Freed (Fifty Shades as Told by Christian #3) - E.L. James Page 0,260

memory of her beautiful, sour face, I hurry into the kitchen to find the fabled chicken stew Taylor mentioned this morning.

It’s good to see Ana wolfing down Mrs. Jones’s cooking. I sit cross-legged in the middle of the bed, watching her as I devour my lunch. It’s delicious, and nourishing, too—perfect for Ana.

“That was very well heated.” She smacks her lips, looking replete and a little drowsy. I beam at her, feeling pleased. I managed not to burn myself this time—so, yeah, it was!

“You look tired.” I place my bowl on her tray and, standing, take both from her.

“I am,” she admits.

“Good. Sleep.” I kiss her quickly. “I have some work I need to do. I’ll do it in here, if that’s okay with you.”

She nods and closes her eyes, and seconds later she’s out.

Ros has sent me a preliminary report of her visit to Taiwan. She reassures me that while it was the right decision for her to go, I’ll still need to travel there myself, and soon. It’s strange reading her quick summary. It’s been days since I thought about my business, my company, the shipyard, or even the world at large—I’ve lost track of time. My attention has been solely concentrated on my wife. I glance over at her. She’s still fast asleep.

I read through my other e-mails, and there’s a detailed earnings projection on Geolumara, and a remarkably upbeat e-mail from Hassan at GEH Fiber-Optics—morale there is up since my visit and business is going well. My trip to see them was worth it.

Taylor’s gentle tap at the door disturbs my reading. “Welch is here, sir.”

I can barely hear him, he’s speaking so softly. I nod and, with another quick check on my sleeping beauty, follow him out to the living room.

Welch is standing and admiring the view from the window. He’s grasping a large manilla envelope.

Showtime, Grey.

“Welch.”

He turns. “Mr. Grey.”

“Shall we head into my study?”

I listen to Ana’s breathing as I watch her, timing each of my breaths to hers. In. Out. In. Out. Focusing on her means that I don’t have to focus on the photographs Welch has left with me.

Why didn’t Carrick and Grace tell me?

I lived with Jackson Hyde!

How did I not know this?

My thoughts have been racing, searching through all the nooks and crannies of my troubled mind, trying to shine a light in the shadows, but I’ve found nothing. My foster care experience is hidden in the murky depths of the past.

I cannot remember any of it. A chunk of my life. Gone. No. Not gone. Erased.

In its place is a dark, gaping hole of nothing but uncertainty.

It’s deeply unsettling. Surely I should remember…something?

Ana stirs. Her eyes flicker open and find mine.

Thank God.

“What’s wrong?” She blanches, and she sits up, her face strained by her concern.

“Welch has just left.”

“And?”

“I lived with the fucker.” The words are barely audible.

“Lived? With Jack?”

Swallowing down my agitation, I nod.

“You’re related?” Ana’s shock is palpable.

“No. Good God, no.”

Frowning, she moves over and tugs back the duvet; it’s an invitation to join her. I don’t hesitate. I need her—to anchor me to the now and to help me make sense of this alarming news and this huge gap in my memory.

Right now, I’m untethered.

From everything.

Kicking off my shoes and clutching the photographs, I slip in beside her and drape an arm over her upper thighs as I lay my head in her lap. Slowly she trails her fingers through my hair; the gesture is comforting, and it calms my troubled soul. “I don’t understand,” she says.

Closing my eyes, I picture Welch and recall the throaty rasp of his voice as he briefed me. I repeat his words for Ana, editorializing a little. “After I was found with the crack whore, before I went to live with Carrick and Grace, I was in the care of the state of Michigan. I lived in a foster home.” I pause and take a gulp of air. “But I can’t remember anything about that time.”

Ana’s hand stops and rests on my head. “For how long?”

“Two months or so. I have no recollection.”

“Have you spoken to your mom and dad about it?”

“No.”

“Perhaps you should. Maybe they could fill in the blanks.”

I tighten my hold on Ana, my life raft. “Here.” I pass her the photographs. I’ve been poring over them in the hope that they might stir a dormant memory that’s buried deep. The first depicts a scrubby little house with a cheery, yellow front door. The second shows an ordinary