Gone From Me: Hearts of the South, Book 10

by Linda Winfree

Chapter Seven

  When Rob finally arrived home, Savannah’s car remained next to the driveway. He frowned at the sporty Mercedes. The sisters were close, but he knew as well as anyone how much Savannah treasured her time off and despised small towns. She’d spent the entire day in Coney?

  Once he opened the side door, soft conversation and the sounds of The Fray drifted from the kitchen, surrounding him with soothing familiarity. His sister-in-law had been a fixture at their little house in Valdosta, and he’d joked that they should rent her a room. He leaned a shoulder on the doorway, watching the two dice and slice vegetables into sloppy piles.

  Amy smiled at him, happiness and welcome warming her eyes, and he found himself unable to catch his breath, about like that fourth mile when Troy Lee decided they needed to run at a higher tempo. She was truly, genuinely happy to see him.

  When was the last time he’d seen that, felt that?

  “Hey.” Knife in hand, she beckoned him closer.

  “Hey.” At least it didn’t come out as winded as he felt. He leaned forward to meet her halfway across the island and brush his mouth across hers. Straightening, he filched a slice of red bell pepper from Savannah’s cutting board. She rapped his knuckles with the damp knife blade. “What are you still doing here?”

  “Nice way to make me feel welcome there, Robert.” Savannah returned to slicing the pepper. “You haven’t seen me in forever.”

  “I saw you two weeks ago at your parents’.” He snagged a tumbler from the drainer and opened the fridge to pour a glass of water. He turned in time to catch the unspoken communication that passed between his wife and her sister. Something about that glance sent a shiver over his back. That glance said this was more than a friendly family dinner. His nape prickled. He rested his hips against the sink counter. “So what’s this all about?”

  “Dinner?”

  He ignored his wife, who he already knew would damn well prevaricate to avoid a personal confrontation with him when it suited her. He could trust his sister-in-law not to walk on eggshells. “Savannah, what’s this all about?”

  “We’re concerned about you.” She laid the knife aside and reached for a towel to wipe her hands.

  Eyes narrowed, he studied her. Whatever they were “concerned” about, she expected a fight. He could see it in the way she tilted her chin and straightened her shoulders. He knew that stance—had seen it often enough on both her and Amy, usually when they were sparring about something like who was the most spoiled. “Why?”

  “We think you might be exhibiting symptoms of depression.”

  Annoyance tightened his throat. He covered it with a snort and set his tumbler aside with deliberate casualness. Hands braced against the counter, he glowered at his sister-in-law. “I’m not depressed.”

  She didn’t give an inch, not that he’d expected her to. “In the past few months, what have you had more of, good days or bad ones?”

  He stilled, breath gone now for a completely different reason. He flicked a glance at Amy, who’d abandoned the knife and vegetables and watched him with eyes wide and frightened.

  Frightened. That fear slammed into him.

  Frightened not of him. For him. For them.

  As much as he didn’t want to take it out and look at it, he’d do anything for her, do anything to get that look off her face.

  He met Savannah’s suddenly gentle gaze head-on. “Bad ones.”

  Amy’s closed eyes and soft wounded-kitten sound knifed him between the ribs.

  “Sleep problems?”

  “Yeah.” Although he could tell she already knew the answer to that. Hell, he looked at himself in the mirror every day, and if he could see the dark bruises of insomnia under his eyes, she could.

  “You’re tired a lot. Fatigued.”

  “Yes.” He snapped out the syllable despite his effort to keep his voice even.

  “You’ve dropped a few pounds. Lack of appetite?” At his nod, Savannah pulled in a breath and went on. “Other than the running, what are you doing for fun? Are you reading or fishing or shooting?”

  She’d rattled off the list of hobbies he used to love, but hadn’t touched for months. She didn’t even have to wait for a reply, but tucked her hair behind her ear and gave him an encouraging smile. “Tell me about your mood.”

  He didn’t want to go there. “What about it?”

  “Come on, Rob. Irritable? Numb? Hostile? Aggressive and angry? What are you?”

  Angry and hostile were beginning to describe this moment, but he tamped the emotions down. She was trying to help him. She cared about him and about Amy, and she was trying to help. He simply had to keep telling himself he was doing this for Amy.

  He dug his fingers into the countertop. “Numb most of the time. A little irritable over stupid stuff.”

  “He got into an argument with Jake Stringham on duty this week,” Amy whispered. Savannah whirled in her direction, then back to Rob.

  “You?”

  He nodded.

  “Okay, last question.” Her audible inhale tensed his entire body with anticipation. “Thoughts of suicide or death?”

  The question hit like a sucker punch. He looked away, fixed his gaze on the little glass apothecary jar that held sand and shells from their last long weekend together, well over two years ago. Silence stretched, underscored by The Fray’s slow, mournful lyrics.

  “Rob?” That wasn’t fear now in Amy’s tremulous voice. What he heard was sheer terror.

  A memory beat in his brain, the slow slide of the river and standing on a bridge, forehead pressed to his clasped hands. Considering letting the water simply take him—an easy way to die.

  “Yes.” The syllable was barely a breath itself, barely a sound in the room. Amy’s agonized little moan put that knife in his gut again, and the panic kicked in. He couldn’t breathe, the same as he’d felt earlier in the day in Calvert’s office. He tilted his head back as if dodging a blow. “You don’t get it. I can’t be depressed.”

  “Well, you are.” Damn it, he hated that Savannah wouldn’t play the game, wouldn’t soft pedal. Why couldn’t she leave him well enough alone? “But you don’t have to stay that way.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “I understand more than you think.” An edge, hard and desperate, entered Savannah’s voice. “I understand being in law enforcement is part of your identity and you’re afraid if anyone finds out you’re depressed, that’ll be taken away when you just got it back. I get that. I also get that untreated depression can be fatal and that more cops die from suicide each year than they do in on-the-job incidents. I don’t want you to be one of them.”

  They stared at each other.

  She smacked a hand on the island. “Are you going to let me help you or not?”

  His chest hurt. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “I do.” Savannah held out a hand. “Let me help you.”

  He stared at her upturned palm, then at Amy’s tear-stained face. He met Savannah’s gaze again and, on a shaky nod, laid his hand in hers. With surprising strength, she tugged him forward and into a fierce hug.

  “Thank God,” she whispered, tightening her arms around him. Against him, her trembling, like a runner after a hard race, was palpable. She cupped the back of his head and pressed her cheek to his. “It’s going to be okay. I promise. It’s going to be okay.”

  After a long moment, she levered away and wiped tears from her cheeks.

  “All right,” she said, the unshakeable Dr. Savannah Mills almost in place once more. “I’m pretty sure this is all psychological and not biological, but you’ve got to have a physical and some blood work done—”

  “I’m not letting you stick me with a needle.”

  “Not me, you goof.” She rubbed her palm up and down his arm, a point of warmth and connection that was probably as much for her benefit as his. “I checked out the local doctors today and talked the best one I could find into seeing you before your shift starts in the morning. He�
�ll meet you in the ER at six. If the blood tests are clear, he’ll refer you to a mental-health specialist and you can get your talk therapy on.”

  “Thanks.” He injected a heavy dose of irony into the word. “Control freak.”

  “You know you love me. I’m the sister you never had.” Her voice cracked, and this time, he pulled her into a close hug.

  “Thank you.” He whispered the genuine gratitude near her ear.

  “You can thank me by getting better.” She kissed his cheek. “I want my old Robert back.”

  “You and me both.”

  She laughed and stepped away, obviously trying to get her emotions under control. “I left my phone in the living room. I’m going to make sure I don’t have any messages from the hospital.”

  He was pretty sure she was lying, since her phone was like an extra appendage and she never left it anywhere but her back pocket. He could completely understand needing a moment, though, since he felt like one raw nerve, completely flayed and bare. On a deep inhale, he rubbed a hand over his eyes.

  He dropped his hand to find Amy watching him, fingers covering her mouth, devastation darkening her tear-filled eyes.

  “Amy,” he murmured, taking a step toward her. “Please don’t look at me like that.”

  “Suicide, Rob?” She shook her head, still crying. “I couldn’t bear it if… And I didn’t even know…”

  Another step and he had her in his arms, pressed as close to him as he could get her. She wept harder, and he enfolded her, making his body a shield against the agonized sobs tearing at her.

  “Promise me.” She dug her short nails into his shoulder blades, clinging to him. “Promise me you won’t.”

  “No. Never.” Her pain tore at him, thawing him from the icy deadness of the past few months. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I wouldn’t put you through that.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise.” He couldn’t tell her that she’d kept him on that bridge that night, out of the river. He wouldn’t tell her, wouldn’t put that image in her head where he could never take it away. He pressed his lips against her forehead. “I’d do anything for you.”

  “What exactly do I have to do to wrap a good-looking guy around my finger like that?” Savannah’s trademark smart-assery cut through the tension. Rob choked on a laugh that was too close to a sob, and Amy sagged into him.

  He kept his arms around Amy, but cradled her head in his hands and lifted her splotchy, tear-stained face so he could look into her eyes. “Be everything he ever wanted.”

  Savannah harrumphed. “Oh, screw that noise.”

  *

  Hours later, with dinner over and Savannah headed home, he still felt raw and exposed. A hot shower didn’t help, an edgy, itchy sensation crawling beneath his skin. He brushed his teeth too hard, half-listening to the weather forecast coming from the television in their bedroom. The remnants of the tropical storm that had dumped rain on them for days, saturating the ground, stalled north, and the meteorologist ran through a dire list of flood warnings if the front didn’t dissipate soon. The weather segued into sports, and he spit before attacking his teeth and gums again.

  At least there’d been nothing on the news about Brittany Jenkins’s disappearance, other than an offhand report of the case being transferred to the Chandler County DA’s office for further investigation. He spit and reached for the mouthwash. He winced at the sting and washed out the bowl while he swished. He rinsed his mouth one last time and wiped down the sink. Hands gripping the vanity, he eyed himself in the mirror.

  He looked like shit, all raw and wrung out.

  He felt like it too.

  In the bedroom, Amy turned off the television and dropped the remote on the nightstand. She came to stand in the doorway, arms over her midriff, one shoulder against the jamb. He fought off the irrational feeling of being cornered and trapped. He met her haunted gaze in the mirror.

  “Honey, you have to quit looking at me like that.” He struggled to keep a defensive edge out of his voice.

  “I can’t help it. I’m worried.”

  This was what he’d been afraid of all along. He gripped the vanity until his fingers ached. She wasn’t responsible for his emotions being crap. Somehow he would find a way to let her in, allay her fears and not alienate her, especially since she’d started coming back to him.

  “Hovering over me isn’t going to help either one of us.” He turned and leaned on the vanity. He dredged up a gentle smile for her benefit. “I feel like shit, but I feel better after the past three days than I have for months. Babe, I promise you I’ll be okay, but you can’t mother me.”

  The word fell between them, and he swallowed a curse. He could have gone all night without saying that, without bringing all that mess into this. She wasn’t anyone’s mother because of him.

  Her arms tightened, a sure sign he’d said the wrong thing. “I’m not trying to be your mother.”

  He pushed away from the vanity and went to stand before her. He rested his hands on her shoulders. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I want to believe that.” She laid her palms at his waist, slightly above his hipbones. He basked in the welcome warmth of a touch he’d missed more than he wanted to admit. “I do.”

  “Then…” He couldn’t very well tell her to back the hell off, the way he had Troy Lee when his partner’s questions got too close to home. He rubbed at her shoulders. “Give me a little space on this tonight.”

  “Okay.” She removed her hands from him.

  Did all women say it like that, all terse and tight so any man with a single brain cell would know it was anything but okay?

  “That does not mean—” He bit the words off. He was irritable and hostile and angry, all the things Savannah had asked him about earlier, but this was Amy, the person he loved above all others. They stood on tenuous ground as it was, and as badly as he wanted to fight until they had it all sorted out, the way they used to, and then fall together to make up afterwards, like the old them, this wasn’t the old them.

  He didn’t know how to navigate this Amy or this them. Hell, he couldn’t even navigate himself.

  It pissed him off.

  He jerked a hand through his damp hair. “I’m going to bed.”

  The weight of her gaze settled between his shoulder blades. He flipped the bedcovers back.

  “Savannah says Daddy gave you a hard time about being laid off. Is that true?”

  Seriously. He could not catch a break tonight. Resting his hands at his hips, he dropped his head and tried to flex the tension out of his neck and shoulders. “I wouldn’t call it a hard time. He was worried about you.”

  “What did he do?”

  Son of a bitch. He lifted a hand and let it fall. Trying to rub away the tension gripping his neck, he turned to face her. “He offered to pay for the artificial insemination.”

  If he hadn’t been so all-out irritated now, the horror on her face would have almost been funny. “You told him no, right?”

  “Yes, I told him no, that we’d decided not to go that route, which is when he offered to cover our living expenses until I could find another job so any prospective birth parents wouldn’t look at us unfavorably.”

  “Oh my God.” She covered her eyes.

  He snatched up his pillow. “I also told him my dad had done a dandy job of teaching me how to handle money and we had enough savings to cover our living expenses for almost a year.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this?” She dropped her hand. Hurt and annoyance glimmered in her brown eyes.

  He really needed her to stop looking at him like that. He needed to crawl in a hole and maybe get a couple hours sleep because, fuck, he had to face this down in the morning, then keep it together all day. He sucked in a breath.

  “Because he’s your father and he loves you. He meant well. All he wants is to make sure you’re taken care of, which is the same thing I want. I’d just lost my dad. I wasn’t going to do anything to mess up your relationshi
p with yours.” With his free hand, he grabbed the blanket folded on the bench at the foot of their bed.

  Amy stilled, expression shifting from ire to wariness. “What are you doing?”

  “I told you.” He stalked into the hall. “Going to bed.”

  “You’re sleeping on the couch?”

  “Yeah.” He tossed the bedding down on the sofa and looked around for the remote. “I’m sleeping on the couch.”

  “What the hell, Rob?” Oh, yeah, they were beyond ire and annoyance. She was cursing out of anger. A lifetime ago, he’d found that delectably adorable because the lapses were so rare.

  “I’m exhausted. I have to work tomorrow.” With the remote, he ticked the points off on his fingers. “I’m pissed as hell. And I am going to bed.”

  “You’re pissed. You’re pissed?” At her sides, she curled her fingers into fists, released them, fisted them again. “Well, that makes two of us, then.”

  “What did I do wrong now?” He dropped onto the couch and accessed the television guide channel to scroll through the late-night offerings he wasn’t even going to watch. Whatever he tuned into every night was all background noise, sound and fury to get him through the dark hours.

  “I’m not angry at you. I’m angry at the situation, at myself. You have been suffering, and I didn’t even see it. My sister had to tell me what was wrong. What kind of wife does that make me?” She tousled her hair. “Then you tell me what Daddy did, and I could kill him. To top it all off, you’re on the couch again. And I can’t do anything to fix any of it.”

  “Amy, honey.” He settled on a twenty-four-hour news channel and dropped the remote on the coffee table. The hot blonde Wilson was infatuated with nattered on about some missing-persons case in Alabama. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re not going to solve this tonight.”

  “I know that.” She spoke with extreme precision, irritation lurking under the surface. “But you sleeping on the couch is not going to help us solve it at all.”

  “Sweetheart, I’m mad as hell at the whole freaking world right now. I am trying like crazy not to fight with you—”

  “Why? Fight with me if it’ll make you feel better. I’d rather have you fighting me than…than leaving me like this.”