“Mitchell.”
He nodded once as if committing it to memory.
Grace did not ask for his last name.
She did not ask what kind of businessman got ambushed in a storm with blood on his sleeve. She did not ask why his hands were clean but his eyes looked like they had seen very dirty things. She only sat in the chair across from him and watched Mia sleep.
Toward dawn, Mia stirred, opened her eyes, and saw Grace first.
“Your hand is warm,” she murmured.
Grace smiled despite herself. “That good?”
Mia nodded drowsily. “Warm like my mom’s.”
Then she fell asleep again.
This time Vincent did not turn away fast enough for Grace to miss the tears.
By the time gray morning slipped through the curtains, Grace knew only three things for certain.
The child was safe.
The man loved his daughter enough to walk through hell for her.
And whatever had entered her apartment with the rain had not left untouched.
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