Page 136 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2

“I’m going to kill Malfor.” Gabe’s voice is flat, emotionless. “Torture him first. Make him suffer.”

I turn to look at him—really look. His jaw is set in that dangerous way that usually means someone’s about to get hurt, but his eyes… His eyes are empty. Hollow. Like he’s used up every emotion he had and found nothing waiting underneath.

The rain starts again as we pull away from the curb, droplets spattering against the windshield like tears the sky can’t hold back. The windshield wipers begin their rhythmic fight against the persistent moisture, back and forth, back and forth, a mechanical heartbeat in the silence.

We drive through familiar streets that now feel foreign. Everything looks the same, but nothing feels right. The world kept turning while our universe collapsed, and the disconnect is jarring.

“I keep waiting for him to call,” I say softly. “To check in. To ask if we made it home okay.”

Gabe’s throat works like he’s swallowing glass. “He always worried about the drive. Said it was more dangerous than our missions because people get complacent on familiar roads.”

A sob catches in my throat. Such a Hank thing to say—practical concern wrapped in love, statistics disguised as affection.

Familiar landmarks scroll past. The coffee shop where Hank bought me my first latte, patiently explaining the difference between a flat white and a cappuccino while I pretended to care about milk foam. The park where the three of us walked on Sunday mornings, Hank pointing out birds while Gabe and I made fun of his amateur ornithology. The grocery store where he insisted on reading every ingredient label, not because he cared about preservatives, but because he liked the science behind food chemistry.

Memories layer over geography, turning the simple act of driving into an archaeological dig through our shared life.

“I never thought it would be him,” Gabe says suddenly as we turn onto our street.

The words hang in the air, heavy with implications I’m not sure I want to explore.

“What do you mean?”

“I always figured if one of us didn’t make it home, it would be me.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel until the leather creaks. “I’m the one who takes risks. Who pushes boundaries. Who doesn’t think things through.” His voice drops to something barely audible. “Hank was supposed to be thesteady one. The one who lived to be eighty and complained about his arthritis and taught our kids how to fish.”

Our kids. The phrase cuts through me like a blade. Plans we made. Futures we imagined. Dreams that died with him on that metal table.

The house comes into view—weathered cedar shingles, wide deck overlooking the Pacific, windows that reflect the gray sky like empty eyes. Home. But how can it be home when the person who made it feel safe is gone?

“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit as Gabe kills the engine. The sudden quiet feels oppressive without the mechanical comfort of the wipers. “Walk through that door. See his coffee mug in the sink. Smell his cologne on the pillows.”

“Neither do I.” Gabe stares at the house like it might attack us. “We built this place for three people. Everything about it assumes he’ll be there.”

The kitchen with its oversized island designed for all of us to cook together, Hank chopping vegetables with surgical precision, while Gabe and I argued about seasoning. The living room with the sectional sofa arranged so we could all watch movies in a pile of limbs and contentment, Hank in the middle because he ran warm, and Gabe and I both got cold. The bedroom with the California king that seemed perfectly sized when we were all in it, but will feel cavernous with just two.

“Maybe we should sell it,” I say, the words tasting like betrayal even as they leave my mouth. “Find somewhere new. Somewhere that doesn’t have his ghost in every corner.”

“Maybe.” But Gabe doesn’t sound convinced. “Or maybe we learn to live with the ghosts. Maybe we figure out how to honor what we had here while building something new.”

Rain patters against the windshield, filling the silence while we both stare at a house that represents everything we’ve lost and everything we still have to lose.

“Do we keep the house?” I ask, voicing the practical concern that’s been lurking beneath the grief. “Do we change everything? Move his clothes? Pack up his books?”

“I don’t know.” Gabe’s honesty is brutal and necessary. “I don’t know how to make those decisions yet.”

“What about us?” The question scrapes my throat raw. “What happens to us without him to balance the equation?”

Gabe turns in his seat, reaches for my hands. His fingers are warm despite the cold that’s settled into my bones, despite the violence those hands committed just hours ago.

“I’m scared,” he admits, and the words cost him everything.

“Of what?”

“That I won’t be enough. That without him to balance us, we’ll fall apart.” The confession tastes like poison in the air between us. “That you’ll realize you don’t actually want just me. That what we had only worked because he was there to make it work.”

His words crack something open in me. A sob climbs my throat, raw and hot, but I choke it back, pressing his hands between mine as if I can force him to feel what I can’t yet say.

“Our dynamic will be different,” I say carefully, testing each word before I speak it. “The way we… The way we’re intimate will change. The way we fight will change. The way we heal will change.”