Page 47 of True Colors

I watch them walk to the elevator bay; every muscle in my body trembles with the effort not to go after her.

This woman is getting under my skin, and I don’t know how to feel about it.

But I do know I want her to trust me like she does Finn…her brother, boyfriend, or whomever he is.

I want her to look at me like that—with full confidence that he’s got her.

CHAPTER 11

Anouk

Idon’t remember leaving the office.

I know Finn brought me home, but it’s all vague, as if my brain stuffed cotton between me and the world to muffle the edges. The only clear memory is Luther’s hands holding mine.

Coming home comforts me. The scent of basil from Finn’s indoor herb garden, laundry detergent, Finn’s cologne—everything that makes our home ours.

He tosses my bag onto the armchair and turns to me, his eyes softening.

“Annie….”

“I’m f-fine.”

“No, you’re not.” He steps closer. “Come here.”

And that’s it. I fold into him, my forehead hitting his chest, my knees giving out. He wraps both arms around me, steadying me with his strength, then guides me down onto the couch and settles beside me, holding me close.

The tears come silently at first. Then they don’t.

My body shakes in a way I can’t control—each breath a tumble of grief, confusion, and guilt. Finn holds me through all of it.

“Shh,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

“But I’m n-not,” I choke. “She’s dying, and I don’t know how to f-feel⁠—”

“You don’t have to know. You don’t owe anyone your feelings.” He rubs slow circles on my back. “You survived her. That’s enough.”

I fist his shirt. “Does it make me a b-bad person if I don’t want to see her?”

“It makes you a human person,” Finn corrects, kissing the top of my head.

Eventually, the sobs taper off, leaving me hollow and exhausted.

He tucks a blanket around me and goes into the kitchen. When he returns, he presses a glass into my hand.

“Drink.”

I take a few sips because he told me to.

“I’m guessing you’re not hungry,” he says softly.

I shake my head. Some people eat when they’re stressed. I never have.

He turns on the television—a cooking show. Gentle voices. Familiar rhythms. Background noise that pulls the outside world back in and breaks the sealed bubble of grief.

After a long stretch of quiet, where we just hold each other, he asks, “Who called?”

“The warden,” I whisper. “He said she’s in the last stages. She asked for me.”