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H olden pulled up in front of Briar Winslow’s house. He didn’t want to be here finishing the kitchen installation. He wanted to be with Clara, making sure she was okay. Convincing her she could trust him.

Three nights had passed since they’d found Malcolm’s body.

He was in a coma. A high dose of fentanyl had been found in his blood and his prints were on the syringe, so the signs pointed toward him injecting himself.

But Clara was adamant her attacker had been female, so there were still unanswered questions.

He’d remained on Clara’s couch for the first two nights, but last night she’d stayed at her mother’s house. He’d barely slept.

Before getting out of his truck, he sent another text to Clara.

Holden: Hey. Sleep okay?

Clara: Kind of. You?

Holden: Barely an hour.

The three dots popped up, then disappeared. When she didn’t immediately respond, he shoved his phone into his pocket and climbed out. At Briar’s front door, he knocked and waited, frowning when no one answered. He tried again…and again, nothing.

Was she not home? She knew he was coming.

He pulled out his cell, about to call her, when a car pulled into the drive and Briar rushed out. “Holden, I’m so sorry. I got caught up at the hospital.”

He shoved his hands into his pocket and stepped back while she opened the door. “Is everything okay?”

“Not really. We’re all a bit shaken by what happened to Malcolm.” She sniffed, a hint of tears glittering in her eyes. “I just hope he wakes up and can tell us why he did it. Has Jesse said anything?”

“No.”

Her face dropped.

“But if there’s anyone I trust to find answers, it’s him.”

“I hope you’re right.” She shook her head. “Anyway, sorry I’m late. Come in.”

“I’ll just get the cabinet doors from my truck.”

He went back to his truck and grabbed some of the doors. They were the last items the kitchen needed, then he’d be done.

When he returned to the house, he didn’t see Briar. But then, she might have gone into the bedroom or study.

As he worked, he continued to check his phone, wanting to be ready if Clara needed him. How long was he supposed to give her space when she was in danger?

An hour later his phone rang, Jesse’s name on the screen.

He answered on the second ring. “Hey.”

“Hey. Just thought I’d give you an update. Our two most likely suspects are currently Helen and Deb. Both their shifts give them the opportunity to be at Malcolm’s house at the right time, although Helen was working at the time Clara was attacked.”

Which meant Deb was the prime suspect. “Have you interviewed them?”

“No. That’s the plan today.”

Holden nodded, even though his friend couldn’t see him. “Keep me updated.”

“Will do. You still staying with Clara?”

“She stayed with your mom last night. Any news on when Malcolm might wake up?”

“Not yet.”

“Do you think he did it to himself?”

There was a small pause. “I think he’s involved in whatever’s going on…but I think someone else is too. The woman who attacked Clara.”

Holden’s fingers tightened around the phone.

He hung up and turned to see Briar standing in the doorway, arms wrapped around her waist. “Was that Jesse Hayes?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he…I mean, is there an update on what will happen to Malcolm when he wakes up? Will he be arrested for murder?”

So everyone at the hospital just assumed it was Malcolm. “He didn’t say.”

Holden wouldn’t be sharing about the woman who’d attacked Clara, not when Briar worked with the two main suspects.

She nodded. “Everyone’s so upset by what happened.”

“I assume people have been talking about it at the hospital.”

“It’s all anyone’s talking about.”

He nodded slowly. “Helen and Deb weren’t close to Malcolm, were they?”

“They were friends. We’re all friends.”

Didn’t really tell him much. “I’ll probably be another hour here.”

“Not a problem. It looks great.”

“It does.”

She left the room and he got back to work.

He was just heading back out to his truck to get the last few cabinet doors when her phone on the hall table lit up with a text.

But it wasn’t the text that caught his attention—it was the background photo.

It was a group of people from the hospital, but what really caught his attention was the way she and Malcolm stood so close.

His arm was around her waist, and everyone was looking at the camera except Briar…

She was looking straight at Malcolm.

A coma. Malcolm was in a coma.

Clara sucked in a sharp breath. It didn’t feel real. None of it did. It was like she was in a movie, but not a happy one.

The back door opened and her mother walked out onto the deck, two cups of chamomile tea in hand. “Here you go, honey.”

“Thank you, Mom. And thank you for letting me stay last night. I just needed to get out of the house.”

Her mother shook her head. “Don’t ever apologize for coming over, Clara. This is your home too.”

Warmth filtered through her chest. This was exactly why she’d moved back to Amber Ridge when she’d gotten her diagnosis. Because this was home.

“How are you feeling?” her mother asked gently.

“Confused. I just want to know what’s going on. Who killed Scarlett? Did Malcolm hurt himself or did someone else do it? And mix that into my mess of a personal life.”

“Why’s your personal life a mess?”

She swallowed hard. “Because I love Holden, and I don’t know what to do about it.” She’d never admitted that to her mother. But by the look in Pam Hayes’s eyes, she knew.

“He’s been really good at running from you.”

“You saw that?”

“Clara, I saw everything . And I can tell you that whenever that boy’s in your vicinity, you are all he sees.”

“I thought he loved me too, but then I had that scare at the hospital and he was so quick to end things.”

“I’m not surprised.”

She frowned. “You’re not?”

“He knows what it feels like to be alone in this world and to have no one. And he blames that on cancer. Then you—this beautiful, kind woman who he loves—has her oncologist walk into the room, and it suddenly hits him that he could go through that pain all over again. He panics. He does the only thing he knows how to do to protect himself and pushes you away.”

She made it all sound so obvious. “So many things could happen to me. Health isn’t guaranteed. I want someone who’ll stand by me during my hardest times.”

Her mother nodded slowly. “Letting him back in would be a risk. But loving someone is always a risk.”

She swallowed hard. Since going into remission, she’d prided herself on taking risks. “Do you regret loving Dad, because you lost him?”

“Not for a single second. That man was the love of my life. He gave me you kids and you’re my world. He also gave me some of my best memories. They’re gifts. And they’re still alive inside me. No one can ever take them away.”

Her heart did one of those massive thumps. Because she wanted that. She wanted those memories and that love and everything that came with it. And yeah…she wanted to take that risk.

She stayed outside with her mother for another hour, talking about everything and nothing. Just something else she loved about her mother—they never ran out of stuff to talk about.

When the doorbell rang, her mother stood and squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll get that.”

She was looking out over the yard, a million thoughts running through her head, when the door opened. But it wasn’t her mother who walked through.

Holden stood there, looking big and powerful and protective.

His eyes were intense, emotions flickering in the hazel depths. When he started moving toward her with slow, intentional steps, her heart began to beat faster. Hard thuds against her rib cage that made her breaths shorten and her skin tingle.

He crouched in front of her, so close that she could see the laugh lines beside his eyes. The dark specks in his hazel eyes. “Hey.”

His deep, rumbly voice ran over her skin. “Hey.”

“I’ve missed you.”

“It’s only been a day.”

“Too long.” He reached out and slipped a lock of hair behind her ear, and God, her entire body wanted to lean into that touch. The need was so great that it hurt not to. “How are you doing?”

“My mom is filling me with tea and croissants and some pretty great advice.”

He didn’t smile, just kept his intense gaze on her. “Doesn’t really answer my question, Clara.”

“Not too good.”

Concern…maybe a bit of anger…flickered over his expression. “Let me take you home. Let me look after you.”

Her fingers tightened around her mug.

He lowered his hands to her thighs, just above her knees. “Please. It’s killing me to be away from you.”

It was killing her too. “Okay.” The single word slipped into the air, quiet but powerful.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. I want you to take me home.”

Relief washed over his face, then he whispered, “Thank God.”