I nod. Can't make the word come. His jaw works.
"This stays between us for now," he says, voice steady even though his hands aren't. "But you and I are talking. Tonight. No more walls, Sloane. I need to know what she is to you."
I close my eyes. Because I know he's right. And because the only way through this means telling him what I did in that wing. What I signed. What I let happen while I told myself I had no choice. Knox will listen. He always does. I just don't know if he'll stay.
Chapter 28
Knox
Ihavetoleavethe pop-up clinic before I put my hands on Alice Brighton. That's the only reason I'm not standing guard while Sloane finishes her shift. The only reason I'm home, pacing the living room, instead of making sure no one else gets close enough to speak her maiden name.
Because if I'd stayed one more minute, watched that predator circle my wife, heard one more word in that soft, poisonous voice, I would've dragged her out of that tent by her perfectly styled hair and demanded answers she'd never give. And Sloane would've watched me do it. So I left.
Told Sloane I needed to cool off. Rode hard through back roads until my hands stopped shaking on the handlebars. Gave her space to finish, to process, to choose whether she wants to come home to me or run again.
The truck's not in the driveway. She's not home. I drag both hands through my hair and turn from the window. The living room feels wrong without her. Too big. Too quiet. The lampthrows weak light across the couch, barely enough to push back the shadows gathering in the hallway.
I haven't changed the bulb the way she asked. Twice. The small failures feel bigger tonight.
I check my phone. 11:45 p.m. No messages. She should've been home hours ago. The clinic could still be getting walk-ins from the blast. Or she's at the clubhouse, hovering over patients who don't need her anymore because standing still is worse. Either way, she's not here.
My jaw aches. I force it to unclench and head down the hallway.
Our bedroom door is open. Bed still made from this morning, corners squared tight, pillows stacked, blanket pulled smooth the way the Corps drilled into me. I'd done it so I wouldn't have to look at the shape of a night she didn't spend here. Now it just looks empty. The guest room door is closed, and there's no light underneath.
Twice in the last week, she's slept somewhere I wasn't. The first was girls' night at the clubhouse. Ruby dragged everyone into chaos, Sloane laughed surrounded by women who'd become her family. I didn't mind that one. She needed it. The second was last night. After the fight. She'd grabbed a pillow and the spare blanket, and the guest room door had closed behind her, soft and final. That one I minded.
I force myself to breathe. Measured and controlled. The way they taught us when panic tried to crawl up your throat and choke you. In through the nose. Hold. Out through the mouth. It doesn't help.
I drop into the leather chair in the corner. My gaze catches on the frames along the wall. They're filled with pictures Sloane insisted we put up. Everyone smiling, caught in moments that felt easy when they happened.
There's one of us. Someone at the clubhouse yelled our names. Sloane turned her face up to me mid-eye roll, and I was already looking down. The camera caught the exact second we both forgot we were supposed to be posing. Her mouth tipped up at the corner. My hand slid a little lower on her hip.
Electricity trapped on glossy paper. She framed it. Put it in our hallway as if it belongs there.
Alice Brighton's voice threads through the silence. Tell Harrison I'll be in touch.
I replay the moment. Sloane in full armor. Hair pulled back, scrub top stained, gloves on. Professional. Detached. Just enough warmth to keep people from panicking. In control.
Until the click of expensive heels cut through the noise. Alice had walked in as though she owned the oxygen. Found Sloane in about three seconds. I couldn't hear what she said at first. Just saw Sloane's spine go rigid, her hand freeze mid-movement.
Then the tone. Familiar. Easy. Alice talked to Sloane the way you talk to someone you've worked with. Warm. Proprietary. Catching up with an old employee she'd been fond of.
You still check pulses the same way. Two fingers, not three. Sloane went white so fast I thought she might pass out. Her clipboard slipped. Alice smiled. Tell Harrison I'll be in touch.
I kept my hands on Sloane instead of on Alice. Stepped between them. Blocked Alice's line of sight. You're done here. Leave.
Alice had looked at me the way she'd look at furniture. Turned on her heel. Her exit was brisk, heels clicking faster. The tent swallowed her up.
Sloane stayed silent the whole time. When I touched her shoulder. When I said I needed to leave before I did something stupid. She'd just nodded, hollow-eyed, and turned back to the next patient as if nothing had happened.
Leaning back, I close my eyes. The stove clock ticks in the kitchen. The heater kicks on. Somewhere outside, tires hiss on damp asphalt. In here there's just silence and questions.
I know who Alice Brighton is. Candace's mother. The woman who ran the auctions. The one Malachi's been building a case against for months. I know what Sloane's father did. She told me in that car two years ago, shaking so hard the door rattled. He sold girls. He was going to sell her. She ran.
What I don't know is why Alice Brighton walked into that clinic and talked to my wife as though they used to work together. Alice talked to Sloane the way a boss talks to a favorite employee. Warm. Proprietary. You still check pulses the same way. That's something you say to someone who was in the room with you.
An hour crawls by. Then another. By the time a car door sounds outside, every muscle in my body is locked tight. The lock turns. The front door angles open. She steps inside and stops dead. We stare at each other across the room.
