“She’s upstairs,” Beth told him. She pointed the way through the decimated shop to the interior access door to the stairs that led to her apartment. John winced when he saw the damage to the inside of the shop. It was even worse than the storeroom. Every bit of upholstery sliced open, shelves yanked off the walls, leaving gaping, ragged holes in the drywall.

John walked up the same stairs he had last weekend, a bag of beer and lemonade in his hand at the time, his stupid heart beating nervously at the idea of seeing Mary in her natural habitat. Now his stupid heart was beating nervously at the idea of seeing Mary dejected and frightened.

Her front door was propped open as well. He frowned at the signs of forced entry against the locks. She’d have to get a new door.

That was when he heard it. Her sparkly laugh. It sent a shiver down his spine. He jumped, pleasantly surprised, like looking down at his hand and seeing an unexpected butterfly resting there.

He moved toward her kitchen, noting that nothing looked out of place or destroyed in her actual home. Good.

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. Mary with the lights out. Tears on her cheeks. Her shoulders hunched. Maybe even, indulgently, he’d imagined her hair a shade or two darker than normal. Everything dimmed by her shock and fear.

But no. Of course not. Mary sat at her kitchen table with a detective, her head thrown back in laughter, her sunny hair in a high pile on her head and a fancy, decorated T-shirt splashing color across John’s eyes. She was not huddling in a corner, jumping at shadows. She was radiant light itself, and John should have known. He just should have known. Why did he keep expecting himself to be able to handle being around her? He should know by now that there was no immunizing himself to her. This pull was elemental, expansive.

She looked up, saw him there in the doorway and immediately rose up. Her jaw dropped open for a second and something flashed in her eyes. “John!”

“Beth—Officer Herari—told me what happened. I came to make sure—”

John cut off because Mary was across her kitchen in half a blink of an eye. She fit herself perfectly under John’s chin, her hair like warm satin against his throat. Her arms came hard around his ribs in a single, solid band. She was pressed to him in a long, fierce line, only his messenger bag keeping their hips from lining up.

He dropped his arms around her, holding her closer than he’d ever thought he might be allowed to. He couldn’t help but drop the weight of his cheek against her hair. He flattened his hands on her back and gave her a quick squeeze, and then another, when her nose turned in toward his sternum.