Nathan’s eyes were squeezed tight. “Darren, please, no, I can’t deal with this right now.”

“Have you told her how it affected you to see her on the stretcher, her car a crumpled heap?” Darren turned and asked Nathan, his voice holding an edge I had never heard before.

Nathan shook his head. “Please,” he begged in a low voice.

“This is what I’m talking about. If you want her back, then you need to start talking to her. Tell her about your panic attack, tell her about your dead wife, tell her what she does to you.” The pain and frustration was visible in his eyes. It wasn’t Dr. Morgenson I was looking at. It was Darren; Nathan’s close friend.

“Darren, I…”

“Show her the box. It’s the best way for you to tell her. Let her in; let her know you and the truth. It’ll help you both.” Darren’s face was filled with genuine care and concern as he stared at Nathan. “If, after all she learns, she still wants to be with you, you’ll have to not only accept and embrace it, but you’ll have to let go of your fears. See how this works? There has to be some vulnerability for her to trust you again. Otherwise you will hold your relationship back. Let go. It’s time to live.”

With that, Darren walked up to Nathan and squeezed his shoulder before leaving us alone. Silence prevailed as he mulled over what to say.

“I promise I’m going to tell you. Just give me a little time,” he said softly.

I nodded in response, having nothing left to say.

It was in the late afternoon three days later that I was released. Nathan helped me into the car, and as we drove away I waved goodbye to the gathering of people who had come to see me off.

The ride home was silent; I was lost in my thoughts. We were about halfway home when my hand twitched, and I realized at some point I had grabbed for Nathan’s. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move, but his thumb was drawing lazy circles on mine.

When we arrived, he left me to get the wheel chair out of the trunk before helping me onto my new mode of transportation for at least the next week. My other injuries prevented the use of crutches for a while.

The familiar static charge was in the air when we rode on the elevator, and I was very happy I wasn’t standing next to him. Instead, I fidgeted with the hospital tag I was still wearing around my wrist.

“I want to tell you,” he said as he wheeled me down the hall to my condo.

“Okay.” My eyes stayed trained straight ahead.

“Now.”

I nodded and swallowed hard.

He found something to prop the door open as he helped me in. We moved to my bedroom.

True to her word, Erin had indeed cleaned up. The blankets were gone from the couch in the living room and were returned to the spare bedroom. My own bed was made with new sheets, the floor clear of any debris.

Nathan picked me up, placed me on the bed, and began positioning the pillows around me. He helped prop me up against the headboard, making sure my leg was elevated and then he headed out to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water that he placed on the night stand next to me.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, and I nodded.

In his absence, my eyes drifted around the room. Nothing had changed, but so much had. I waited in silence, not moving. Moving was painful.

It didn’t take long for him to return, and when he did, he was carrying a wooden chest about half the size of the carry-on sized suitcase he rolled in behind him.

He climbed on the bed next to me—the box was in his hand and his eyes were locked on the clasp. I heard him swallow hard, and the butterflies in my stomach multiplied. That was what Darren had been talking about.

“I h-haven’t opened this in over three years.”

“What’s in it?” I asked in a whisper.

His hand moved over the lid, his voice a whisper. “Ghosts.”

With trembling hands he flicked the clasps and tilted it back, opening the contents to the world.

My jaw dropped when my eyes landed on the picture that lay on top. It was the first thing I noticed because I recognized the photo in question. It resided in Jack Holloway’s office. Well, most of it did. Jack had hidden the third person in the picture. It wasn’t only his daughter and him; it included Nathan.

“That’s Grace Holloway, Jack’s daughter.”

“Yes,” he agreed and swallowed hard once more, “but, her gravestone reads Grace Thorne.”

My eyes snapped to his. “Oh, my God.”

“There are a few at the office who know, those who have been around long enough. They know, but have been asked not to say anything about it.”

I couldn’t speak. Shock shut my mind down.

Things Jack said came back to my mind. I was still new when his daughter had died in an accident. He had grieved heavily for her, and I remembered being confused by some of his behavior due to my own experiences with my dad.

I remembered talking to Dr. Morgenson about my boss’s behavior.

My stomach dropped. Darren had to explain the grieving process to me like I was a child. A process he and his extended family were going through over the same loss as my boss.

“We were married after we finished our undergrad. When I went to Harvard, she came with me and got a job, working while I attended classes. It was a bit of a strain, as I know you are aware law school is, but we made it through. After Harvard, we moved to Indianapolis and found a house and talked about children. Grace always wanted a big family,” he said, his shoulders slumping while he fingered through the box. “Four miscarriages. She made it to the end of the first trimester only once, and it was ripped away.”

Thoughts about having children had never crossed my mind before the dream, so to even think about wanting them and then losing them was lost on me.

“When she finally made it to the second trimester with her fifth pregnancy, my trial of Via Marconi ended. In all my bravado, I failed to recognize the danger I put my family in. I managed a conviction of a Marconi family member, something that had never happened before. Not only that, it was the daughter of the head member of the family. All the time away from my wife and the nights without sleep, working eighty plus hour weeks while I gathered as much information on them as I could, paid off in the end.”

I remembered that trial. Young, hotshot prosecutor had done the impossible, they said. “Rising star,” they called him.

“Vincent Marconi wasn’t too pleased, and I gloated in his face,” he said through clenched teeth. “Fucking stupid.”