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When we pull through the gates of the house, I cast a wary look across to James. The car feels set to explode with the weight of his anger, and Beau’s out before I come to a complete stop. She slams the door and paces to the house, ignoring more animosity from Fury as she passes him on the steps. James remains in the seat next to me, his breathing audible. I let down my window when Otto approaches. He eyes James. Looks at me. “Take him into the office,” I say, scanning the front of the house. “Daniel’s here, so go around the side.”
“Got it.”
I look at James. “Do you need a minute?” If I take him in that office where Kenny Spittle is within reach, he’ll be dead before I can even think of the questions we need to ask.
“For what?” James gets out, and I sigh, following him.
“To calm down.”
“I’m calm.”
I laugh under my breath, having to hold back from punching him in the face to snap him out of his bad mood. “Take a minute,” I order, leaving no room for an argument. “Or have a drink. I’ll meet you in the office.” I follow my feet through the main house, meeting Tank in the foyer. “Where is she?”
“She went straight to your room,” he answers, gesturing up the stairs. “The kid’s in the kitchen with your mom.”
“Is she okay?” My instinct takes me to the stairs, not waiting for Tank’s reply. I could understand a retreat to our room if she’d pulled a stunt like Beau. But she didn’t.
“Quiet,” he says, making my pace increase.
“Has she been down since the kid arrived?”
“No.”
Why didn’t she go straight to Daniel? “Tell the men I’ll be there in a minute.”
I reach the top and find Beau’s aunt gently knocking on the door to James’s and Beau’s room. “Beau, darling, want to talk about it?” Zinnea hears me and gives me a worried shrug. “What happened?”
“Don’t ask,” I reply, passing her, but I come to a slow stop when something comes to me. I turn to face her. “How was your shopping trip?”
She recoils, surprised. “Well, eventful.”
“Before the eventful part.”
Her head tilts. “Is there something specific you would like to ask?”
I smile. “Am I that transparent?”
“Forgive me, but in the short time I’ve known you, I’ve learned you’re a straight shooter. No dancing around the point. Am I right?”
“You’re right?”
“So ask me.”
“Beau called me from the store.”
“That would be when we lost Rose.”
“What?”
“Only for a few minutes. She forgot something and neglected to mention she was going back.”
Only for a few minutes? A few minutes is all it takes. Rose knows that. “What did she forget?”
“Shaving cream.”
I can’t hide my recoil. My wife hasn’t shaved in three years. It’s waxing or nothing. “Right,” I say quietly, backing up, just as Beau swings the door open, her eyes batting back and forth between us. I know immediately she’s heard our conversation. She’s heard her aunt share something that shouldn’t have been shared. What the fuck is going on and, more to the point, why the fuck don’t I know about it? I tilt my head. “If Rose doesn’t talk, I’m coming to you,” I warn, knowing she knows whatever there is to know. Her lips straighten, and she inhales, but she nods, accepting, and that just puts me even more on edge. Because Beau obviously thinks I should know. What the fuck has happened? We’ve not argued, so why is my wife avoiding me? Plus, Daniel is in the kitchen with Mum. Why didn’t she rush straight there to see him? To show him all the soccer kit she just bought?
I turn away and walk with conviction, my stomach doing cartwheels. I don’t do nervous. Never have. Trust my fucking wife to fix that. I push my way into our room and scan the space. No wife. The bathroom door is closed. I approach it, listening. Nothing. Abandoning my need to shoulder barge my way in and demand answers, I force my instinct into a calmer approach. What the hell did Doc miss? What’s wrong with her? Is it treatable? Will she be okay? “Fucking hell,” I breathe, everything—my head, my stomach, my heart—is in chaos. I tap the door lightly. “Rose, baby?” I call through the wood. “You in there?” What the fuck am I doing? This isn’t me. I drop my forehead to the door. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah,” she says, quiet and unsure, only compounding the anxiety swirling in my gut. I take the handle and push the door open, but I remain on the threshold, hesitant and as nervous as a man could be. She’s sitting on the edge of the tub, hands in her lap, fingers twiddling. She looks up at me, tears pouring. Oh fuck. My fears multiply, but I find it in myself to pull my head out of my arse, disregard my own uncertainties, and go to her. My fierce warrior doesn’t cry. She gets angry, upset, frustrated, but hardly ever cries. I fall to my knees and take her wrists, automatically scanning her arms for damage. The floor for blood. Nothing. It’s a mild consolation.
