Page 63 of Don’t Say Mafia

“I—I don’t understand,” I whispered. “He was just— He was home this afternoon. He’s only been out of the hospital for two weeks. He wasn’t supposed to leave the house.”

“I understand this is a shock,” the officer said, and I could hear the practiced sympathy in his tone, the cadence of someone who had walked strangers through devastation before. “We’ll need you to come down to the station when you’re able. There are a few things we need to discuss.”

My fingers tightened around the receiver. “Discuss?”

There was another pause, and then the sound of paper shifting.

“When your husband was found,” he said carefully, “there were narcotics in his possession. Given his recent medical history, we have to consider whether that may have played a role in what happened tonight. We’re still waiting on toxicology, but it’s part of the investigation.”

Medical history.

Two weeks ago, I’d been sitting beside a hospital bed, staring at monitors that beeped in an awful, steady rhythm. Two weeks ago, Ryan had nearly died. I’d told myself it was a wake-up call and that he’d been scared straight. I’d told myself that leaving the hospital meant starting over.

“He just got out,” I whispered, more to myself than to him. “He almost died.”

“I’m aware of that, ma’am,” the officer said gently. “That’s why we need to ask some questions.”

“I’m at work,” I said faintly, as if that mattered. As if the world should pause because I was mid-shift and unprepared for my life to end.

“That’s okay,” he replied. “Take the time you need. Is there someone with you right now?”

I looked at the closed door and my empty reflection in the darkened glass of the office window. “Yes,” I lied.

“All right,” he said. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Thorne.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

The line went dead.

I guided the receiver into place carefully, as though I were disarming something that could go off if I moved too fast. For a moment, I just stood there, staring at nothing, my chest aching with a pressure that refused to become a sound.

Ryan was dead.

The boy I’d grown up with. The teenager who’d promised to get us out. The man and husband I’d begged and fought and hoped for until hope itself felt like a bad habit.

Gone.

My legs finally gave out, and I sank into the chair behind the desk, one hand pressed flat against my mouth to keep the sob from escaping. Outside the office, the casino roared on, chips clacking and laughter spilling while the music swelled as though nothing had changed.

But everything had.

I don’t remember sliding out of the chair.

One second I was sitting there, my mind replaying the officer’s words like a skipping recording. The next, my knees gave out, and I was on the floor, my back hitting the side of the desk hard enough to jar the breath from my lungs.

And then I finally cried. My pain tore out of me, a sob that didn’t care about dignity or anything else. I folded in on myself and wrapped my arms tight around my stomach like I could hold everything inside if I just squeezed hard enough.

Ryan was dead.

The words felt unreal, a sentence pulled from someone else’s life. My life had always been messy and loud and hard, but even at its worst, there was still part of me that hoped someday it would change.

This . . . this was final.

I was only faintly aware of the door opening and footsteps rushing toward me. I barely felt it when strong arms slid around me, pulling me up and into a chest that was solid and warm and very real.

I finally came back to myself, a broken gasp ripping out of me as I tried to pull back, but the hold only tightened, anchoring me before I could spiral away. “It’s okay,” a familiar voice murmured. “I’ve got you.”

I looked up, tears blurring everything until the world smeared into light and shadow, and . . . it was Jagger. I stared at him as his dark eyes searched my face, his grip firm but careful as one of his hands cradled the back of my head and his fingers threaded gently into my hair.