I see bloodless crescents under her eyes, bruises that haven't fully bloomed. Clean scrubs, she must've changed before she left, but a stiffness to the way she holds herself that screams exhaustion. Crooked braid. A smear of someone else's pen ink along her hand. One foot angled toward the door she just came through.
"You're… still up," she says, voice so thin it barely carries.
I push to my feet. "Couldn't sleep." A couple of steps toward her. I force myself to stop.
"How long have you been home?"
"Couple hours."
Her gaze darts to the hallway and guest room door, then back. Guilt flickers before she smooths it. "I should've called."
"Yeah." Quieter than I mean to. "Would've been nice."
She flinches. I inhale and let it out. Getting loud only makes her smaller. I swallow it down.
"I wasn't sure you were safe," I admit. "After Alice. After the way you looked when she left. I thought…" I trail off, because finishing means admitting I thought she might not come back at all.
Her face crumbles for half a second before she pulls it back. "I live here," she says, but uncertain. As if she's reminding herself more than telling me.
"Yeah. You do."
Her fingers twist in her hem. "The clinic needed people. Walk-ins from the blast. Smoke inhalation, burns, panic attacks. I lost track of time."
I believe her. I can see the exhaustion shaking her edges.
"I thought you'd come home after Alice. I figured if you needed space, you'd take it here. With me."
Her shoulders curve inward. "I wasn't trying to stay away," she whispers. "I just… couldn't make myself walk back in and face you yet." Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. She's holding herself together with thread that's one tug from snapping.
I've seen men on battlefields with that same look. The quiet, shaking edge right before they break.
I step closer, voice low. "Sloane. You don't have to give me everything tonight." Her lips press together, trembling. "But I need to know why Alice Brighton talked to you the way she did."
She flinches.
"What way?"
"The way you talk to someone who worked for you."
The sound she makes is small and awful. "That's what's been eating you," she whispers.
"Yeah." My voice cracks. "Because I watched Candace's mother walk into that tent and greet my wife the way you'd greetan old colleague. And you looked back at her as if you'd been caught."
She slides down the wall until she's sitting on the floor, knees pulled to her chest. She's still here. Even this way. Still here.
I wish to drop beside her and pull her into my chest until she stops shaking. I don't. Not yet. I sit too, a few feet away, back to the opposite wall. Separate sides of something bigger than this room.
She buries her face in her arms. A ragged sound slips out. "You're going to leave," she whispers into her knees.
"No." Immediate. Fierce. "Don't decide that for me."
"You don't understand."
"Then help me." The words come out cracked, raw. "Help me understand."
She doesn't look up. Doesn't move. Sloane's curled around herself as though she's trying to disappear. I wait, even though every instinct screams to cross this space and make it easier. Finally, she takes a shaking breath.
"I told you what my father did," she says. "In the car. That night. I told you he sold girls. That he was going to sell me. That I ran."
