sees me.
“There you are, baby,” she murmurs, her words slightly slurred from the medication.
I sit on the edge of the bed and take her hand. It’s still cold, but it’s still. “I’m here, Mom.”
She squeezes my fingers weakly. “That man. Hudson. He is very kind. Very wise.”
I glance over my shoulder to see Beckett standing just inside the doorway.
“He is,” I agree.
She rests her hands on my cheek. “And so is your Beckett.”
MyBeckett.
I bite my lip to stop the sob from breaking. “I know, Mom.”
“Don’t let him worry about me. He has… he has those sad eyes, Madi. Make sure he’s okay.”
I feel a lump form in my throat that’s impossible to swallow. “I won’t let him worry,” I promise, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead.
She relaxes into the pillow, her breathing evening out as the medication finally takes hold of the runawaytrain in her mind. I sit there until I’m sure she’s asleep.
When I stand and step back into the hallway, Beckett is waiting.
He doesn’t offer a platitude or a clinical observation. He simply opens his arms.
I lean into him without thinking and finally allow my own walls to crumble.
“I’ve got you, baby,” he whispers into my hair. “You can breathe.”
Fifty-Three
