“Hello,” she said.
“Mrs. Elliot, it’s good to meet you. Though the circumstances are not what I’d wish.” The man put a hand out for shaking and she took it. He had spoken at the memorial, she remembered. His grip was firm but not too firm, and his smile warm. Mid-forties, perhaps? A good-looking mid-forties. His gaze held hers as he shook her hand, and for some reason she couldn’t look away. He had a definite presence.
“Chief.” Her husband appeared beside her dressed in pants and a T-shirt. Adam slid an arm around her waist, drawing her against his side. Staking his claim, maybe. “Princess, this is the chief of operations, Nathan Hillier.”
An amused smile flashed across the chief’s face at the mention of her moniker and he ducked his head, presumably to hide it for her sake. Bless her husband for opening his mouth.
“Come on in.” Her husband waved the man forward and the door slid shut behind him.
“Thank you. Adam, we’ve had a communiqué from your mother. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news but I’m afraid your father suffered a terminal heart attack. He passed at 1:20 a.m. yesterday.” The chief’s brow furrowed and he watched her husband closely. “I can get you on a ship in two days’ time. It’s only a freighter, but it’s the best I can do at short notice. Your mother has indicated that she’s willing to delay the funeral for you to be there, or hold a second ceremony upon your arrival.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Adam’s hand tensed on her hip but his voice stayed calm. “Thanks for the offer.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very.”
“All right.” The chief’s lips thinned and his eyes honed in on her husband with a kind of bleak, unhappy understanding. “They’re expecting word back. Wouldn’t you like to send something yourself?”
“No. Thank you.”
The chief’s gaze slid to her, but she had nothing to offer. She knew nothing of this situation with his family, not yet.
“All right.” The chief lifted a hand to the scanner and the door silently opened. “Let me know if you change your mind, Ad.”
“I will.” Her husband blinked repeatedly as the door slid closed. His jaw moved as if he were grinding stones with his teeth.
His father. How horrible. Her heart ached for him.
Her own parents had passed in a shuttle crash four years ago. It had been devastating. The loss had crushed her for a time and Con had been her solace, her strength. He hadn’t always been about greed and duplicity. Once upon a time he’d just been her boyfriend, the supposed love of her life. But he’d loved money more than he had her.
Louise placed her hand on Adam’s and squeezed it tight.
“Five to six hours?” he asked, continuing their earlier conversation without missing a beat. “So if I come and help we could be out of there in under three?”
Huh.
She nodded and he nodded right back.
“All right,” he said. “That still gives us plenty of time to get into a good position for the lights.”
“Hey.” Louise turned, stepping in to him ’til their chests pressed together. She cupped his face in her hands and his dark stubble scratched her palms. Her husband, her man—no matter the extraordinary circumstances that had brought them together—had to be hurting. The vacant gaze and the tautness of his mouth attested to it. She needed to comfort him, to do what she could. “Talk to me.”
No response.
“Adam?”
He looked into her face and grimaced, put his warm hands over hers and moved them down onto his cotton shirt. “I’m fine.”
“But…”
“Louise, I haven’t talked to my parents since they disowned me when I was seventeen. So yes, I’m fine.”
“What happened when you were seventeen?”
His hands tightened over hers and his blue eyes looked as if they carried the pain of the world. He spoke through gritted teeth. “I ran with a rough crowd when I was younger. Too stupid to know better. We got into a bar fight one night and someone died. It was an accident, but… He was about to shoot my friend, so I shot him. He died.”
“Oh.”
Adam had killed someone. Adam was…Adam was a killer. Her husband. No. It didn’t fit. It wasn’t right. She’d seen a killer at work and he hadn’t cared one iota for the blood spilled or the life lost. The killer had enjoyed putting a bullet into Con’s brain, the sick fuck. Her stomach roiled at the memory.
This pained Adam. Two decades later, the weight of it still bowed his shoulders. He looked as if he had aged simply in the telling. His eyes were tired, sad. It didn’t make sense. Her hands started shaking, a fine trembling he couldn’t help but feel.