Page 72 of The Woman Left Behind

He accepted the invitation, folding in beside her and reaching beyond her to turn out the light.

When the room was dark, he settled in, pulled the covers up high over them, then drew Lillian into his body. When he got her there, he tangled them up.

They lay there, tucked tight, for some time, and Lillian didn’t fade back into sleep.

“If you have troubles getting to sleep, I should have kept us on the couch,” Harry belatedly muttered.

Lillian pressed closer. “Oh no, honey, this is much better.”

She was very right. He was just pleased she agreed.

He still wanted her to go back to sleep.

Harry stroked her back.

And then she told him where her thoughts were, which would be the same as his.

“Who would do that to them?”

Harry buried his face in the top of her hair, wishing he could promise her he’d find who murdered her parents. Wishing he could actually do that so she’d have answers and justice.

But sixteen years had passed. Evidence assuredly had been lost. Witnesses definitely had forgotten. And the ultimate crime didn’t happen on his patch.

In other words, as much as it fucked him, Harry couldn’t make that promise.

What he could say was, “I’ll do everything I can to find out.”

“Are you sure you’re okay being here? Are the dogs okay by themselves for the night?”

“They’re with Rus. Which means they’re with Maddie, and she’s probably feeding them raw filet mignon and they won’t want to come home.”

She laughed softly, it sounded genuine but out of practice, like that evening had lasted ten years and she hadn’t felt mirth during any of them.

They fell silent.

Then Lillian whispered, “I’m so sorry you have to go through this with me.”

“Lilly,” he said sharply.

At his tone, he felt her head move and her gaze on him through the dark.

When he got the last, he stated, “I feel like the luckiest man on the planet that I get to be here for you while you go through this.”

He wasn’t lying.

This was who he was.

And at this very moment in his life, this was where he was made to be.

She pushed her face in his throat and whispered, “My good guy.”

“Damn straight,” he murmured.

Her fingers curled spasmodically against the skin of his back, like she could clutch it.

Then they loosened and pressed tight.

“’Night, Harry,” she said.

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