she cried, trying to sit up. “The doctor’s with him. Just relax,” Harriet soothed, trying to hold onto her hand. Grace felt the threat of impending tears. All she could focus on was Ford’s statement of how he was going to kill Rathe. “Oh, Harriet, please.” “He’s out cold and wouldn’t even know you were there,” Harriet said firmly. “Stop moving about so or those nasty welts won’t have a chance to heal.” Grace sank back down onto her stomach, cradling the pillow beneath her head. She was so utterly exhausted, and still so afraid. There was so much blood—and all of it Rathe’s. She felt Harriet’s hand on her head, stroking down her hair to her nape. Her eyes fluttered closed. “Promise me,” she whispered, “if he needs me you’ll call?” “I promise,” Harriet said. Grace fell into the calming embrace of sleep. His head throbbed. His first conscious thought was, God, what did I do? Drink myself under the table? Then came full, blunt awareness. His eyes flew open and he tried to sit up.
