The Savior (Black Dagger Brotherhood 17)

She ended up back at the table, sitting in the chair he’d been in, as if that would somehow help her divine the agent’s inner thoughts and knowledge. In classic interrogation form, he had given little away, only plying her with bits of information that proved he knew all the background, that he could trip her up, that he would know if she were lying to him. Other than those minor factual pinpoints on whatever map he was making, however, he had kept his figurative topography close to his chest.

Everything she had told him had been the truth. Gerry had been a Type 1 diabetic, and fairly good about managing his condition. He had been a regular tester and insulin administrator, but his diet could have been better and his meals were irregular. His only true failure, if it could be termed as such, was that he hadn’t bothered to get a pump. He rarely took breaks from his work and hadn’t wanted to waste the time having one “installed.”

Like his body was a house that needed an air conditioning unit or something.

Still, he’d managed his blood sugar levels pretty well. Sure there had been some rocky crashes, and she’d had to help him a couple of times, but on the whole, he’d been on top of his disease.

Until that one night. Almost two years ago.

Sarah closed her eyes and relived coming home with Indian food, the paper bags swinging from flimsy handles in her left hand as she’d struggled to open the front door with her key. It had been snowing and she hadn’t wanted to put the load down in the drifts as the garlic naan and the chicken curry had already lost enough BTUs on the trip across town. She herself had been on the hot and sweaty side, too, having been first to her spin class, the one she did every Saturday late afternoon, the one she’d wished she could make time for during the workweek, but never quite managed to leave the lab in time.

Six thirty p.m. Ish.

She could remember calling upstairs to him. He had stayed home to work because that was all he did, and although it felt wrong to admit now that he had passed, his constant focus on that project with Dr. McCaid had begun to wear on her. She’d always understood the devotion to the subject matter, to the science, to the possibility of discovery that, for both of them, was always just around the corner. But there had to be more to life than weekends that looked exactly like the M–F’s.

She’d called his name again as she walked into the kitchen. There had been annoyance that he didn’t answer. Anger that he probably hadn’t even heard her. Sadness that they were staying in, again, not because it was winter in Ithaca, but because there were no other plans. No friends. No family. No hobbies.

No movies. No eating out.

No holding hands.

No sex, really.

Of late, they had become just two people who had bought real estate together, the pair of them walking paths that had started out on the same trail, but had since diverged and become parallels with no intersection.

It had been four months until the wedding, and she could recall thinking of “postponing” the date. They could have pumped the brakes at that point and people could still have gotten their money back for air-line tickets to, and hotel reservations in, Ithaca. Which had been the site of the ceremony and reception because Gerry hadn’t wanted to take the time off to travel to Germany, where his family was, and with both her parents gone and no siblings, Sarah had nothing left of where she’d grown up in Michigan.

As she’d put the bags of takeout on the counter, she had been struck with a profound immobility—and all because she needed a shower. Their bathroom was upstairs off the master bedroom, and to get to it, she would have to pass by his home office. Hear the ticking of his keyboard. See the glow of the computer monitors flashing molecular images. Feel the coldness of the shut-out that was somehow even more frigid than the weather outside of the house.

That night, she’d reached her adaptation threshold. So many times she’d walked by that makeshift office of his since they’d moved in. In the beginning, he had always looked over his shoulder as she had come up the stairs and he’d beckoned her in to show her things, ask her things. Over time, however, that had downshifted to a hello over his shoulder. And then a grunt. And then no response at all, even if she said his name when standing behind him.

Sometime around Thanksgiving, she’d taken to tiptoeing up the stairs so as not to disturb him, even though that was ridiculous because in his concentration, he was un-disturbable. But if she made no noise then he couldn’t be ignoring her, right? And she couldn’t be hurt and disappointed.

She couldn’t find herself in the unintended, unfathomable position of questioning their relationship after all their years of being together.

That night, as she had stood frozen at the kitchen counter, she’d been unable to face the reality of her deep unhappiness … yet she’d no longer been able to deny it, either. And that conundrum had trapped her between her desire for a hot shower after exercise and her head-in-the-sand position on the first floor.

Because if she had to walk by that office one more time and be ignored? She was going to have to do something about it.

Eventually, she’d forced herself to hit the stairs, a marching band of don’t-be-stupid’s drumming her ascent.

Her first clue that all was not well had been the empty swivel chair in front of his computers. Further, the room had been dark, although that was not all that unusual, and Gerry’s monitors had offered plenty of light with which to navigate around the sparsely furnished space. But it wasn’t like he got up all that often.

She’d told herself that he wasn’t where he should have been because nature had called and she promptly resented the hell out of him for his need to pee: Now, she was going to have to interact with him in the bathroom.

Which was going to make cramming her emotions back into the Don’t Touch Toy Box even harder.

Special Agent Manfred had gotten the death scene right. She’d found her fiancé sitting up on the tile against the Jacuzzi’s built-in base, his legs out straight, his hands curled up on his thighs, his MedicAlert bracelet loose on his right wrist. His head had lolled to one side and there was a clear insulin bottle and a needle next to him. His hair, or what was left of the Boris Becker blond strands, was messy, probably from a seizure, and there was drool down the front of his Dropkick Murphys concert shirt.

Rushing over. Crouching down. Begging, pleading, even as she had checked his jugular and found no pulse underneath cold skin.

In that moment of loss, she had forgiven him all transgressions, her anger disappearing as if never been, her frustrations and doubts gone the way of his life force.

To heaven. Assuming there was such a place.

Calling 911. Ambulance arriving. Death confirmed.

The body had been removed, but things were hazy at that point; she couldn’t remember whether it had been taken by the paramedics or the morgue or the coroner.… Similar to someone who had sustained a head injury, she had amnesia about that part, about other parts. She remembered clearly calling his parents, however, and breaking down the second she’d heard his mother’s accented voice. Crying. Weeping. Promises by his parents to be on the next trans-Atlantic flight, vows to be strong on her side.

No one to call for herself.

Cause of death was determined to be hypoglycemia. Insulin shock.

Gerry’s parents ended up taking his body back to Hamburg, Germany, so that he could be buried in the family cemetery, and just-likethat, Sarah had been left here in this little house in Ithaca with very little to remember her fiancé by. Gerry had been the opposite of a hoarder, and besides, his parents had taken most of his things with them. Oh, and BioMed had sent a representative to take the computer towers from his home office, only the monitors remaining. nded up back at the table, sitting in the chair he’d been in, as if that would somehow help her divine the agent’s inner thoughts and knowledge. In classic interrogation form, he had given little away, only plying her with bits of information that proved he knew all the background, that he could trip her up, that he would know if she were lying to him. Other than those minor factual pinpoints on whatever map he was making, however, he had kept his figurative topography close to his chest.

Everything she had told him had been the truth. Gerry had been a Type 1 diabetic, and fairly good about managing his condition. He had been a regular tester and insulin administrator, but his diet could have been better and his meals were irregular. His only true failure, if it could be termed as such, was that he hadn’t bothered to get a pump. He rarely took breaks from his work and hadn’t wanted to waste the time having one “installed.”

Like his body was a house that needed an air conditioning unit or something.

Still, he’d managed his blood sugar levels pretty well. Sure there had been some rocky crashes, and she’d had to help him a couple of times, but on the whole, he’d been on top of his disease.

Until that one night. Almost two years ago.

Sarah closed her eyes and relived coming home with Indian food, the paper bags swinging from flimsy handles in her left hand as she’d struggled to open the front door with her key. It had been snowing and she hadn’t wanted to put the load down in the drifts as the garlic naan and the chicken curry had already lost enough BTUs on the trip across town. She herself had been on the hot and sweaty side, too, having been first to her spin class, the one she did every Saturday late afternoon, the one she’d wished she could make time for during the workweek, but never quite managed to leave the lab in time.

Six thirty p.m. Ish.

She could remember calling upstairs to him. He had stayed home to work because that was all he did, and although it felt wrong to admit now that he had passed, his constant focus on that project with Dr. McCaid had begun to wear on her. She’d always understood the devotion to the subject matter, to the science, to the possibility of discovery that, for both of them, was always just around the corner. But there had to be more to life than weekends that looked exactly like the M–F’s.

She’d called his name again as she walked into the kitchen. There had been annoyance that he didn’t answer. Anger that he probably hadn’t even heard her. Sadness that they were staying in, again, not because it was winter in Ithaca, but because there were no other plans. No friends. No family. No hobbies.

No movies. No eating out.

No holding hands.

No sex, really.

Of late, they had become just two people who had bought real estate together, the pair of them walking paths that had started out on the same trail, but had since diverged and become parallels with no intersection.

It had been four months until the wedding, and she could recall thinking of “postponing” the date. They could have pumped the brakes at that point and people could still have gotten their money back for air-line tickets to, and hotel reservations in, Ithaca. Which had been the site of the ceremony and reception because Gerry hadn’t wanted to take the time off to travel to Germany, where his family was, and with both her parents gone and no siblings, Sarah had nothing left of where she’d grown up in Michigan.

As she’d put the bags of takeout on the counter, she had been struck with a profound immobility—and all because she needed a shower. Their bathroom was upstairs off the master bedroom, and to get to it, she would have to pass by his home office. Hear the ticking of his keyboard. See the glow of the computer monitors flashing molecular images. Feel the coldness of the shut-out that was somehow even more frigid than the weather outside of the house.

That night, she’d reached her adaptation threshold. So many times she’d walked by that makeshift office of his since they’d moved in. In the beginning, he had always looked over his shoulder as she had come up the stairs and he’d beckoned her in to show her things, ask her things. Over time, however, that had downshifted to a hello over his shoulder. And then a grunt. And then no response at all, even if she said his name when standing behind him.

Sometime around Thanksgiving, she’d taken to tiptoeing up the stairs so as not to disturb him, even though that was ridiculous because in his concentration, he was un-disturbable. But if she made no noise then he couldn’t be ignoring her, right? And she couldn’t be hurt and disappointed.

She couldn’t find herself in the unintended, unfathomable position of questioning their relationship after all their years of being together.

That night, as she had stood frozen at the kitchen counter, she’d been unable to face the reality of her deep unhappiness … yet she’d no longer been able to deny it, either. And that conundrum had trapped her between her desire for a hot shower after exercise and her head-in-the-sand position on the first floor.

Because if she had to walk by that office one more time and be ignored? She was going to have to do something about it.

Eventually, she’d forced herself to hit the stairs, a marching band of don’t-be-stupid’s drumming her ascent.

Her first clue that all was not well had been the empty swivel chair in front of his computers. Further, the room had been dark, although that was not all that unusual, and Gerry’s monitors had offered plenty of light with which to navigate around the sparsely furnished space. But it wasn’t like he got up all that often.

She’d told herself that he wasn’t where he should have been because nature had called and she promptly resented the hell out of him for his need to pee: Now, she was going to have to interact with him in the bathroom.

Which was going to make cramming her emotions back into the Don’t Touch Toy Box even harder.

Special Agent Manfred had gotten the death scene right. She’d found her fiancé sitting up on the tile against the Jacuzzi’s built-in base, his legs out straight, his hands curled up on his thighs, his MedicAlert bracelet loose on his right wrist. His head had lolled to one side and there was a clear insulin bottle and a needle next to him. His hair, or what was left of the Boris Becker blond strands, was messy, probably from a seizure, and there was drool down the front of his Dropkick Murphys concert shirt.

Rushing over. Crouching down. Begging, pleading, even as she had checked his jugular and found no pulse underneath cold skin.

In that moment of loss, she had forgiven him all transgressions, her anger disappearing as if never been, her frustrations and doubts gone the way of his life force.

To heaven. Assuming there was such a place.

Calling 911. Ambulance arriving. Death confirmed.

The body had been removed, but things were hazy at that point; she couldn’t remember whether it had been taken by the paramedics or the morgue or the coroner.… Similar to someone who had sustained a head injury, she had amnesia about that part, about other parts. She remembered clearly calling his parents, however, and breaking down the second she’d heard his mother’s accented voice. Crying. Weeping. Promises by his parents to be on the next trans-Atlantic flight, vows to be strong on her side.

No one to call for herself.

Cause of death was determined to be hypoglycemia. Insulin shock.

Gerry’s parents ended up taking his body back to Hamburg, Germany, so that he could be buried in the family cemetery, and just-likethat, Sarah had been left here in this little house in Ithaca with very little to remember her fiancé by. Gerry had been the opposite of a hoarder, and besides, his parents had taken most of his things with them. Oh, and BioMed had sent a representative to take the computer towers from his home office, only the monitors remaining.