Page 158 of One Night with Number Nineteen

“My husband,” she tells Detective Roberts—who’s very much not on vacation. “He died a little over a year ago.”

“And you knew Mr. Colemont from that time?”

“Not really. I…he worked in the infusion clinic where my husband was getting his treatment. We talked some, because you’re there for hours at a time, several days a week, and you inevitably get to talking to people.” She pauses, eyes going wide.

“What?” I ask.

“I just remembered him being really upset because his girlfriend left him.” She closes her eyes, brows furrowing. “It was right around the time that things got really bad with Ben, and oh my God, he talked a lot about how I was one of the good ones because I stuck by Ben’s side through not just the good times, but the bad ones too.”

I hold her a little closer when she shudders again.

“How did it turn into this?”

Detective Roberts looks up from her notepad. “Did he ever give you any indication that he might be dangerous?”

Lainey shakes her head. “No. I mean, I was so wrapped up in Ben’s health and raising Ollie, I hardly thought about him.” A sigh. “And then Ben died, and I moved across the country. How would he even find⁠—?”

She freezes.

“What?”

“I shared the move in my newsletter, posted a few pictures of the area. Nowhere near our house or anything, but I did mention the state and how I was moving in next door to Faye.” She clenches my hand. “With all that press she and Gray had last season, it probably wouldn’t be all that hard to track me down.”

“Fuck,” I whisper.

She groans, slips her hand from mine and buries her face in it. “I’m such an idiot.”

“No,” Detective Roberts says. “You’re human, and he is a deranged asshole who thinks you owe him something. None of this was your fault.” Her phone rings and she moves away to take the call.

“You okay?” I ask softly, drawing her into my chest.

She nods, takes several deep breaths. “I’m fine.”

“Your head?” I smooth my palm over the back of it.

“It stings, but I’m okay.”

“The rest of you? Your shoulders and hips and⁠—”

“I’m okay,” she murmurs. “I was scared—really scared. But I knew I only had to hold on for a little while. I knew you’d come.”

Emotion makes my throat go tight. “You scared the shit out of me, Pages. When I looked up and saw your seat was empty—then stayed empty—I could barely think.”

Her arms convulse around me. “I’m sorry.”

Leaning back, I cup her cheek. “You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing. It was his fault, not yours.” I tug at a curl, force my lips to curve into a smile even though amusement is hard to grab on to. “I’m just glad Coach listened. Then he had someone call security and let Gray, Leo, Ryan, Rip, and me leave the game.”

Her mouth falls open. “What?”

“Yup. He didn’t even question it,” I say, surprise rippling through me. “Just sent us off, told us he’d finish the game with the rest of the lines.”

“Really?”

“Really,” I tell her, drawing her close again. “And some of the guys from the Hawks even joined in on looking for you as soon as the game was done.” A flicker of that fear, that panic and darkness I felt for far too many minutes moves through me again—although thankfully not all that many, considering how things turned out.

“That’s really sweet.”

“Don’t know if a dozen hockey players roaming the halls, searching for some asshole they all want to murder is sweet,” I say dryly.