She was Tessa Hart.
My younger brother’s wife.
I pressed one hand against my chest and forced my voice to tremble.
“Are they conscious?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are they together?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“Which floor?”
“The emergency surgical wing.”
“I’ll be there shortly.”
I ended the call but did not move.
Grant’s side of the bed was untouched. His navy suit was gone from the closet. The silver watch I had given him on our second anniversary was missing from the dresser.
Anyone looking at the room would have believed that he was exactly where he claimed to be.
Working.
Negotiating.
Building the future he repeatedly told me belonged to both of us.
But Grant had never gone to Bellhaven.
And the humiliating emergency waiting for him at Mercy St. Catherine had not happened entirely by chance.
Three nights earlier, a mechanical failure had forced my flight to Boston to return to Lakehurst before takeoff.
I had been scheduled to speak at a financial leadership conference.
Grant believed I would be gone until Sunday.
Instead of calling him, I decided to surprise him.
