“Someone on the inside said he’d seen the crime scene photos.” Bianca walked around the bed and faced me. “The wordwritten across the stomach was comparable to the ones from the original murders that ended years before.”
“Again. Anya was not my mistress. Unless she was someone else’s?” I shrugged. “And can we stop talking about?—”
I cut my words off and shot to my feet.
Lucy yawned.
I blinked.
Her eyelids fluttered.
Bianca let out a tiny squeal.
I threw a scathing glare at her before I bent over my wife.
“Lucy, baby?” I caressed her cheek. “Can you hear me?”
Her brows knitted.
Sloane walked over and studied her. “She’s trying to wake up.”
“Talk about serial killers,” Bianca whispered.
“Would you stop it?” I hissed at her, then back to my wife. I coaxed, “Lucy, baby, wake up.”
All movements ceased.
“That’s still promising,” Sloane told me when my shoulders drooped in disappointment.
“Baby steps,” Bianca added encouragingly.
“Don’t expect her to wake up and suddenly be okay,” Sloane said. “She suffered a brain injury. It’s not unheard of if she has to relearn some things or to need rehabilitation. Her recovery is going to be a marathon, not a sprint.”
“I know that.” And I was prepared to be with her every step of the way. I was suddenly exhausted and sank into the chair.
“Tre—”
All eyes flew to Lucy again.
“It was her, right?” Bianca said. “She spoke!”
I rose slowly to my feet again. “Lucy?”
Her eyelids were struggling to open.
“Don’t have to open your eyes,” I said, holding her hand, wondering why I didn’t do that the first time. “Squeeze my hand, Lusenka.”
Her fingers tightened on mine briefly. “She’s responding!” I let out a relieved laugh and glanced up to see the women with tears rimming their eyes.
“Oh, baby.” I bent down and kissed her forehead.
“Tre—”
“She’s trying to say something,” Sloane said. “What is it?”
“Tray?” Bianca asked. “Food tray. Maybe she’s hungry.”
“No,” I said, as a sneaking suspicion snaked itself around my heart. I couldn’t even say it, but my darling wife finally uttered it.
