“No.”
His eyes lowered to mine.
“I will be,” I said.
He nodded. Then he pulled me close enough for his mouth to brush my forehead, not quite kissing me.
I stood in my husband’s arms, listening to the music, watching the doors Marguerite had disappeared through. And I sighed because I knew we were not done.
Not yet.
(Saturday,June 28, late night…An Interlude…)
The Stone House was quiet, finally. There'd been a debriefing after the reception. Stories cemented. Plans made. But now, Theory lay curled against my side beneath the covers, one leg thrown over mine. My arm was around her waist, my fingers resting against her back. The lamp on her nightstand cast a soft glow over the bed.
She hadn’t gone to sleep. She was too busy thinking. Every few minutes, she'd sigh, toss a little bit. Then she’d settle down for a second before starting all over again. She was worried.
I hated it.
“You still mad at me?” I asked.
“A little.”
I smiled. At least she was honest.
“Just a little?”
Her nose wrinkled. “Maybe a medium amount.”
My hand slid up and down her back. “I can work with medium.”
She snorted softly but didn’t say anything else. The silence stretched over us. I stared at the ceiling. Then I sighed.
“Talk to me,malyshka.”
“I’m talking.”
“You call this talking?"
She shifted closer against me. For a second, I thought she was about to dodge the question. Instead, her voice came out quiet.
“I saw Virginia tonight.”
My jaw tightened.Of course.
“Okay.”
“I haven’t seen her since…”
She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to. I knew exactly what she meant.
Since the police reports, since the hospital, since the hearings. Since all the places Virginia Armstrong had stood beside her son and defended the indefensible.
Theory was quiet for a long moment.
“I hated how scared I felt.”
My arm tightened around her.
