A homicide detective is spending Christmas at his parents’ with his siblings. He is playing the piano with his wife before dinner when she expresses her concerns about his passion. Raynaud’s is a disorder that causes blood vessels to constrict at stress/strong emotions. (A Writer Gone Mad actually has this disorder.)
Her hands fell from the keys, fingers white. I prayed it wasn’t the Raynaud’s again. Not in my haven. “Do you think you’ll ever stop?”
I stole a glance at her, stumbled and then caught myself. “Playing the piano?”
“Letting yourself get so engrossed in these cases, Jack.”
I pulled her close before she could finish and I could think, abandoning the piece. Her thumbs slipped through the belt loops of my jeans. “Of course, I will Abs,” I said. “Someday, I’ll have to. Why would you-”
“I’m just wondering,” She pulled me closer, put her head on my chest. “What if you’re killed before you stop?”
I didn’t say anything; there was always the possibility that it could happen. It almost did three years ago, and she knew it. I couldn’t forget what she had said to me. What if you’re killed?
I was grateful Naomi had stuck her head in, her hands lost in a paper towel, to brake my train of thought. “Hey lovebirds, dinner’s almost ready.”
I looked at her over Abby’s shoulder. “We’ll be right there.”
The expression on her face asked me what she dared not say out loud. Is everything alright?
I just looked at her. I don’t know.
The chandelier was on for the first time since I’d been back, throwing familiar shards all over the walls. I said grace, and felt the safest I had in years. Maybe that was dangerous.
Ethan raised his goblet for a toast and said, “To family, for without it, we’d all be insane.”