Page 197 of Dark Night of the Soul

“That’s good,” she said. “He loves you.”

The words hit like an arrow to the heart. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t respond. I said nothing.

“I think he’d move mountains for you.”

My voice was weak when I spoke. “I think he would, too.”

“I like him,” she said then.

And it shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. I’d never sought anyone’s approval. And now she’d handed it to me like a gift I didn’t know how to hold.

“So does Grace,” she added.

“That’s good,” I whispered.

“But I think I’m here for a reason,” she said.

I nodded, throat tight. “We have something in common.”

“What we have in common,” she said, “is we both survived them.” Her gaze flicked to Kincade again. “And you chose someone who won’t let them finish the job.”

My breath caught. How did she see that? How did she know? “You don’t even know him.”

“I know that look,” she said. “The way he stands. The way he stays.”

I said nothing for a long moment as I stared out at the Isar ahead of us like it held all the answers. I wished it did.

“I killed him,” I said then. “The man who did this to us.”

I don’t know why I said it. I guess because I needed her to know.

She was quiet, thinking it through. Then she nodded once. “Good. He can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

No judgment. Cool acceptance. Relief flooded through me.

“Would you have killed him?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “Because he hurt you, too.” Then she went still for a long moment. “I killed a lot of people I didn’t mean to.”

I squeezed her hand. Hot tears burned behind my eyes. I blinked them back. Barely. “I know.”

“I didn’t know what I was,” she said. “But I do now.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. What could I say? That I understood? I did.

“One thing helped, though,” she added.

“What’s that?”

“Having someone who cares. Friendship,” she said. “Your friend, Grace. She…” She hesitated, like she was reaching for a word she didn’t trust. “She helps me. Sits with me. Talks to me about… things. Reads from a book.”

“A book?” I asked, my brows drawing together.

“A Bible,” she said simply. “Grace reads to me when my thoughts slip.”

Her thumb rubbed over my knuckles like she was comforting herself with the motion.

“Small passages. Psalms, mostly. The parts that sound like someone lived through something awful and still woke up the next day.”