Page 12 of The Woman Left Behind

I bucked and sobbed and heaved again, the trifecta of sad, mortifying and gross.

Eventually, there was nothing more coming out.

When I rested my forehead against the seat, Harry flushed the toilet and urged, “Stay there.”

I wasn’t going anywhere. Ever. I was never leaving that bathroom. Not ever.

Regrettably, he returned and ordered gently, “Sit back, Lillian.”

I sat back and avoided his eyes.

I was embarrassed, yeah.

Mostly, I was destroyed.

He wiped my mouth with a wet cloth then handed me a La Croix.

The tab was already popped.

I took some in my mouth, swished it around, leaned in and spat it out in the toilet.

Harry flushed it again.

I sat back and took another drink then dashed at the wet that was leaking onto my cheeks.

God, I hated vomiting.

I could avoid Harry no longer, considering he sat on his ass in my tiny bathroom with me.

Yes.

He sat on his ass right there with me in my tiny bathroom.

When I finally caught his gaze, he said hopelessly, “Don’t lose hope, Lillian. Those bodies have yet to be identified.”

“I’ve been living in denial,” I mumbled pitifully.

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“I’d sleep on an air mattress for the last sixteen years if I thought a PI could find my parents. I didn’t…I couldn’t…I?—”

Harry saved me by cutting in. “Understandable.”

“They’d call.”

“All right.”

“Or write.”

“Okay, honey,” he whispered.

My face scrunched, then I was sobbing again, but this time, doing it in Handsome Harry Moran’s arms.

God, he was warm. Hard and strong and warm. I could burrow into him forever.

And that was just what I did.

Burrowed in.

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