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She plays the recording for him.
Dr. Strand sits quietly at the desk in his hotel room as he listens to his dead wife's voice.
"Thank you," he says after the recording stops. "I appreciate you bringing this to me. How did you find it again?"
"Nick found it. Something about a Google alert and a search algorithm."
"I see."
An almost awkward pause fills the room while she waits for more, but nothing comes. "I, uh, guess I'll head back to the studio. I should probably record a little more audio before I head home."
"Good night, Alex."
"Yeah, you too." Alex opens the door, but stops herself just before leaving. If she doesn't ask, it's going to bug her all night. "You sure you're okay?"
He laughs that quiet breath of air she's come to recognize as unique as the rest of him. His wry smile is fully in place. "I'm sure. Sleep well."
"Okay. Well, if you need anything, you know where to find me."
He nods and Alex closes the door behind her.
She's almost at the end of the hall when she realizes she left her recorder back in Strand's room. She sighs and makes her way back, digging through her bag for the key, thankful he gave her the spare. He had given it to her 'for the sake of efficiency' since she was, in his words, 'in and out of his hotel room often enough.'
Alex doesn't bother knocking and almost kicks herself for it when she sees him. He's still at the desk, but his head is hung low in his hands, his fingers raking through his dark hair. He doesn't look up when the door swings open nor when she steps fully into the room.
"I forgot my recorder," she says. Her cheeks feel hot.
Strand makes a dismissive gesture with one of his hands toward the device on the edge of the desk. He doesn't make any other move to acknowledge her.
"I'll, uh, just grab it and get out of here. I can see that you're, um, busy."
Alex has never felt like she was walking on actual eggshells until now. She almost tip-toes to the desk, desperate not to disturb him more than she already has. She should have knocked. She really should have knocked.
She picks up the recorder and stows it in her bag. The zipper is over-loud in the silence. She winces at the noise, but Strand remains as still as he was when she first entered.
She's about to make a hasty retreat when her compassion gets the better of her. She puts her hand on his back, just between the shoulder blades.
He tenses, not expecting her touch. Alex feels just as weird. Strand always seems so untouchable. There aren't a lot of instances of casual contact between them—just a few handshakes she can recall. If he was Nic, or any other person in her life, a simple comforting gesture like this wouldn't feel like crossing such a huge line. Still, he doesn't shrug her off. But he doesn't relax either.
"I'm sorry." It's all she can think to say.
It breaks something in him. He crumples under her hand. His forehead hits the desk with a low thump and his hands slide fully behind his head, as if protecting himself from a physical blow.
She doesn't know how long she stands there, not sure if she should stay or if she should go, but eventually she notices the vibration of words under her fingers. Unable to hear him, Alex crouches down beside him, placing her hands on the desk to keep her balance. "What? I didn't catch any of that."
"I tried—I tried so hard to find her," he says.
"I'm sure you did everything you could."
Strand's shoulders hitch with a self-depreciating laugh. "No, you're not."
Alex frowns. "I'm not what?"
"Sure. You can't be sure. You don't know anything." His arms tighten around his head. It doesn't look comfortable. Alex wants to pull them away, but she isn't sure how he'll react.
"No, I don’t," she agrees. "But you could tell me."
Strand finally looks up. There aren't any tears on his face, but behind his glasses his eyes are red. "I can't. Not yet. Please."
"Okay," she says.
"I don't--I don't want this on the radio."
"I wouldn't do that to you. Not to anyone. We can record something else for the podcast. We don't have to lie, but I wouldn't broadcast anything this personal." She pauses, making sure to meet his red-rimmed eyes. "I'd like to think we are friends. At least a little."
He huffs out a breath. It's not quite a laugh, but his wry smile does make an appearance. "I'm not a very good friend, I'm afraid."
Alex smiles. "Nonsense. How many times have we gone to lunch together? How many hours have we spent on the phone? And no matter what you say, I'm still learning more and more about you every day."
"I don't think investigating my wife's disappearance counts," he says.
It's true, but it's not what she meant. "You're right, it doesn't. But I know you prefer tea to coffee. When you do have coffee, I noticed you always put too much sugar in it to hide the taste. You like to read; the more obscure the text the better. You enjoy teaching when you aren't debunking every vampire, werewolf, and ghost story to ever have been told around a campfire—"
"You do know that vampire, werewolves, and—wait, why are you laughing?"
It takes her a moment to stop, but Alex manages to compose herself in the face of his frown. "Don't exist, I know. I was just teasing. Does no one ever tease you?"
"No." His expression closes off like it does every time she mentions his past. She knows better than to say anything.
After a moment, Strand turns his head away and says, "Coralee did. Before. She was quiet, lost in thought most of the time. But she challenged me. I loved that about her."
"You still love her," Alex says. It shouldn't be a surprise, but somehow it is. How many years has he been carrying the pain of his missing wife? In nearly twenty years, has he even allowed himself to grieve?
"Of course I do. Even after her—I still loved her."
Alex puts her hand on his shoulder and startles when he flinches. "I'm not going to hurt you, you know."
Strand rubs at his eyes underneath the frame of his glasses. "I know. I'm not—not used to—"
"Comfort?" she asks.
He doesn't answer. He looks miserable.
"I'm going to hug you now. And you're going to let me. And you aren't allowed to complain."
"What—?"
She doesn't give him a chance to argue. Alex wraps her arms around his neck, thankful he's still in the chair so she can actually reach. "You can be the mysterious, strong, professional paranormal debunker tomorrow. So relax. I promise not to tell anyone that you're human."
He laughs and finally puts his arms around her middle. He lays his head down in the crook between her neck and shoulder. He takes a deep breath and she can feel some of the tension slide away with it. "Thank you," he says, his voice muffled against her.
"It's what friends do."
He lets her hold him for a few minutes. Her fingers slip into his hair at the nape of his neck without her noticing, carding through soft, clean smelling strands like her mother used to do for her.
He pulls away first, like she knew he would. Strand clears his throat. "You should probably go. It's late."
She smiles. "Yeah, okay. Busy day tomorrow, as usual. Probably should get some sleep. And you have classes to prepare for, don't you? I'm sorry if I kept you up."
"Honestly, I'm glad you came. It—felt good to talk."
"Good, I'm glad."
It feels weird to say goodbye now, after she's seen him as close to tears as she's ever likely to see. This openness probably won't last until she sees him again. She doesn't want it to end.
"Well, goodnight," she manages to say. "I promise to knock next time."
"That's probably for the best," he says, wry smile curling the edges of his mouth.
He walks her to the door.
"Thank you," he says again, once she's on the other side.
"No problem. I'm always a phone call away, you know. If you need to talk."
"That's what friends are for, right?" There's a sparkle in his cool blue eyes, but it could just be the lights in the hallway glinting off his glasses.
She smiles, "Right."