Chace was home.
“Honey?” I called, my voice barely audible.
His arm around my belly gave me a squeeze. “Go back to sleep, baby.”
God, he really felt nice. Everything felt nice. His awesome mattress. The down comforter over us. Pillows that were just the right mixture of firm and yielding. The warm cocoon we were in. Chace the length of me, holding me close.
Then where he’d been, why he’d been there and the nuance of Misty that was attached to it penetrated. My eyes quit fluttering, my consciousness quit doing the same and I came awake.
“Are you okay?” I whispered.
“Go back to sleep, Faye,” he whispered back.
I laid there in the curve of his body, beyond comfortable, warm, safe, having had a nice night in a nice house and not being out in the cold dark investigating a murder and telling a family someone they loved was dead.
Then I moved my hand to his at my belly.
When I asked it this time, it was firmer.
“Chace, are you okay?”
His fingers extended out, mine fell through, his caught mine, lacing them and he closed both of our fingers tight.
Then he said quietly, “No. But I’ll be all right after I sleep.”
I pulled my hand from his but immediately turned in his arm.
He immediately adjusted with my body’s movements as he started, “Faye –”
I wrapped my arm around his waist, pressed close and asked, “Do you need to talk?”
“I need to sleep,” he answered.
“Maybe you should talk,” I suggested quietly and cautiously.
“Actually, baby, what I need is sleep.”
“It was bad,” I whispered.
“Yeah,” he whispered back.
Oh jeez.
“So you should talk,” I urged softly.
“Honey, you’re sweet but what I need is sleep.”
“You should get it out.”
His arm around my waist tightened and his voice got a little impatiently growly when he said a warning, “Faye.”
“It isn’t good to sleep on stuff, Dad says so,” I pressed.
“Your father is a wise man but I’m not bein’ nice, shieldin’ you. It’s late and I really need sleep.”
I pressed closer to him and whispered, “You bury stuff, it can fester.”
“Faye –”