Chapter 14 Right then, Elaine Ward pushed in, half pout, half whine. "Gideon, the washer's acting up. My hands are raw from scrubbing. And the range hood is filthy-it's such a chore to clean. Let's just hire help. You're giving me your allowance anyway... Gideon looked up at her-complaints, demands-then saw again what the notebook and the whispers had shown: Angela Summers, running the house for years without a sound, never once saying she was tired, looking after him until there was nothing left to worry about. One gave without asking anything back. One asked and asked and could hardly manage a thing. The contrast cut a bright line through a corner of his mind he'd kept carefully dark. Right then, something in him truly, violently shifted. He stayed in the cold, empty house for days. Elaine slid into place as if it were hers. She tried to keep house "like Angela," and chaos followed. Dinners were either oversalted or as bland as water. His uniform came off the board with creases ironed into it. The chores were slapdash. That afternoon she dusted the living room, arranging the shelves as if she were the lady of the house. She picked up a plain white porcelain vase, a little rough, with "G & A" scratched crookedly into the glaze. Angela had made it years ago; it wasn't worth much, but it had been full of love. "his thing drags the whole room down," Elaine muttered, and her grip slipped. Crash. The vase shattered. Gideon was just leaving the study. The crisp crack gouged through him before he knew why. Elaine startled, then a shadow of relief crossed her face-there and gone. She didn't bend right away. "Ugh, what a junky vase. Whoever put it there didn't seat it right. Scared me half to death..." Gideon stopped. His gaze fixed on her, catching the flick of distaste and the easy shrug he'd never seen when she played sweet. It didn't match the gentle, kind, considerate woman she pretended to be. A clean, hard sense of wrongness rose up in him. "You seem to hate Angela's things," he said, his voice flat. Elaine jolted, finally noticing him. She turned, pasting on her practiced, fragile look. "Gideon... you scared me. I didn't mean to drop it. It just slipped. I-I'll clean it right now." She scrambled for the shards, eyes darting. "I only thought-since she's gone-her things make me sad. I got distracted." He said nothing. He watched her flimsy performance in silence. For the first time, the eyes love had fogged began to see-cool and questioning. Just then his men returned from the north. "Captain, we found her. Ms. Summers settled in a small city near the logging camps. She hired on at a garment plant, sewing on the floor. Rented a tiny room. She goes from the factory to her place and back. Life is quiet." The messenger chose his words carefully, but the word "quiet" pricked Gideon like a pin. She had left him with no scenes, no drama, no running home to complain. She had picked a town where she knew no one, taken a hard job, and built something-quiet. The thought clogged his chest, a nameless knot of agitation and loss. She was trying-really trying-to start a life without him. The idea made him restless in his own skin. On impulse, he picked up the landline and called an old buddy at Division Recon. "Joe, I need a favor. Reopen a few incidents-quietly. I want the fastest, cleanest read we can get.' >> Florence Florence is a passionate reader who finds joy in long drives on rainy days. She's also a fan of Italian makeup tutorials, blending beauty and elegance into her everyday life.