Chapter 2The question hung in the study like a broken Midwinter wreath, a crushed bit of mistletoe, a shredded hope. The last painting, youthful artistic prodigy Victoria Rookwood’s third work, stood propped against the bookshelf near the door. Sam had set it there when they’d first come in, not knowing what else to do.
He tried for a steadying breath. “I am sorry. For not finding you. For Victoria—for that. For everything that happened to you. For not keeping my promises to you.”
John glared at him, started to lift a hand, dropped it. Framed by simple wood-paneled walls and plain carpet and heavy bookshelves, he was more lovely than the whole history of the law and regulations and known precedents. He said, “You have no idea what that even means. Whatever you think happened to us. In It
