Rhage had a strange impulse to hug the doggen—and he might have followed up on it except Fritz would have passed out from the breach of protocol.

“Thank you. You’re so on it. That means everything.”

Rhage strode fast and hard over the mosaic depiction of an apple tree in bloom—and he was almost to the hidden door under the grand staircase when he stopped and looked back.

“Fritz?”

The butler skidded to a halt in the archway of the dining room. “Yes, sire?”

“I know this is god-awful timing. But I need you to buy something for me. Right away.”

The ancient butler bowed so low his jowls nearly hit the polished floor. “It would be a relief to do something for anybody. One feels so helpless.”

Behind the wheel of the GTO, Mary felt like time had run backward—that somehow she and Bitty had gotten stuck in a warp where they were back nights ago, heading for the clinic across the river.

And it was not just because of Layla and what was happening at home. In the rear seat, the girl had retreated into herself, her eyes fixed on the window beside her, her face a mask of composure that was all the more alarming because Mary had learned exactly how engaged and cheerful she could be.

“Bitty?”

“Mmm?” came the response.

“Talk to me. I know there’s something going on—and yes, I could beat around the bush or pretend I haven’t noticed, but I think we’re beyond that. I hope we’re beyond that.”

It was a long while before the girl answered.

“When we left the restaurant,” Bitty said. “Did you see the human mahmen and daughter?”

“Yes.” Mary took a deep breath. “I saw them.”

As the silence resumed, Mary glanced into the rearview. “Did that make you think of your mahmen?”

All the girl did was nod.

Mary waited. And waited. “Do you miss her?”

That was what did it. All at once, Bitty began to cry, great sobs racking her little body. And Mary pulled over. She had to.

Thank God they were in a good part of town, and in a section where there were lots of bakeries and stationery stores and locally owned pet shops. Which meant plenty of parallel-parking spots right on the road that were empty.

Putting the GTO in neutral and pulling the hand brake, Mary twisted all the way around until her knees were tucked into her chest.

Reaching out a hand, she tried to touch Bitty, but the girl shrank away.

“Oh, sweetheart—I know you miss her—”

The girl wheeled back, tears streaming down her face. “But I don’t! I don’t miss her at all! How can I not miss her!”

As Bitty covered her eyes with her palms and sobbed, Mary let her be even though it killed her. And sure enough, after an agonizing wait, the girl started talking.

“I didn’t get that! What that human and her mahmen had! I didn’t get . . . bets and laughing. . . . I didn’t get going out to dinner or a friendly pick-up in a car by my father!” When she sniffed and wiped her cheeks with the heels of her fists, Mary fished in her bag and took out a pack of Kleenex. Bitty took the package and then seemed to forget she had it. “My mother was scared—and hurt and running for cover! And then she was pregnant and then she got sick and—she died! And I don’t miss her!”

Mary turned off the engine, opened her door and got into the back. She was careful to lock them both in the dark car, and as she settled beside the girl, the ambient light helped her see the anguish and the horror on Bitty’s face.

“How can I not miss her?” The girl was shaking. “I loved her—and I should miss her. . . .”

Mary reached out, and it was relief to pull Bitty over and hug her close. Stroking her hair, she murmured soft words as Bitty wept.

It was impossible not to tear up herself.

And it was hard not to whisper platitudes like, “It’s going to be all right,” or, “You’re okay,” because she wanted to do something, anything to ease the girl. But the truth was, what Bitty had been exposed to growing up was not all right, and kids and people from those environments were not okay for a very, very long time, if ever at all.

“I’ve got you,” was all she could say. Over and over again.

It seemed like years until Bitty took a shuddering breath and sat back. And when she fumbled with the tissue packet, Mary took the thing from her and broke the seal, teasing out a Kleenex. And another.

After Bitty blew her nose and collapsed against the seat, Mary unclipped the girl’s seat belt to give her a little more room.

“I didn’t know your mother all that well,” Mary said. “But I’m very sure, if she could have had those kinds of loving, normal moments with you, she would have taken them in a heartbeat. Violence is all-pervasive when it’s in the home. You can’t get away from it unless you leave, and sometimes you can’t leave so it colors everything. Do you think maybe it’s more that you don’t miss the suffering the two of you went through? That you don’t miss the fear and hurt?”

Bitty sniffled. “Am I a bad daughter? Am I . . . bad?”

“No. God, no. Not at all.”

“I did love her. A lot.”

“Of course you did. And I’ll bet if you think about it, you’ll realize you still do.”

“I was so scared all the time she was sick.” Bitty fiddled with the tissues. “I didn’t know what was going to happen to her and I was worried really about myself a lot of the time. Is that bad?”

“No. That’s normal. That’s called survival.” Mary tucked a piece of hair behind Bitty’s ear. “When you’re young and you can’t take care of yourself, you worry about those kinds of things. Heck, when you’re older and you can take care of yourself, that’s also what you worry about.”

Bitty accepted another tissue, putting it on her knee and smoothing it flat.

“When my mom died?” Mary said. “I was angry at her.”

The girl looked up in surprise. “Really?”

“Yup. I was bitterly angry. I mean, she had suffered and I had been there by her side for a number of years as she had slowly declined. She hadn’t volunteered for any of it. She hadn’t asked to get sick. But I resented the fact that my friends didn’t have to nurse their parents. That my buddies were free to go out and drink and party and have a good time—be young and unattached, unburdened. Meanwhile I had to worry about tidying up the house, buying groceries, making meals—and then as the disease progressed, cleaning her up, bathing her, getting coverage when the nurses couldn’t come in because of bad weather. And then she died.” Mary took a deep breath and shook her head. “All I could think of after they took her body away was . . . great, now I have to plan the funeral, deal with the bank account stuff and the will, clean out her clothes. That’s when I really lost it. I just broke down and cried, because I felt like the worst daughter in the history of the world.”

“But you weren’t?”

“No. I was human. I am human. And grief is a complex thing. They say there are stages of it. Have you ever heard of that?” When Bitty shook her head, Mary continued. “Denial, bargaining, anger, depression, acceptance. And all that’s largely what people go through. But there are so many other things mixed into it as well. Unresolved issues. Exhaustion. Sometimes there is relief, and that can come with a lot of guilt. My best piece of advice? As someone who has not only walked this road, but also helped other folks through it? Let your thoughts and feelings come when they do—and don’t judge them. I can guarantee that you are not the only person who has had thoughts they didn’t like or emotions that felt wrong. Also, if you talk about what’s going on for you, it is absolutely possible to move through the pain, fear and confusion to what’s on the other side.”

“And what is that?”

“A measure of peace.” Mary shrugged. “Again, I wish I could tell you that the pain goes away—it doesn’t. But it does get better. I think of my mom still, and yes, sometimes it stings. I think it always will—and honestly? I don’t want that grief to disappear completely. Grief . . . is a sacred way of honoring those we love. My grief is my heart working, it’s my love for her and that’s a beautiful thing.”