Page 14 of Rescue

We sip our tea, the warmth of the moment sinking in, until Jon’s voice breaks the stillness.

“Can I ask, I mean… tell me if you think it is none of my business but … can I ask, where’s Layla’s dad?”

The weight of the question lingers in the air, and I feel my throat tighten for just a moment. Jon’s expression is open, his grey eyes steady but not intrusive. He’s waiting, but not demanding, and somehow that makes it easier to respond.

“He died,” I say softly, folding my hands together on the table. “Four years ago. It was a hit and run. We lived in Leeds then. He was out for a run… one of his favourite things to do on the weekends.”

Jon doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his focus sharpening, his attention unwavering.

“They never found the driver,” I continue, my voice even, almost detached. It’s a story I’ve told before, a wound I’ve worked hard to smooth over. “Layla was only two at the time. Too little to understand, really. She still asks about him sometimes, but... she’s so young. She mostly remembers him through stories I tell her.”

I glance up at him, trying to gauge his reaction. His face remains calm, but there’s something in his eyes—a flicker of understanding, of something he doesn’t say out loud.

“It must’ve been…” Jon starts, his voice low, but then he stops, as though unsure how to finish.

“Hard?” I offer with a wry smile. “Yeah, it was. But we managed. You do, don’t you? Somehow you just keep putting one foot in front of the other.”

Jon nods slowly, his hands resting on the table. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, but it feels heavier now, filled with something unspoken. I busy myself withclearing the mugs and muffin plates, needing to move, to do something.

“You’re strong,” he says suddenly, his voice cutting through the stillness.

I glance over my shoulder at him, startled by the quiet sincerity of the words. “I don’t know about that,” I reply lightly. “You just... do what you have to, don’t you? For the people who need you.”

Jon doesn’t reply, but there’s something in his expression that makes my breath catch. He’s not just listening. There is something in his eyes that tells me he has experienced grief. I wonder if this is why he is here. I wait for him to say anything, but he doesn’t, and it feels wrong to pressure him.

I clear my throat, breaking the moment. “Anyway,” I say, forcing a brighter tone, “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“No, I am full.” Jon rises from his chair, his movements deliberate, his expression unreadable. “Thank you,” he says, his voice soft. “For the meal. And for... sharing that.”

I nod, offering a small smile. “What time would you like to have breakfast?”

“Is eight okay?”

“Absolutely. It’s actually a good time. Layla will have been picked up by the school bus at that time so you can enjoy your meal without having to answer a thousand questions.”

A rare smile lifts the corner of his mouth. He lingers for just a second longer, his gaze holding mine, before he excuses himself and heads for the stairs. I watch him go, the sound of his footsteps fading, and I exhale a long, slow breath.

The kitchen feels different now, quieter somehow, and I can’t quite shake the feeling that something between us has shifted, even if neither of us is ready to name it.

Chapter 5

Jon

The garden is asanctuary, a quiet escape from the churn of thoughts that usually plague me. For the first time since arriving here, I’ve managed to push aside the memories of Tajikistan, the weight of Arif’s death… and the death of the girl who didn’t make it. Today, the sunlight feels warm on my skin, and the words on the page in front of me are starting to make sense again. It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it.

The peace doesn’t last long. A rapid patter of footsteps cuts through the stillness, followed by a bright, chirpy voice. “Hi, Doctor Jon!”

Layla’s energy is impossible to miss as she bounds across the grass toward me, her face glowing with enthusiasm. I glance up from my book, bracing myself. “Hello, Layla.”

“What’re you reading?” she asks, climbing onto the wooden bench beside me and leaning over to peer at the cover.

“A thriller,” I reply, holding it up briefly.

“Ooh, is it scary?”

“Not really.”

“Are there murders?”

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