Page 101 of Eight Years Gone

“I’m sorry,” he repeated because there was no way to make any of this better.

Her arms came around him. “I’m asleep, right? This is just a nightmare?”

He kissed her temple. “I wish it was.”

She eased back. “He’s going to be okay.”

He hoped to hell so, but Paul’s concerns weren’t far from his mind. “Let’s head upstairs and settle in for a little while.”

She nodded. “All right.”

* * *

Grace stood in the hallway on the twentieth floor of her father’s building, gripping her arms around herself, unable to warm up as Jagger unlocked the door.

“Here we go,” he said, opening the door wider for her to step in before him.

She hesitated, then went inside, breathing in the subtle hints of her dad’s cologne as she glanced toward the city views while rain trailed down the massive windows.

Jagger set down their bags and put the keys on the entryway table. “It looks like he redecorated.”

Long ago, the space had favored her stepmother’s tastes. Now the simple décor and easy class reflected her dad’s preferences. “I guess so.”

The familiarity of the space brought a confusing mix of comfort and sadness. Once upon a time, her brother had stood in this room. Once upon a time, there had been good times and laughter—or at least when Veronica had been out of town.

Things had been easier between her brother and father when professional sports and excellent food had been part of the equation.

Pieces of the past had happened here—happy moments that were long gone.

Jagger moved to the kitchen in the open concept downstairs, looking through the cupboards and fridge. “There’s not much in here. Fruits and vegetables for your dad’s juicing and a package of old-fashioned oats.”

She didn’t mind at all. The idea of eating anything made her nauseous. “I’m not hungry, but we can order something for you.”

“I’m all set for now.”

She absently nodded, wandering toward the small library—her favorite room in the luxurious home.

Stepping in, she hit the light switch, studying the large rugs on pretty hardwood, strategically placed plush couches, and the familiar abstract art on the walls—dramatic splashes of dark-blue paint. “Better,” she murmured.

Jagger stepped up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist like he so often did. “How are you doing?”

“I don’t know.” She turned her head to look up at him. “All of this feels surreal.”

He sighed, kissing her temple. “It’s a little weird being here.”

“The view’s so pretty—so much the same. And that gorgeous deck. How many times did we sit out there, Jagger? How many times did we sneak out there after we knew everyone else had gone to bed?”

“Too many to count.”

She looked toward the fireplace and frowned when dozens of photographs caught her eye. “What’s this?”

Easing away from him, she moved to the sleek mantle, studying the pictures.

A smile ghosted her mouth as her gaze wandered over baby and toddler versions of herself and her big brother.

The blond boy and girl with big blue eyes grew older the farther she walked to the right: grade school, middle school, the shot of her beaming as she held up the first real camera she had been gifted on her eleventh birthday.

Her smile dimmed as she looked at Logan, grinning in his navy-blue and white Sheraton Prep football gear. Then there was a picture of herself and her brother at Syracuse—when things had been good before the relapse.

---