Page 31 of The Broken Places

He raised his lids, the light seeping in. He knew the light because he’d known the dark. The space around him brightened, and the voice became a face. Smiling. “Hello. There you are, sweetness. I’m happy to see you.” The voice was a she. She was happy to see him. Her smile grew bigger, and her eyes crinkled. He could feel himself smiling back. The woman laughed. “A smile too! My goodness, what a beautiful smile.”

He wanted to see her smile some more. He wanted to smile more, too, because she thought his smile was good. But he was so tired, his lids heavy, and so he closed his eyes. And again, he slept.

Back. Forth. Back. Forth.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A knock sounded on the door just as Lennon was tying the robe around her waist. She considered ignoring it, but what if her mom had decided hearing her voice over the phone wasn’t good enough—even though Lennon had downplayed her injuries—and headed over with a dose of herbs and tinctures that would wipe away both her bruises and her memory? She’d gladly swallow it down, every drop. She knew she was one of the lucky cops, as she hadn’t had any serious injuries since she joined the force. That streak had ended with the painful punch to her face.

She shuffled to the door and looked through the peephole, her heart stuttering when she saw Ambrose’s face filling the small oval. She was both surprised to see him and also not, and before she could even consider it, she found herself unlocking her door and pulling it open.

He stood there, his hair still slightly wet from what must have been a recent shower, because she’d been home since right before noon, and there hadn’t been a drop of rain all day. “Hi,” he said. His gaze went to her eye that was now just red and slightly swollen but would likely be black and blue in the next few days. “How’s the eye?”

“A little blurry, but otherwise okay. The boss is insisting I take the next few days off.”

“Good.” He was holding a bowl with foil over the top, and she had a momentary flash of all those neighbors and friends who’d shown up at her parents’ door so many years ago carrying a casserole or a potato salador a Bundt cake meant to feed their hearts as much as their bellies. She pushed those old memories away and stepped back so he could enter.

“I talked to Lieutenant Byrd. He says he spoke to you already and that you seemed okay, but ... well, I thought I’d check for myself, because I missed you at the hospital. And I brought you this.” He presented the bowl, and Lennon looked down at it for several beats before taking it from his hands.

“What is it?”

“A fruit salad.” Her gaze held on the shiny foil cover.Oh.He’d brought her a fruit salad. It made her smile and oddly want to cry.

“Brave,” she said. “After my fruit salad tirade.”

“No guts, no glory.”

She pressed her lips together, stifling a bigger smile, and she was honestly shocked that she could smile at all today. It had been over twelve hours since the attack, and she still felt shaky. “Come on,” she said. “I was just going to make some tea, and I’ll check this situation out.”

Ambrose followed her to her kitchen, which was just a few steps past the small entryway, and she set the bowl on the table, carefully peeling the foil back so she could assess this fruit salad that he’d made. “Plenty of berries,” she said. “Watermelon—a good choice. And, oh”—she met his eyes, her heart squeezing—“you cut it into stars.”

“I thought that might score me a few extra points.”

She nodded, a jerky movement. It did. It did do that. She couldn’t help picturing him with that look of concentration on his face he wore so often, this enigmatic man who fought off attackers and told stories so well, leaning over a cutting board full of watermelon slices and carefully pressing a star cutter into the fruit, or perhaps even doing it by hand because how would he have a star cutter in a hotel room? In any case, he’d done it for her. To make her smile. And truly, she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done something nicer for her. “Mint,” she said, and even she heard the emotion in her voice. “That’s a nice touch too.” Her throat felt full, and she swallowed, refusing to be brought totears by some star-shaped melon and a few sprigs of mint. “It’s good. I’d invite you back to my potluck, Ambrose Mars.”

He squinted one eye, looking as if he was struggling with something humorous.

“Don’t do it,” she said. “I set you up for some form of a ‘that’s what she said’ joke, but I know you can resist. I have faith in you.”

He laughed, and she grinned, and God, she’d been beaten and terrorized and made to feel so low today, and here she was laughing over fruit salad in her kitchen with this strange, confusing man. It felt as though her motherhadarrived with that elixir that would erase her memory. Rather, Ambrose had shown up and, with laughter and fruit, had done the very next best thing. Distracted her. From the smell of the attacker’s breath on her face. From the pain of his hands around her neck. From the terrifying feeling that she was going to die.

“I wasn’t sure how you felt about fruit dip, so I decided to avoid any potential pitfalls,” he said, his eyes dancing.

“That was wise.” She nodded slowly. “There are several.”

“I figured.” He tilted his head. “Cool Whip?”

She pretended to shudder. “Whipped marshmallow is the true villain of that story.”

He grinned, and she did too. And for several heavy moments, they simply stared at each other, and Lennon felt lifted even further from her body—a blessed relief, considering the circumstances. But she also felt that same flutter of fear she’d sensed since the get-go with this man, and she was pretty sure what it was about, but she was too exhausted and emotionally fragile to ponder it right that moment. Especially with him staring at her with those sleepy eyes that made her think of crawling beneath the sheets at all hours of the day.

“How are you, Lennon?”

She sighed and sank down into a chair at the table. “Sore, but otherwise all accounted for.”

“Emotionally?”

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