Callie pulled her car into the driveway and shut off the engine. Her hand flopped into her lap as she pressed her head into the headrest. Damn, she was exhausted. Fatigue tugged strongly at her, both physically and emotionally. She was always tired by the end of a shift, but damn, seeing Grady lying in that hospital bed.

Vulnerable. Human.

It had brought back a rush of emotion. She’d never had a chance to sit by David’s bedside. There had been no recovery in the hospital, but that didn’t stop her mind from playing tricks on her. She’d always perceived David as invincible.

Of course, common sense told her that he could be hurt and bleed just like everyone else, but never, even when he was deployed, had she ever thought of David as being so human that he could die. It sounded so stupid when she thought it now, but back in the early days of their marriage, he’d been so full of life, so alive. Nothing could happen to David, not her David, not her soldier, her husband, her lover and best friend. And yet it had. He was mere flesh, bone, and muscle, no match for bullets or IEDs, as vulnerable as anyone else.

Seeing Grady lying in a bed, hurt for her sake, overwhelmed her with both gratitude and more guilt than she already felt. The sight of his pale, scraped-up face solidified in her mind what her heart already knew. What she felt for Grady had gone beyond friendship. It had changed the moment his lips had brushed against hers, and there was no going back. The question was, what the hell was she going to do about it now?

She slid her key from the ignition, trying to distract herself, to keep herself from thinking about Grady lying there in the hospital bed. It was impossible. Callie walked up her drive and opened her front door, bypassing her mailbox entirely. She didn’t have the strength to deal with what might be inside there today.

Sliding the door closed behind her, she dropped her keys on her hallstand. Tomorrow. There didn’t seem to be any head injuries or anything too serious, and so he’d likely be discharged then. She’d go and pick him up, and maybe they could finally have the talk she’d been avoiding for far too long. David and Grady—they’d been best friends for as long as she’d known either of them. The two of them had been almost like a package deal. She and Grady had known each other for years. Perhaps this transition from friendship to something more, something deeper, was only natural. Then again, maybe it wasn’t.

Callie leaned back against the wall, staring down her dark hallway. Her gaze scanned the shadows, making sure that no one lurked about, that all the right shadows were in all the right places. She stepped back to the door and glanced through the glass panel. Her porch light was on, casting a portion of the front of the house in its dull, yellowish glow, but everything looked so innocent; the tiny front yard, the windows dark, the curtains drawn, the neglected flowerbeds bordering the steps. One of these days, she had to focus on yard work.

With a tired sigh, she moved deeper into the house. Everything seemed in order, outside and in. Maybe Grady had scared whoever it was off. Who had driven that dark SUV? Had it been the same car that had followed her earlier? Would he come back? Once more, she glanced over her shoulder, making sure she’d set the deadbolt, then turned and walked to the kitchen.

Without turning on the lights, she stepped to the refrigerator, opened it, and peered inside. Maybe she would just have a bowl of cereal for dinner, and then . . . she straightened, a frown marring her brow as she cocked her head. Had she heard something? The creak of a floorboard? Or had she imagined it?

She closed the refrigerator door and then stepped quietly along the length of the kitchen, the soles of her tennis shoes making no noise on the linoleum flooring. She paused at the entrance to the kitchen, once again scanning the dark shapes of the living room and beyond.

The hair on the back of her neck stood up on end as she listened intently while at the same time telling herself she was being foolish. It was just a breeze, pushing a branch from one of the shrubs out in the back yard against the window. Or the house settling. It cracked and popped a lot, especially when it was humid and the hot temperatures of the day cooled down.

Nevertheless, her heart thudded heavily as her shoulders tensed, straining to hear any other sound. She heard nothing for nearly a minute—counting in her head—and Callie finally felt the tension slip from her shoulders. It was just her imagination. The aftermath of the scare Grady had given her, the sight of him lying in a hospital bed, coupled with all her previous doubts and emotions. It was a wonder she wasn’t a basket case by now.

She turned back into the kitchen. She did need to eat something, keep her strength up for dealing with Grady if nothing else. She smiled to herself. He could be as stubborn as the day was long when he wanted to, which was pretty much all the time. That much hadn’t changed. Convincing him to let her bring him home, to look after him until he was back on his feet again properly? That was going to take some quick talking from her.

She tilted her head to the side, gazing into the refrigerator. Then again, if it meant him staying at her place for a while, she might not be met with much of an argument. Whether she agreed with his reasons why or not, she couldn’t deny that something warm blossomed inside her at the thought of having Grady there, at her home, and for more than just the one delicious night. Yes, at times it seemed like they were from two very different worlds, at least these days, but that didn’t matter. That night with him had opened up her heart, had shown her that there was still life—and love—to be had.

Her friend Leslie had been right. Grady had been David’s best friend. David would not have wanted Callie to spend the rest of her life alone. That wasn’t his style. He would have wanted her to find love again, someone to look after her and keep her safe, and there was no doubt in her mind he would have approved of Grady. So what was holding her back?

She shut the refrigerator, her head clunking forward onto the door. She was going to drive herself insane and land herself in the hospital if she kept warring back and forth with her own desires. Maybe she would take a Xanax and then just go to bed, try to relax and unwind. She was so tired, her emotions draining her energy. The last thing she needed now was to get sick. She needed the income. Days off, sick leave, none of that was conducive to paying her bills or trying to tuck a little extra into her meager savings account.

She reopened to the refrigerator and grabbed a half-filled quart of milk with her right hand, left holding the door open, preparing to set the milk down on the counter, when she heard another creak. She knew every floorboard in this house. It sounded exactly the same as the first sound she had heard. That particular floorboard was near the end of the hall, between the bathroom and her bedroom.

Instantly, she froze and lifted her left hand to her mouth, just in case she decided to ask a stupid question like “Who’s there?” or “Is anybody there?” That’s what the silly heroine said in some of the movies she watched. Why did they do that? Did they really expect the bad guy to let them know that they were there, that they were about to be attacked, bludgeoned, or hacked to death with a knife held by a guy wearing a hockey mask?

She shook her head. God, she was an idiot. She either had to go and investigate, or get out of the house. She turned her head, trying to force the sounds to reach her ears. Again, silence. Leaving the refrigerator door open, casting the kitchen into a sterile whitish glow, still holding the carton of milk in a now-trembling hand, she quickly stepped toward the counter and set the milk down. She padded over to the knife block and quietly pulled one of the knives from the block. She needed to leave. She might feel foolish later, but it was better than taking chances, especially since she had a secret admirer, a potential stalker, who—

A sudden rush of movement from behind caught her by surprise. She tightened her grip on the knife handle and then realized she’d pulled the paring knife, not the butcher knife, from the block. She gasped as something hard barreled into her, knocking her off balance.

She scrambled for balance and knocked the carton of milk off the counter. It landed with a squishy thud, milk spilling all over the floor. She choked back a startled scream and slipped on the now-wet floor, her left shoulder banging against the side of the refrigerator, slamming the door shut, casting the kitchen into darkness.

At the same instant, a hand grabbed her upper arm. So tight, a vice grip. The shadow of a man lurched in front of her, looming over her, shaking her so hard her teeth were clacking. She bit her tongue and a burst of tears filled her eyes as she struggled to escape that vice-like grip to no avail.

“Don’t fight me.”

The order was growled, low and menacing. Callie’s heart thundered in her chest, her head swimming with fear, so much so that she felt drunk and unstable. Her knees wobbled and her ears rang as fright paralyzed her. Don’t faint! Don’t faint! Something sharp touched the underside of her chin. A knife. She bit back a cry. No . . . no, she didn’t want to die! In all the months since David had died, she had thought that maybe just falling asleep one night and not waking up wouldn’t be such a bad thing. No one would miss her, not really. She had no family . . . no friends she saw on a regular—

No! A burst of adrenaline surged through her veins along with a desperate desire to live. To fight. She twisted and tried to yank her arm from the grasp, to swing her other arm, that hand clutching the puny knife, hoping she could take her attacker by surprise, that he didn’t jam that knife blade upward through her chin and up into her skull. Her move startled her attacker, and he grunted in surprise, took a step back as he anticipated her defensive move. She heard another grunt of surprise as her small knife caught fabric, maybe a little bit of skin.

A harsh blow against the side of her head took her down to the floor. He’d let go of her arm and cold-cocked her. She fell hard, literally seeing stars. She heard a low chuckle. The shadow moved, leaning down now, over her. She tried to scramble back, but her muscles felt soft and gooey, reluctant to respond. Her tennis shoes slipped on the puddle of milk spreading across the linoleum.

He grasped a handful of her hair and tugged. Pinpricks of pain exploded in her scalp, and she garbled a scream and lashed out with her feet. Her right heel caught a shin, and her attacker cursed, then lashed out with his own foot, the hard toe of boot catching her in the upper left thigh.

“You bastard!” she gasped, twisting to escape his reaching hands again. “Who are you? What do you want?”

The same stupid questions the damsels in distress asked in those stupid thrillers. She still had the paring knife in her hand. His hands tried to grab onto her own, and she swung it, viciously, no longer caring what she slashed. Which happened to be air . . .

Where was he?

She paused but only for an instant when she realized he’d backed off. Suddenly, the kitchen blazed with light, and she blinked back the instant throbbing in her skull, squinting her eyes against the light, looking for him—he stood not a foot away, a tall, lanky form dressed in black jeans, a black long-sleeved tee shirt, and his face covered with a black ski mask. It was him. The man that stood before her matched the exact description of the man that Grady had chased on his bike. The man that had nearly killed him. She gazed into his eyes, so hard they were like flint. She wouldn’t be so lucky.