“Come on.” Thomas dragged her toward the door, limping. “I’m about ready to pass out from hunger.”

“Or blood loss,” she muttered as she followed him out.

They went to the kitchen where Thomas dragged his bad leg around, filling a plate with leftovers and pouring a glass of red wine. He put two forks down and sat in a chair beside Isabelle.

“So, how did it go with your mother?” Thomas picked up a fork and dug into some warmed-up mashed potatoes.

Isabelle shrugged. “It was weird. She wasn’t cocky at all. She was…”

“Contrite?”

She shrugged again, smoothly took the fork from him, took a bite and handed it back. “I guess. Like I said, weird.”

He took a sip of wine. “And so?”

She sighed. “I’m not ready to flat-out forgive her for passing us around like she didn’t want us when Angela and I were kids. I’m not ready to forgive her for a lot of things.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to be.”

She took the wineglass from his hand as he set it down on the table, their fingertips brushing, and took a drink. She studied him over the rim for a moment. “But there is part of me that wants to see where this goes.”

“I’m glad, Isabelle.” He slipped the wineglass from her fingers and took a sip.

“I’m having lunch with her next week. That’s all I can commit to at this time. But I think you were right.”

He served up a forkful of food for her and she ate it. “About what?”

Isabelle chewed and swallowed, then took the fork and offered Thomas a bite, which he accepted. “About her regretting. Anyway, we’ll see what happens.”

Thomas pulled her chair closer to him and kissed her temple.

She turned her head and kissed his lips—the side that was the least damaged. “You smell like mud, blood, and demon.”

“I hurt just about everywhere, too.”

“So tell me more about what happened before I drag your ass back to Doctor Oliver.”

Thomas took a moment to reply. “Boyle told me all he wanted was to go home. There was longing in his voice when he talked about it.”

She screwed her face up. “Longing? Do you really think demons long?”

He shook his head, passed a hand over his tired-looking face. “I don’t know.”

“Why would Boyle want to go home anyway? Wasn’t he incarcerated as a criminal in his world? You’d think they’d just lock him up again if he went back. You’d think he’d know that.”

“Yeah. Who can understand what Boyle might be thinking? Maybe he thinks he can escape that fate once he gets there. Or maybe he hates this place so much he’s willing risk anything to get home.”

She turned sober. “I wonder what he’s doing right now.”