Jack quietly closed the front door. Slipping off his shoes and dropping his jacket, he tiptoed up the stairs, not bothering with the lights. He stood in the bedroom doorway, watching Karen sleep. She was wearing an old sweatshirt and had kicked off the covers. He smiled; he’d never had to complain about her hogging the sheets. He breathed in the sight of her, relishing the stillness of the moment and the love he felt for her.
He knew how close he had come to losing her since the night of Sy’s murder. He had gone beyond grief and sorrow, had let the guilt consume him until there was nothing left in him but a mindless rage. Sy had warned him, tried to steer him away from that abyss, but in his need for vengeance Jack had become what he fought.
But tonight, thank God, he had stepped back from the abyss. He had to see if he’d turned aside in time.
He sat on the edge of the bed and laid the flowers — a poor selection of blooms from an all-night convenience store and already beginning to wilt, but where else could he get flowers at three in the morning? — next to Karen. She stirred, touched the flowers and looked up at him.
“Jack?” Sleep gave way to puzzlement. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” She reached up to touch his cheek and found it wet with tears. “Jack?”
“It’s over, Karen.” He scooped her up in his arms and pulled her to him, laughing through his tears. “It’s over.”