Eliana Bennett's honey-brown eyes drifted between the two men in the room, lingering on one, then the other, as if she were trying to make sense of them both at once. Pain from the accident and shock from Henry's revelations still clouded her gaze, the weight of the day still pressed heavily behind her eyes.
Henry Jackson was pacing. Not walking—pacing. The kind that wore a groove into the floor if allowed to continue long enough. Tall, handsome, and unraveling by the second, he ran a hand through his hair for what had to be the fiftieth time, his phone clutched in his grip like it might suddenly apologize to him. His usual calm, polished demeanor had abandoned ship, leaving panic etched into every sharp line of his face.
