No weakness—all power. No excuses.

My quad muscles stretch like rubber bands about to snap. I push faster, harder, to catch up to the group at the top of the hill where the trail levels off. The cluster of oak trees draped over the mammoth boulder at the bend up ahead marks “make out” rock. I’m halfway there. Thank Christ!

Oops. Sorry, God.

The invisible vise cinching my lungs tightens. I know better—should have set the second alarm clock. Olympic trials are in a week! If I want to place, I have to force myself every day to work harder than the day before. There are no days off. Today, my life changes.

“Toni, come on!”

“Meg! If I wanted to be a damn runner—I’d have joined track! God made water for people like me!”

Wet prickly branches and leaves bite my face as I pump my achy feet over the familiar, muddy path through the woods.

Crunch. Crack. The slosh of soggy leaves and snap of twigs under my feet grows louder. Pungent moss and the sharp sting of pine are like flames scalding my nostrils as my breathing labors in the icy air.

On a down stride, the ground gives way like quicksand. My foot disappears to the top of my ankle, torqueing my leg to the left, and all my weight practically crushes it.

As I face-plant into a pile of wet pine needles and dewy foliage, small, unforgiving rocks and pointy thorns cut into my knee. White-hot pain sears my ankle, bolting up my calf to settle in my quad. Inching to the side, I slowly extract my mud-covered foot from the hole. “Linda!”

The sides of my foot pulse against the strangling material of my running shoe and I fumble with the laces.

“Toni!” Linda yells as she and Megan jog back to me. “Your foot. Jeez! And your knee’s bleeding. What the hell happened?”

“I stepped on something not solid, obviously.” I gently guide the shoe and sock off.

Swollen. Shit! From the looks of it, I have a little tree stump growing between my calf and my foot—perfect!

My friends put both their arms under mine.

I wiggle out of their grasps. “No. No. I’m fine. You guys go. I need to sit for a second and we’re on a clock. I just need to walk it off, I think.”

“We’re not leaving you here, nerd. You’re a bloody mess. Come on.”

They stand and offer their hands to me.

I bat away their thoughtful attempts to help me up. “Really, guys, I’m okay. It looks worse than it is. No need for all of us to get screamed at. It’ll probably be fine once I get in the pool.”

“You sure?” Linda jogs in place. “Looks kind of bad.”

“I’m good. I’ll shortcut across Old Man Tucker’s road.”

Megan cocks her head at me, checking her watch. “You might actually catch his morning trip. Tell him to drop you at the school.”

“Ughhh.” I work my way up using a tree stump. “See, I’m fine. Now get out of here.” I nod ahead.

“You sure you’re okay?” Meg grips my shoulder. “I don’t like leaving you.”

“Please. Like I’m gonna get lost? I’ll be fine. Promise.”

Meg narrows her eyes at me. “See you at the pool. We’ll tell Coach what happened.”

They run off down the shady path.

I hobble through the small clearing to Old Man Tucker’s road. I don’t even know the name of the little road. We nicknamed it for the sweet old man who makes his grocery store haul every Saturday like clockwork and cheers us on while we run. What I wouldn’t give to see his rusty pick-up right now.

I put gradual pressure on my foot, trying to get a feel for what kind of trouble I’m in. The shooting pain in my calf gets worse the more pressure I put on it, but I can walk, which means I can definitely swim. Thank God, because I already know there’s no mercy waiting for me on the pool deck.

I step onto the small road, glancing up at the patch of woods that leads to the school’s pool. Not far. Concrete pebbles on the narrow road stab into the bottom of my foot. I squeeze my eyes with each slow step. The pain is constant, but a little more bearable the more I walk on it.

“Coach is gonna kick my ass—”

A blood-curdling cry breaks the silence and I spin around. An ice-cold shiver crawls up my spine. Freezing in the middle of the road, I drop the shoe and sock I just took off.

Again it comes, louder this time. I slam my hands over my ears and turn in the direction of the agonized howl. My heart jack-hammers against my chest. I jerk my head left and right, looking for somebody, anybody, but nobody else is around. The sharp cries hit me like an electric current, jolting my body. I’m fevered and chilled to the bone all at once. I stand immobile, having never heard something so . . . tortured. I hesitantly wrap my arms around my quivering stomach, willing my heartbeat to slow.

The harrowing cries escalate, continual now, like an animal stuck in a trap or something. I fist my shirt on both sides and swallow against my dry throat. The sound seems to be coming from a dilapidated truck, tilted on blocks about twenty feet away from the road in the empty field.

“Hello?” I call out.

Nothing but the sound of suffering answers me.

Squinting, I can just make out a fuzzy . . . something sticking out behind the junker.

Shit! With a hand at my throat and balancing on my good foot, I bend at the waist trying to get a better view. The poor creature’s anguish gets more deafening with each second.

With shaky breaths, I hobble off the road into the field toward the eerie, high-pitched wails. “Please be okay. Please be okay.”

I creep toward the truck, fighting through the stabbing in my ankle, the heat in my calf, and the dread slithering across my skin. How am I going to help whatever is under there when I can barely walk?

A small, brown-and-white-spotted dog with matted fur and a bloody nose comes into focus the closer I get. Gas fumes and burnt grease envelope me with each step. I slowly approach the animal, not wanting to scare it further.

Standing almost above the dog now, I can’t miss her broken leg.

“Oh, God. Oh, my God!” I frantically look around once more, hoping for somebody, anybody.

I peek down at her. “Shhh. Baby puppy. It’s—it’s okay.” The pain in my leg becomes secondary to my fear and concern for the dog.

“God, please help me!” Her contorted leg seems held together by only a thin layer of skin. My stomach lurches. Breakfast burns its way up my esophagus. Slapping a hand over my mouth, I jerk my head to the side and force the disgusting bile back down.

Using the side of the truck, I inch my way closer to her.

“No way I’m leaving you, baby dog. I promise.”

Hovering my hand right above her back, I lightly touch the top of her matted fur to see if she’ll turn on me. When I get no response, I scoot closer. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, lean my butt against the wheel well, and steadily anchor my feet on either side of her.

“I gotta lift you, puppy, and it’s gonna hurt like hell. Just don’t bite me. Please, please don’t bite me,” I soothe, carefully working my hands under her emaciated body. Pained whimpers and sharp yelps come with each inch I work my hands under her.

Once I get a solid grip, I hoist her into my arms. “Oh, God—okay, okay, okay. We’re good, honey.” We both cry out as I rest against the truck. Every muscle in my body strains, partly from the extra weight, but more out of fear for the dog’s life. Her broken foot dangles, thumping against my abdomen.

I take a step away from the truck. Shooting pain knifes through my ankle and calf, but I push forward.

“I—I’m gonna get you help.” The road up ahead blurs before me. I blink, trying to clear my vision. “Hang on, pup—puppy.” With each step, I gasp and she howls.

“Please, girl. Please—”

A huge, muscled forearm jerks around my throat and yanks me backwards off my feet. The jolt is so sudden, so hard, I lose my hold on the dog and scream until a sweaty forearm cuts off the air supply to my windpipe. The dog gives a shrill yelp, tumbling to the ground. A large hand quickly slaps a white cloth over my nose and mouth, caging me against a rock-solid chest.

Silence. I can no longer hear the little dog crying.

The varied greens of the forest, the cloudy blue sky, and the gray concrete on Old Man Tucker’s road all blur together in a dizzying kaleidoscope.

Then my world goes black.

“God, no!” The words caught like a pill in my dry throat as my surroundings once again came into focus.

The wood under the fabric of the armrests stabbed under my nail beds, and I released my grip. I jerked my head toward the window, squinted at the speck of a sailboat floating far out at sea. Forcing my eyes open wide, I reminded myself I’m in a safe present—not the dark past.

Not even the nightmares had ever been so vivid. This was so—real, so detailed.

My lungs pumped rapidly, fragmenting my breath, and confirmed it was real. This was a memory. Not some confusing, hazy glimpse of darkness or horror like the others.

Stop!

Breathe.

Where are you?

Warmth on my arms. Sun on my face. The soft sounds of lapping waves crept through a crack in the window, carrying with them the salty sea breeze. Blaring horns in the chaotic city became my anchor. Quick gulps of air chilled the lining of my throat.

I pressed deeper into the cushions of my psychologist’s couch, letting them surround my body as I clutched the same faded yellow paisley pillow I did every week.

“Toni?” Dr. Rhodes’ called my name, but sounded far off.

I scanned the quaint cream and earth-toned office, trying to acclimate. Cinnamon apple incense filled the room with a comforting fragrance. Familiarity set in as I inhaled long and slow, trying to regulate my breathing.

My center had just flipped far left and backwards.

How the hell did I talk through this? Wide-the-fuck-awake flashbacks? No distraction or mental exercise could dim the HD experience of what I had just relived in a matter of seconds. Internal thoughts. Full conversations. Sense memory at its most vivid—the heady scent of moss from a recent rain, the overwhelming brown sugary smell of chloroform cutting off air to my lungs. Helplessness seeping out of every pore. The sudden and consuming blackness—

“Where’d you go?”

I jerked my head toward Dr. Rhodes.

She was sitting in her white chair, head tilted to the side with the smallest trace of a frown pushing at the corner of her mouth.

I clutched the pillow tighter, the beadwork making painful indentions in my skin. “They’re coming more often. Nightmares.” I glanced back out at the ocean. “Flashbacks.” I heard the word whisper through the room, but the barely-there voice sounded foreign. Not mine.

“Is that what you just experienced? A flashback?”

I wanted to run—to hide. I wanted to go back two years ago when all I had was a story.

“Yes, but that’s insane—I’m awake. Dr. Rhodes, I’m awake!” The hairs on my nape rose. “It’s been over two decades. I had almost nothing before two years ago and now . . . ”

Dr. Rhodes leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “And now?”

“Now, nightmares. Flashbacks? He . . . he was a monster.” The word blared through my head on rewind.

Monster.

The monster came back for me . . .

Only during the bad episodes did I get a glimpse of his darkened features. But it was his presence, which left me catatonic.

The blackened silhouette of his huge, imposing presence. The freakish size of him. His cruel strength. My powerlessness. I had been so weak, so small, and he had been colossal . . .

“He’s not back, Toni. He’s dead,” Dr. Rhodes said, in an intentionally calm voice.

But I wasn’t dealing with a dead man from the past. I was facing a ghost in the here and now, infecting my present life. Haunting me at night. And now during the daytime? “I know he’s dead! The flashback, the nightmares . . . They’re memories. I don’t know how I know, but I do.”

Pushing back, I let the cushions hug me tighter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I see the mutilation every day. You have any idea what it was like to see it, and not remember how it got there. It’s like trying to balance while standing in the center of a teeter-totter.” And now I’d lost my footing and slid into a black abyss. “For twenty-five years, I’ve worn the evidence with a warped sense of blissful ignorance. It never gets easier to see. It’s always shocking. But the lack of context helped me accept what I couldn’t change. Why now?”

“Could be a number of reasons, but you’ve been getting better since they started. I hope you can at least acknowledge your progress.”

Dr. Rhodes kept me grounded in my safe place, as psycho-babbly as that sounded, even to me.

My head became too heavy and I let it fall against the back of the couch. “My career is going well. Teaching self-defense on Saturdays makes me feel like I’m helping in some small way.” I met her gaze. “You were right about going back to a public gym. It’s become my solace. I have friends there now. I know you consider that progress. But the nightmares . . . ”

She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at me. “That is progress. We’re not looking for perfection. It’s a process. However, when I suggested you go back to the gym outside of your Krav Maga training, I didn’t mean for you to go at two a.m. Your body needs sleep.”

The sigh slipped out before I could stop it. There wasn’t one person in my life who didn’t harp on my lack of sleep. “I’ve always had trouble sleeping. Even before the nightmares started. Besides, they—ah, the episodes—come more often now. Sometimes when I dream, I get snippets of the . . . event. But they’re like disjointed and obscure movie trailers. Now this—full on Technicolor details complete with sensory awareness?”

Digging my fingers into my temples for a second, I tried to lessen the pounding inside my head. I shoved my arms through my jacket sleeves and retrieved the pillow. Small, fluffy feathers floated about my face. I peeked down at a small rip in the material under my white knuckles.

Dr. Rhodes sat forward. “You’ve experienced a form of psychogenic amnesia called ‘situation-specific psychogenic amnesia.’ It’s related to PTSD. There is no statute of limitations on when you remember a trauma, Toni, especially since you did suffer a serious brain injury at the time of the attack.”

“I realize that, but I rehabilitated well. I was lucky.”

“You were, but you did sustain cognitive and social-emotional effects—in your case, significant memory loss, anxiety, and depression. Memory retrieval decades later isn’t a surprise, especially since you were immediately given a new life far removed from all associations attached to the attack. Every person who experiences physical and mental trauma responds differently. You repressed the memories. As for why now? You eventually got married—”

“Wait.” I bolted up, interrupting her. “I’m sorry, but what does he have to do with any of this?”

She regarded me patiently in a manner that reminded me of my mother.

The only man I’d ever cared for had thrown me away like trash. Like I was nothing. I’d had trouble seeing through the fog of worthlessness, self-loathing, and un-lovability that comes when you watch the person who vowed to love you grow disgusted at the sight of you.

A lot of people had to deal with bad divorces—I was no different in that way.

But abduction? Mutilation? A botched murder attempt? “I don’t see how one situation has anything to do with the other.”

“Distractors, Toni. You got married for the wrong reasons and that has everything to do with deflecting the past. The emotional abuse in your marriage functioned as a constant distractor. You dealt with that . . . not the attack. Now you aren’t as distracted as you were and parts of your past are coming back to you.”

I sat up straighter. “I see what you’re saying in theory, but I knew what happened to me before I was married—way before. So why not then? I knew and I had no trouble functioning, even with the ramifications of the divorce. I was fine until two years ago.”

Even knowing what had happened to me, I wasn’t an unhappy person, and I didn’t view myself as a victim. Wrong place, wrong time. End of story. But this? “Memory retrieval?” Contaminating a life I’d worked damn hard for, which was now fracturing around me? I could have lived with knowing the story—a vast difference from having to experience it.

She shook her head. “Before has become irrelevant. After the divorce, something eventually triggered the repressed memories. Time heals, yes, but time can also allow specific memories we compartmentalize in the psyche to creep up when the subconscious is at rest.”

I couldn’t reconcile any of this logically—I couldn’t. Gray areas weren’t my forte. Give it to me in black or white and make sure it’s something I can buy into. This kind of talk made me want to go to a mountain and chant, or something.

“So . . . you’re suggesting my divorce and its aftermath kept my past buried?”

“We get consumed with our present. Our present happiness, our present pain, and the rest gets stored somewhere in the mind. For some people, the most present emotive event takes precedence over anything else. You experienced extensive physical and psychological injuries very young—injuries that should have killed you. Psychological trauma heals differently than the physical. You can’t cut it out or sew it up. You have to confront it. Before the nightmares, did you remember anything? Feel anything that made you uncomfortable?”

“Nothing besides a few unexplained oddities.” Tingling exploded through my already numb fingertips. My heartbeat double-timed. “A—a few German phrases I don’t remember hearing before.” I glanced up to see her nodding in encouragement. “Barking—most people get upset when dogs bark. I never have. It calms me. Since moving here, I’ve been leery of large men. I don’t remember feeling that way before—And— and being strapped down. I don’t know why. But the thought of being strapped down to anything . . . ” Every tiny hair on my arms raised and I shuddered the thought away. “That—that’s all. Until now.”

“So now, we deal with the new memories. As for you functioning, as you put it, you function well in the environment you’ve created . . . a safe, low-risk environment.” I knew this lead in. Here it comes. “It’s been four years and you haven’t dated once. Don’t you want to meet someone and experience a healthy relationship?”

As if I could? I yanked off my jacket again. Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold.

Healthy relationship. The suggestion was almost cruel. “How did we get to my love life, or lack thereof, Dr. Rhodes? I’m not writing off men, but do you genuinely think now’s the time for me to date? Who’d want to deal with me . . . like this?”

Talk about baggage.

“I wouldn’t want you using this situation as an excuse to shut yourself up again.”

“I think this is more than a ‘situation,’ don’t you?”

Her lips pursed, clearly disappointed as she leaned toward me. “I’m not trivializing what is happening to you, but I’m also not going to justify you putting your life on hold. I’m asking that you push your boundaries, even with the flashbacks and nightmares. You’re strong enough to do that. Endure the discomfort. You deserve a full sexual life . . . one without shame or fear. While you’ve made progress, you’re reclusive. You don’t go out—”

“I am not reclusive and I do go out.”

“The gym and the grocery store don’t count. I mean out. Work on going out in public. Mingle with different people.”

Mingle? My forearms burned, stung, like I’d shoved them into a red anthill. I eased some of the itchiness, dragging my fingernails over my damp skin. “How am I supposed to get to know someone when I’m—not right? I’m not normal.”

I’m—broken.

“Your past hasn’t made you abnormal; it’s left you with scars that need to heal and memories you need to confront. Getting out of your comfort zone is the goal. Tolerate the pain, the fear, in order to heal. In order to have a better quality of life. No excuses.”

And there it was, the gauntlet. I had a problem with the word “excuses.” I didn’t do them. No top athlete did. I don’t care how many decades had passed . . . no excuses.

Dealing with myself right now was bad enough. How was I supposed to deal with a man, or a man’s needs? I mean it wasn’t like I didn’t want to experience a healthy relationship or good sex. I wasn’t a nun, for fuck’s sake, but I was a realist. Men tended to like physical perfection, and perfect I was not, nor would I ever be. That was fact. Not an excuse.

“You haven’t met anybody?”

“No.”

But then he popped into my head.

The gorgeous new guy at the gym . . . the Redwood.

I didn’t know his name, so I thought “the Redwood” was an accurate and amusing nickname, since he was about that tall. I had never spoken to him, but if any man could make me wish I were normal, he’d be the one. Then again, he was massive, and in my world, aesthetic beauty did not trump the size and strength of any man who could bench-press an SUV.

“You’re flushed.” Dr. Rhodes sat back with a calming grin, which usually set me at ease.

Fanning my face, I shrugged the comment off. “It happens all the time.”

With a raised eyebrow, she stopped what she was doing and the full impact of her astute gaze fell on me. “Are you sure there isn’t anything else you’d like to share with me?”

“There’s nothing to share.” I hadn’t met the man. Besides, I already didn’t like him. I hated the way my entire body heated the second he walked into the gym and my heart rate took off at light speed. I hated that I thought about him at all, because as a rule I did not waste time on the unattainable. I shouldn’t feel . . . tingly . . . about a man I didn’t know. I was smarter than that.

“Have you met someone, Toni?”

I shook my head. “Nobody new. We have a few new faces at the gym.”

Crossing her legs, she placed both hands around her knee. “You can’t be afraid of interacting with available men.” She tilted her head.

The sympathy that crept into her gaze made my stomach contract and my skin crawl—sympathy from anyone made me physically ill.

I don’t need anyone to feel sorry for me. I don’t want a man in my life. What’s the big fucking deal?

Not wanting her to see the rage I knew would be all over my face, I glanced down at my hands. “Fear isn’t the right word. Besides, my workload is heavy right now. I don’t have time for men. Oh, and that little problem of my past coming back whenever it damn well feels like it.”

“Your past, we can handle.”

Glad one of us was so confident . . .

She looked at the little clock to my left. The sign that time was up.

Thank Christ! Flashbacks, men, and sex—all things I didn’t need to think about. I had bigger demons demanding my full attention.

One breath at a time, one day at a time. One breath at a time, one day at a time . . .

“Toni, one last thing.”

“Of course.” I frantically searched for my keys in my black hole of a purse. The urge to dump my purse out in a flat-out panic was almost uncontrollable.

“The ‘new faces’ at the gym you mentioned . . . any particular interest in any of them?”

I stopped digging and met her gaze.

To my utter horror, I could admit at least to myself that I was interested the first time I’d seen the Redwood. More . . . fascinated. And scared to death. A slow heat burned down my chest, over my arms and lower just thinking about him. Why couldn’t I stop thinking about him?

His eyes. He has warm eyes and a kind face.

I shrugged a shoulder, brushing her comment off. “Some look friendly enough.”

She held the door open and followed me out to the small lobby. “Friendly is a good start.”