I roll onto my side, facing his shadowy profile. “Tell me something true,” I say impulsively, needing to hear his soothing voice to get through this sleepless night.
He’s quiet so long I think he won’t answer. “I worry that I’m not strong enough to keep you safe.”
The admission catches me off guard. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
“Not all strength is physical.” His voice holds decades of regret. “I couldn’t protect Lucas from Sandra’s influence. Couldn’t stop him from becoming what he became. If I fail you too—”
“You won’t,” I interrupt. “You’ve already saved me in ways you don’t even realize.”
He turns his head, dark eyes finding mine in the dim light from the fireplace. “Tell me something true,” he echoes.
My heart pounds as I consider various truths—how safe I feel in his presence, how his praise makes me ache in places longneglected, how that almost-kiss haunts me. Instead, I whisper, “I’m not sorry. About Lucas. Does that make me a monster?”
Micah’s hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining. “No. It makes you a survivor.”
The simple validation unleashes something inside me—relief, gratitude, and other emotions I’m not ready to name. Tears slip down my cheeks as years of guilt and shame begin to loosen their hold.
“Come here,” Micah murmurs, tugging gently on our joined hands.
I slide across the space between us until I’m tucked against his side, my head resting on his chest. His heartbeat sounds steady beneath my ear, his arm curved protectively around my shoulders. The position mirrors how we woke the last time, but now there’s no pretense of accident or sleep. We’ve chosen this closeness, this comfort.
“Sleep,” he says softly, his deep voice rumbling through his chest. “I’ve got you.”
As consciousness fades, Micah presses a kiss to my forehead. It’s so light I might have imagined it. But the gesture, real or dreamed, follows me into sleep, a promise of protection and something more dangerous, something that feels terrifying, yet I can’t help but want it.
Chapter 10
Closing In
Micah
The overhead lights of the Columbus Police Department interview room buzz with maddening persistence, their harsh glare reflecting off the metal table between me and Detective Rachel Archer, the homicide detective assigned to Lucas’s cases.
As I maintain my carefully neutral expression, decades of experience in similar situations kick in. Back straight but not rigid. Hands visible and relaxed on the table. Face composed but not blank. Every detail calibrated to project cooperative innocence while revealing nothing.
The room itself is an exercise in psychological warfare through banality—beige walls, uncomfortable metal chairs, a mirror that’s obviously one-way. I’ve sat across from countless detectives in rooms just like this over the years, but never with stakes this personal. Never with secrets this devastating.
Detective Archer sits across from me, her light brown hair pulled back in a severe bun that emphasizes the sharp intelligence in her deep brown eyes. The detective’s badge clipped to her belt catches the fluorescent glare periodically, a pointed reminder of the precarious situation I’m all in.
“Just procedure,” she says, her tone professional and to the point. “Since you’re Lucas’s father, we need your statement on record.”
I meet her gaze, weighing her words. I’m not surprised I was called in for a statement. As Lucas’s father, they want me to speak about his character and lifestyle.
“Sandra, your ex-wife, has called me several times,” Detective Archer continues, shuffling some papers on the table between us. “She’s insistent that we investigate certain angles more thoroughly.” Her dark eyes study my face. “She’s particularly focused on Lucas’s wife, Naomi, and her potential involvement. And your role in possibly harboring her.”
Damn Sandra.Even after all these years, she’s still finding ways to complicate my life. I keep my expression neutral as old frustrations surface.
“Sandra’s grief is understandable,” I say carefully, the words tasting like ash. “Losing our son was hard on both of us, but she’s always been prone to dramatic interpretations of events.”
She nods, her pen scratching against her notepad. “When did you last see Lucas?”
And so it begins—the delicate dance of partial truths and calculated omissions. “Months ago. Our relationship was strained.”Understatement of the century.“We didn’t speak often.”
“And you were aware of his marital problems with Naomi?”
“Yes.” My jaw tightens involuntarily. “She came to me for protection from him.”
The words hang heavy in the air between us. Detective Archer’s pen pauses briefly, her expression softening with understanding. Did Eve talk to her about Naomi, or does she have a soft spot for survivors of domestic violence?