Page 19

I can't finish the sentence.

Don't need to.

Gabriel's jaw tightens. "They don't know."

"My mother has an idea." I laugh. It sounds hollow. "The rest have no idea what he's really like. And I don’t think they…”

"They wouldn't believe you."

"They'd ask what I did to upset him. Just like my mother did."

The certainty in my voice surprises me. But I know it's true. They would suggest couples counseling, communication workshops or any solution that didn't require acknowledging her daughter chose badly. Again.

Donna appears with food. Two massive stacks of pancakes dripping with butter and syrup. Bacon piled high. Hash browns on the side. Enough food for four people, let alone two.

"Eat up," she says. "You look like you need it."

She's not wrong.

I pick up my fork and cut into the pancakes. They're fluffy and exactly as good as Gabriel promised.

We eat in silence for a few minutes. I'm hungrier than I realized. Haven't eaten a real meal in a while: too anxious about Cole, too worried about work, too exhausted to care.

"These are really good," I finally say.

"Told you."

"Do you bring all your rescue cases here for pancakes?"

It's meant to be a joke. A way to lighten the mood. But Gabriel doesn't smile.

"You're not a rescue case," he says. "You're a woman who deserved help. That's different."

I set down my fork and look at him across the table. This calm, tattooed stranger who's been watching over me without asking for anything in return.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask. "The real reason."

Gabriel is quiet for a long time. Long enough that I think he might not answer.

Then he says, "Because someone should have helped her."

"Her?"

"Her name was Elaine. She came to me for help, and I failed her."

"Gabriel…"

"She's dead now." He meets my eyes. "Because I counseled patience instead of action. Because I believed words could fix what only distance could solve. Because I failed."

"What happened to her?"

"Her husband killed her three weeks after our last conversation." He admits. Like he's recited this story so many times it's lost its power to hurt him. Except I can see in his eyes that it hasn't. "I stood over her casket and promised myself I'd never fail like that again."

"So, you're helping me because of her."

"I'm helping you because you deserve help. Because I can see what you're hiding. Because I have a chance to do things differently this time." He picks up his coffee. Drinks. Sets it down. "Because I'm not going to stand by and watch another woman get hurt when I could have stopped it."

I stare at him. Processing. Trying to reconcile the man who just knocked out my boyfriend in a parking lot with someone who counseled patience.