The room fades to black. Everything and everyone else disappears, and all that remains is him, standing there motionless, gazing at me with his smile so warm and his heart shining so brightly in his eyes.

He’s freshly shaven. It makes the hard angle of his jaw gleam like the edge of a blade. He’s wearing his usual outfit of boots, black leather jacket, and jeans, but his hair has been combed and trimmed. He looks scrubbed. Refreshed.

Knock-out, breath-stealing, uterus-scorching beautiful.

Someone says, “Is that Theo?” Then his name is all over the place, whispered in every corner of the room, an astonished repetition of TheoTheoTheo in dozens of hushed voices, none meant to carry but collectively as loud as a bell.

He moves out from the shadows of the doorway and gracefully crosses the dance floor, his gaze locked on mine. People scurry out of his way as he approaches the table, jostling each other in their hurry to give him room. He stops beside my chair. Without breaking eye contact, he holds out his hand.

When our fingers meet, that familiar zing of static electricity sparks between our skin. He clasps my hand, and I float breathlessly to my feet.

Theo leads me to the middle of the dance floor and takes me in his arms, then we stand there unmoving, staring into each other’s eyes as the music swells to a crescendo and Etta’s voice becomes the soaring soundtrack to the beating of my heart.

I say, “Hi.”

In response, he bends his head to my neck and deeply inhales.

I tighten my arms around his shoulders and hide my face against his chest, not caring that we’ve got hundreds of gaping witnesses. My heart pounds so hard, I can feel it in my fingertips. “You sure know how to make an entrance, Sunshine.”

A low rumble passes through his chest. A chuckle?

He shifts his weight, then we’re gently swaying. Our bodies pressed together, we move slowly in time to the music, as effortless as a sigh.

“I’ve missed you.”

He puts a finger under my chin and tilts my head up so I’m looking at him, then taps himself on the chest and holds up two fingers. Me too.

“You seem…better.”

He slowly nods. His pupils are dilated. He blinks, and it’s as lazy as his nod.

He’s high.

Like ice water, a cold flush of horror slices through my veins. When I stiffen in his arms, he cocks his head, looking at me with half-lidded eyes.

“Theo, are you stoned right now?”

His face registers faint surprise, then he shakes his head. He mouths something, and it takes me a moment to recognize what he’s trying to say:

Meds.

He’s on medication. Why that should be such a surprise, I don’t know, because generally, when a person checks himself into a facility for hard-core psychiatric care, medication is involved.

I whisper, “Are you…are you okay?”

Smiling dreamily, he nods again. He taps his temple and makes a poof motion with his hand. If he were anyone else, I wouldn’t know what that meant, but this is the man who once told me he hears voices and sees ghosts. He’s saying they’re gone. The meds have banished them.

Must be some strong fucking meds.

Strong enough to kill demons.

Fear sinks cold fingers into my heart. The song ends, the music changes, and suddenly, everything that was so magical is jarring and strange. “I want to leave, Theo. Will you come home with me?”

When he takes my face in his hands and gently kisses me, I take it as a yes. I order him to stay right where he is, run back to the table, and tell Suzanne I’m leaving.

She sips her drink and grins. “Honey, I’m surprised you’re still here.”

“How are you gonna get home?”

She waves a hand. “Taxi. Or maybe the Joker—he’s kinda cute.” She raises her glass and toasts the bartender, sending him a wink.

I don’t bother to see if he winks back. I give her a kiss and run back to Theo, ignoring all the eyes following my every move. I grab his hand and lead him off the dance floor, snarling at anyone too slow to get out of my way.

I don’t give a shit about being polite right now. I have to be alone with this man, or I’m liable to commit murder.

The drive home takes half the time it normally would because I break every traffic law in existence. The entire time, Theo simply looks at me, stroking my hair and smiling, undisturbed even when we tear so fast around corners, the tires squeal.

I don’t like his unnatural calm. I don’t like the glassiness in his eyes, that strange new haze that has taken the place of everything that was once so sharp. I don’t like the way his right hand trembles at regular intervals, or the way his shoulders occasionally twitch, or the way he keeps swallowing, as if his mouth is dry.

There’s always a price to be paid for sanity, but in this case, I think it might be too high.

“Theo, what medication are you on?”

He reaches into his coat pocket, removes two small orange vials, and hands them to me. I flick on the overhead light and squint at the labels. One is valium—that’s probably causing the glassy eyes, but it should be out of his system by morning. The other one bears an ominously long name I’ve never seen before. It must be the demon killer causing all the twitching.

I hold that bottle up. “Is this something you’ll need to be on permanently?”

He nods.

Fuck.

I hit the light and drop the bottles into the cup holder. When I huff out a worried breath, he leans over and rests his head in my lap, nuzzling my thighs and stroking my knee, sighing in contentment. By the time we arrive at the Buttercup, he’s fast asleep.

I pull into the driveway, shut off the car, and sit in the darkness, listening to the engine tick and Theo’s deep, even breathing.

How the hell did he get to Booger’s? There’s no way he could’ve managed to drive. Coop said Theo could leave Acadia at night and for weekends if he wanted to, but the staff must monitor the patients’ conditions. I can’t believe they’d let him float out the door like this, high as a kite!

Abruptly, I’m angry. Angry at the employees at Acadia, angry at the universe, angry at his stupid medication and its stupid side effects.

Most of all, angry at myself.

If I’d never moved to Seaside, Theo would’ve been all right. Maybe not stable, maybe not exactly sane, but all right. Surviving. Which is all any of us can reasonably expect in this shitty, fucked-up world. But now here he is, passed out in my lap, a lion reduced to a woozy lamb.

I fish around in his coat, not exactly sure what I’m looking for. Then I feel something in an inside pocket and pull it out. It’s a small white card on which Theo has written the words If found, please return home.

Underneath that, he’s written my name, address, and phone number.

My face crumples. Hot tears slide silently down my cheeks. I slip the card back into his pocket, then sit in the car for a long time, thinking, my mind a dark snarl that goes over and over every possible scenario for what needs to happen next. Ultimately, I decide that no matter what the truth is—whether I’m dealing with a miracle or just two people suffering from mental illness—Theo is now my home too. And there’s nothing in this world that could make me leave his side.

Crazy or not, we’re in this shit together.

That decision made, I get Theo inside, get him upstairs, and put him to bed.

Then I fire up my computer and google a contact number for Acadia.

* * *

I didn’t expect Theo’s doctor to be available. I didn’t expect anyone to be available except maybe a night receptionist, but when I tell the woman who answers the phone that I’m Theo Valentine’s wife, there’s a long pause, then she says, “Hold the line, please.”

The wait stretches so long, I have time to pour myself a whiskey, drink it, and refill my glass. Then a man with a brusque Boston accent and an attitude to match picks up the phone.

“This is Dr. Garner. Who’s this?”

“Megan Du—Valentine. Theo Valentine’s wife.”

It’s a ridiculous gamble. I have no reason to believe Theo might have listed me as a contact on his medical papers, and even less reason to think he might’ve listed me as his spouse. But the same magical thinking that had me stringing coincidences together like Christmas lights has me thinking there’s a chance that he did.

Sure enough, I’m right.

“Hello, Mrs. Valentine,” says Dr. Garner. “How can I help you?”

I’m so relieved, my legs give out. I slide down to the floor and sit there shaking, the phone clutched in one hand and my whiskey in the other. The only thing holding me up is the kitchen counter against my back. I clear my throat, then try to sound like a rational person and not the barking fruitcake I really am. “I want to talk to you about Theo’s treatment plan.”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”

“That’s very interesting, Dr. Garner, because the HIPAA Privacy Rule specifically allows a doctor to discuss a patient’s health status with his family.”

If he’s impressed by my knowledge of federal health privacy laws, he doesn’t let on. In a voice as dry as dust, he replies, “Yes. It allows for discussion. It doesn’t require it; disclosure is at the doctor’s discretion.”

Fuck. This guy is a brick wall. “I’d think you’d want to do anything you could to help Theo’s recovery.”

There’s a pause, then Dr. Garner says, “Forgive me for being blunt, Mrs. Valentine, but I could say the same thing about you.”

Like a hissing cat’s, my hackles go up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Are you aware of the nature of your husband’s hallucinations?”

I gulp, my defensiveness vanishing as quickly as it appeared. “He…he mentioned ghosts. Voices.”

“Schizophrenia is characterized by delusions—”

“Schizophrenia?”

My horrified shout cuts Dr. Garner short, then he continues in a sharper tone. “I don’t know how familiar you are with severe mental illnesses, Mrs. Valentine, but Theo needs care for the rest of his life to manage the symptoms of his disease. That means medication, therapy, and—most importantly—support from family and friends.”

The doctor’s voice gains an even harder edge. “He’s made it clear he can’t talk to you about his condition, so frankly, I’m not inclined to talk to you about it either.”

I drain the rest of the whiskey in my glass. It burns a fiery path down my throat, mirroring the blaze of insanity scorching its way through my brain.

Maybe the reason Theo can’t talk to me about his hallucinations is because I play a starring role in them. Maybe what he thinks are hallucinations are something else entirely.

For instance, memories.

In a shaking voice, I say, “Dr. Garner, do you believe in reincarnation?”

“No,” he says flatly, “and I don’t believe in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy either. If you want to help your husband, convince him to continue his stay at Acadia.”

“Continue? You mean…”

“He’s completed the treatment period he signed up for. I don’t believe he’s a threat to himself or anyone else, so there’s nothing I can do to keep him here, but I strongly believe a stable, therapeutic environment like the one we offer here is in his best interests.”

I stand, balance myself on the kitchen counter for support, straighten my shoulders, and take a grounding breath. When I blow it out, I’m filled with new resolve.

“I’ll tell you what’s in his best interests. Being home with me.”

I hang up, go upstairs, and crawl under the covers next to Theo, who’s sleeping as still and silent as death on Cass’s side of the bed.

* * *

I wake in the quiet gray hours before dawn, burning hot and disoriented. I spend a moment in that hazy space between dreams and reality, my limbs and eyelids heavy, my heart thudding a slow and steady pace.

A hand, strong and rough, slides up my thigh.

Here’s the source of all that heat: Theo’s wrapped around me like a blanket. His legs are drawn up behind mine, his chest is pressed against my back, one muscular arm pillows my head. His lips brush the nape of my neck.

His erection is a different heat, rock hard and throbbing against my bottom.

He slides his hand over my hip and rib cage and cups my breast, lazily thumbing my nipple until it stiffens. His mouth, hot and wet, opens over my shoulder.

I whisper, “Good morning.”

In response, he presses his teeth gently into my skin.

“Did you sleep well?”

He sucks where his teeth have just been, sliding his hand down my belly and between my legs. I inhale a quiet breath when he touches that most sensitive part of me. With slow, stroking circles, his fingers work their magic. Within moments, I’m softly moaning, turning my head for his kiss.

He takes my mouth. The kiss is deep and erotic, as unhurried as his hands. Soon I’m making a mewling sound in my throat, needing more.

He gives it to me.

Spreading my legs with his knee, he slides his erection between my thighs and uses his hand to guide it between my wetness. But he doesn’t push inside—he strokes back and forth, his shaft sliding through my folds as he continues to work me with his fingers.

I make a small sound of pleasure, rocking my hips in time to his soft, even strokes.

He goes on like that, maddeningly slow, until I start to breathe raggedly and push harder against him. A noise rumbles through his chest, deep and dark, the sound of his desire. He grasps my inner thigh, lifts my leg higher, and cants his hips until he gets the right angle. With one sure thrust, he slides inside.

I arch, moan, shudder. He flattens his hand over my stomach and holds me against his body as he starts to pump into me, shallowly at first, until the greedy movement of my hips forces him deeper.

Then he rolls me onto my belly, fists a hand in my hair, and fucks me until I’m gasping.

I come hard, my fingers digging into the mattress, animal noises of pleasure raw in my throat. He grunts his approval, his breath ragged, his body heavy and hard against my back. I think he’s going to come too, but he slows, withdraws, then flips me over. Then he lowers himself between my thighs and kisses me deeply as he pushes inside.

It’s so good. So natural. He feels like heaven.

He feels like mine.

I hook my ankles around his back and twist my fingers into his hair, pulling hard because I can’t get him deep enough, close enough. I want more of him. More of everything.

He starts to lose himself. I feel it in the way his arms shake, hear it in the deep rasps of his breath, see it in his face as his brows draw together in the kind of pleasure so acute, it’s almost pain. With every thrust of his pelvis, my nipples drag against his chest. He bends his head and takes one into his mouth, then sucks hard as he starts to buck uncontrollably, pumping deep and groaning around my flesh.

“Ah—Theo!”

His entire body jerks. He makes a sound like he’s dying. His hands twitch against my head as his orgasm rips another sound from his lips. A new sound, one I’ve never heard him make before.

It’s a name.

My name.

“Megan!”

All the lingering doubts about my sanity and the impossible puzzle my brain has pieced together are destroyed by finally hearing Theo speak.

Because now I know why he stopped talking.

His voice isn’t his own.

It belongs to a man with sky-blue eyes and a smile like sunshine, whom I first met when I was six years old.