Page 82 of Nyx

It doesn't feel like wasted time, but even if it did, it's not like I have a single other pressing matter to deal with.

Another forty-five minutes inch by before the front door opens, revealing her still terrified eyes.

She looks all over, eyes darting side to side as if she expects her monster to pop out of the bushes and grab her while the Cerberus member just stands and observes.

I stand, making my presence known, and the way her shoulders ease, some of the tension in them releasing at the sight of me, does more to my ego and body than it should.

Her eyes break from mine, her head still on a swivel as she approaches, but instead of heading to her car to do her nightly checks, she stands in front of me.

The lights at her back make it impossible to read the full emotion on her face, but I don't go so far as to reach out and reposition her so I can get a better read. I simply stand there and wait for her to speak.

"You're here," she whispers.

"I'm here," I say. "Are you okay?"

She scoffs. "Honestly?"

"Always," I assure her.

"I haven't been okay in a very long time, but today has felt more not okay than normal."

"You had a rough morning," I tell her as I reach over the side of my bike. "I brought your cup back."

"Thank you," she offers, not jerking her hand away when our fingers brush like she did this morning.

I try not to read anything into it, but find it difficult.

"Feel up to explaining a little better what happened this morning?"

Her eyes lift to mine as if she's trying to determine whether she can trust me with more vulnerability than she was forced to this morning.

"A song played in my car this morning," she says, her eyes darting away as if that information is some form of confession that will make her look weak.

"Music has a way of drawing up all sorts of past emotions," I offer.

She shakes her head. "That's not it."

Another round of silence, but I don't push any further. I don't want her to feel ambushed and forced to speak about something she's not ready to share. I noted that every time she deflected the new resident, Kayla, when she asked personal questions, she grew annoyed. I can't shift my expectations just because I'm the one standing in front of her now.

"It was my wedding song," she says, her voice growing weaker with each word. "And it was playing on my personal playlist."

"It didn't just come on the radio?" I ask, my blood running cold as I wait for verification.

"I checked, thinking the same thing. It was my playlist. I'd never put that song or any song linked to my time with Graham on my playlist."

I clench my fists, ready to ride my bike all the way to the fucking East Coast to put a stop to that man.

"Have you recently misplaced your phone?"

She shakes her head again, swallowing slowly.

"It's not the song exactly that made me freak out today. It's knowing that the only time I don't have my phone on me is when I'm either sleeping or in the shower."

"You didn't lay it down somewhere and go back to it later?" I ask, trying to figure out if there's any other explanation for that particular song being on her playlist.

"No," she answers quickly. "I make a point to have it with me always. I don't leave the room without it. Ever."

I know this is another safety feature she's added to her life, so I have no reason to doubt her words.