He stopped at the window and not to observe the mother and child on the other side of the mirrored glass.
He'd stopped because she was staring, head tipped, through that glass like she'd seen a repetition of a memory that had been buried.
She was sifting through it with unmoving fingers and unblinking bright eyes. Seeing sadness on her, seeing grief, it'd become a recognition of repetition.
He'd memorized its existence on her face because otherwise she was often extraordinarily adept at hiding some things from him.
But not a feeling so depth-less, not one that he'd made sure to know whenever it claimed her face.
Cal frowned as he shook his head minutely, losing some semblance of stability to the surprisingly open flood of her emotion. “It's not her.”
He'd known what she was seeing just by the slight blanching of color in her pretty eyes,
the slacked lowering of her eyelids as her gaze lost focus and she went somewhere deep and daunting without him.
Which, frankly, she really didn't do all that often and certainly not in the office while Torres worked at her back. They stayed together, she and him. And even more so in recent months.
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