Page 78 of What's Left of Us

“Can I ask you something?”

“Since when do you need permission?”

She ignores my cool tone. “Do you think it’s worth finding those answers now that you’re no longer involved with Georgia?”

Let it go? “It’s almost ten years of my life.”

She nods. “Sure,” she agrees gently. “But if you’re putting your life on hold until you get those answers, are you really living at all?”

Looking away from her, I stare out the window at the slow fall of snow. January is always depressing because it’s cold, dark, and moody. There’s nothing to look forward to after Christmas. Everybody just waits for it to be warm again, staying miserable until spring comes.

I told Conklin I’d find out who was behind the shooting, and dammit, I was going to stand by that. Come hell or high water, Matt and his family are getting closure. That included bringing Nikolas Del Rossi down in the process.

“You never told me what you would change,” I say, changing the subject.

She must expect it because she smiles. But there’s something weighing on her lips as we lock eyes. “I would go back and tell my husband that I love him. I wasn’t home to see him off for a business trip that, unbeknownst to either of us, he would die on. Drunk driving accident. To this day, I don’t remember what my last words to him were. But I know it wasn’t ‘I love you,’ and I wish it were.”

She lost her husband.

I guess she knows grief firsthand too.

“You wouldn’t stop him from going?”

Leaning back, she picks up her pen and holds it tightly between her fingers. “I believe that fate leads us exactly where we need to be. I wouldn’t have been able to stop him if I tried. He loved his job and had a big presentation that his firm counted on him to give. Fate can be cruel sometimes, Mr. Danforth. But it can also be healing if we allow it.”

I stare at her.

She stares right back.

That’s when I realize Theresa Castro and I have far more in common than I ever could have imagined.

I say, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

And for the first time, she says, “I’m sorry for yours.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Georgia/ Six Years Ago

The flickering candleon the table illuminates the distracted face of the tired man across from me as he sips his IPA. I’ve learned those are his go-to when we go out. He hates anything sweet but also doesn’t like anything sour. I figured that out when I ordered him a drink and told the bartender there wasn’t a beer he didn’t like.

I’d been wrong.

I can tell the grueling hours of road patrol have taken a toll on Lincoln. There are bags under his eyes from all the overtime he’s been putting in on top of his twelve-hour shifts. I thought I’d see more of him once he graduated from the academy, but I see far less of him now that he’s almost done with field training and set to go out on his own.

He yawns for the third time since we sat down thirty minutes ago, shooting me an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” he says, sliding his half-empty glass out of the way. “Guess three hours of sleep isn’t much, huh?”

I frown. “I told you we could have stayed in.”

Our homecooked meals are nothing compared to Dallas Steakhouse, but I’ve improved thanks to his mother’s lessons and the cookbooks she gave me that have some of Lincoln’s favorite recipes marked. I’m a far cry from a Michelin chef, but I don’t mistake salt for sugar anymore.

He leans back. “No way. I told you I was taking you out tonight for our anniversary. I’ll just go to bed early when we get back. No big deal.”

He always does this. Works his ass off and then manages to make time for me. Sometimes, I feel bad because there’s nothing I can do to make it easier for him. I clean the apartment. I cook. I pack him lunches that aren’t totally inedible. And when he comes home tired and stressed or fed up, I get on my knees and make him feel better until he’s not any of those things anymore.

“It’s just another day,” I reply. “We don’t have to make it into something it isn’t.”

“I disagree,” he counters. “I think it’s something to celebrate. That’s why I wanted to come here.”

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