Been There Done That (Leffersbee #1) - Hope Ellis Page 0,1

I couldn’t let doing the right thing hold Zora back.

The Leffersbees rushed back in, mouths set in grim lines. Mrs. Leffersbee blinked back tears as she settled in the seat next to me. Her arms went around me, but I was a block of ice—too cold, too stiff to lean into the embrace. Mr. Leffersbee came to a crouch in front of me. His bloodshot gaze met mine.

“What do you need, son? We’re here for you. Whatever you need.”

I worked to bring the words up. “Is Zora with you? Does she know?”

They exchanged glances. “No,” Mrs. Leffersbee said, very quietly. “We didn’t tell any of the kids, we just left as soon as we got the call. The sheriff just filled us in.”

I nodded, returning my gaze to the floor. Good. I couldn’t do what had to be done with Zora here. If I set eyes on her, I wouldn’t be able to leave her. I had to do what was right.

The inevitability of this moment and the decision I had to make finally burst the bubble. Suddenly I felt everything. The pain in my ribs, ache in my jaw, hitch in my breathing, dull ache in my chest.

I couldn’t see Mr. Leffersbee anymore when I finally lifted my gaze, not with the film of tears in my eyes. Someone’s hand rested on my knee. I took in a breath and relished the resulting burn. I welcomed the pain. I hoped it stayed with me forever. It would be all that I had left of Zora.

I ran my forearm against my eyes and met Mr. Leffersbee’s eyes like the man I had to be, and I said the words that would seal my fate.

Our fate.

“I need your help.”

Chapter Two

Zora

Present Day

My brother called the musky, tangy, sharp body-smell after working out eau de sweat, and this description usually cracked me up. Everybody sweats. Everybody stinks after working out. No big deal. I’d like to think I had a good sense of self-deprecating humor about life’s inescapable imperfections.

Usually.

But usually, I wasn’t sitting in my office at the university post-gym, wearing my rattiest workout clothes, grimacing at my computer screen like an angry, sweaty, grimacing shrew. And yet, here I was, reading the latest message in my email inbox, and feeling—deep in my bones—all hopes for new grant funding plummet and then die a gratuitously violent death in the canyon of despair. Again. So, the fact that I could smell myself—eau de sweat—filled me with a strange and unreasonable amount of irritation.

My Grandmother Leffersbee used to say, “Life isn’t perfect, but that’s what makes it so interesting.” Then she’d wink before adding, “Do you want interesting? Or do you want boring?”

Right now? I could use some boring perfection. Just a little. Just a smidge. Please.

“Zora.” A vaguely familiar-sounding voice said my name from someplace in the vicinity of my office doorway. I ignored it, hoping they’d take my silence as an invitation to go away.

You’re almost out of time.

My eyes stung, but I wasn’t going to cry. There is no crying in clinic communication research; there is only more research, more grant applications, more trying, more doing. But, damn, I really thought we had this one in the bag. Folks’ livelihoods depended on it. My tenure, my job, depended on it. Not to mention the research itself was important—so incredibly important.

“Zora,” that voice said again, firmer this time. Closer.

Given my present state of mind and eau de sweat fantastique, I can’t help barking out, “Now isn’t a good time.”

The man didn’t respond for a beat, but then once more said, “Zora,” this time with a hint of grit and impatience.

My glare cut away from the offending rejection email and I opened my mouth to volley something scathingly polite and dismissive, but then every nerve and muscle in my body seized. The clouds outside my office window parted at that very moment, emitting a biblical shaft of light that illuminated my overstuffed bookcases—and the breathtaking specimen of man standing in my office doorway on the fifth floor of the medical research building.

What the . . .?

Shock choked me. I couldn’t breathe. The cracked vinyl of the office chair’s armrests bit into the tender flesh of my palms.

I recognized him immediately even though he looked very, very different. All the awkward lankiness and unformed promise of his youth had been ruthlessly fulfilled in the intervening years. But after twelve years of empty, aching absence, of wondering and worrying, of resignation and sadness . . .