Page 53 of The Deadly Shallows

“Yeah,” she said, “he’s a mess.”

“Well, hopefully the samples will help us nail down what’s going on. I’m guessing a good number of the neighborhood dogs spend time in the water,” he said.

“Yep.”

“I’ll get Finn or Emmy to take a look at the samples. We should have an answer by midmorning.”

“That would be great. Dirk sees Dr. Lucy Chang at Happy Paws on Birch Street. I’ll text you the address. She opens at seven.”

“It’s a plan,” he said, helping her clear the table. She’d transferred all the food from takeout containers to regular plates. He didn’t want to leave—not yet, but they both needed rest. It’d been a long day. “I’ll put these in the dishwasher and get out of your hair.”

She nodded, her lips pressed tight.

He raised a brow. “You okay?”

She blinked, moisture misting her eyes. “I know it’s silly, but . . .” She shrugged as he slid the plates into the dishwasher before leaning against the counter and giving her his undivided attention.

“But . . . ?”

She shifted her weight onto her left foot. “I hope I don’t see them in my dreams again.”

“The shooters?” he asked.

She shook her head, looking down. “The victims. Especially Molly.”

This was not an area he excelled in—comforting. He’d tried, but always felt awkward. He stepped closer. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “That can be difficult.”

He’d had plenty of nights where he’d woken up in a cold sweat, though most of those memories had nothing to do with the job.

Shuffling her foot around the edge of the sink floor mat, Austin looked up at him, her eyes soft as her voice. “Has that ever happened to you?”

He inhaled. Details of the horrors he’d seen, of the dreams that haunted him wouldn’t help. But he could still be truthful. “Yes. It has.”

She pressed her lips together and tilted her head as tears welled in her eyes. “Do they ever go away?”

He rubbed her arm, and she leaned into him. He stood stock-still, scared if he moved wrong, she’d leave his hold. He slowly wrapped his arms around her, and to his surprise, she nestled deeper in. Her tears soaked through his shirt.

He rested his chin atop her head. “It’ll be okay. You’re strong.”

“Clearly,” she said, hiccupping in his hold.

He leaned back just enough to look her in the eye, not willing to release the sweet feel of her in his arms. “I’m serious. You are one of the strongest women I’ve ever had the privilege of meeting.”

She swiped at her red cheeks. “You’re just saying that because I’m a mess.”

He cupped her chin. “You are not a mess, and I never say anything I don’t mean.”

She chuckled at that. “You are pretty straight to the point.”

He shrugged. “I suppose in an effort to always be truthful, I lost the ability to cushion it somewhere along the way.”

She sniffed, composing herself—though, despite the tears, she’d really never lost composure.

She shifted her jaw as she leaned back against the kitchen counter, and his arms felt achingly empty.

“How do you make it go away?” she asked.

He slipped his hands into his pockets. “Time. I know it’s the cliché answer, but God brings healing. Unfortunately, it often takes far longer than we’d like.” And that’s when healing was actually possible, but he wasn’t going there with her. She needed encouragement, not the stark truth. And for once in his life he was going to listen to the Holy Spirit’s nudge to keep his mouth shut.