Dark dreams roll me under during the night. I wake up on Sunday morning with a howl caught in my throat, the covers tangled in my legs, drenched in cold sweat.

People dying, my family dying, the house sinking in quicksand.

Nothing new.

Nothing good.

The kids are uneasy. Maybe they’ve picked up on my mood, or they got used to having Octavia around.

They’re not the only ones.

Fuck it. I put them in the car and drive out of town, to the nearest mall. We eat in the food court, and I watch as they play in the indoors playground with tons of other kids and stressed-out parents.

I rub my hands over my face, bury them in my hair, tug. I had painkillers for breakfast, but this fucking headache won’t let up. I keep seeing Octavia’s pale face, the fear in her eyes. Was that from last night at her house, or from my dreams?

Impossible to tell. Reality is again getting mixed with the nightmares, and I’m too tired to tease the threads apart.

After Mary falls from the plastic slide and starts wailing in the way that indicates an urgent need for a nap, I grab them both and drive back home.

Home. It feels like that sometimes.

When Octavia is here, my mind helpfully suggests. Then it feels like a home.

Fuck off, mind. Not in the mood today.

And when are you in the mood?

Shit.

The kids get into a fight when Mary doesn’t let Cole change the TV show they’re watching—something with squishy green blobs Cole likes for a Japanese anime she wants. I always thought those kids with the huge eyes look like fucking aliens rather than cute, but whatever.

Cole minds, though, and starts wailing like a banshee.

I manage to calm them down, and we watch another show together for a while. Couldn’t tell you what it’s about. Talking fruit loops, maybe? The kids seem entranced.

Until Cole climbs over Mary to reach me and she bursts into a sobfest, complete with snot and endless tears.

Christ. If I didn’t love these kids more than my life…

But I do, so I get some quick dinner into them and tuck them into bed.

How many times have I picked up my phone to call Octavia today? Every time one of the kids said something funny, every time they had a fight, every time I sank into anger and sorrow.

Every time I turned and she wasn’t there beside me.

But I told her to rest, and what kind of a boss would I be if I didn’t stop bothering her during her day off?

Being her boss sucks ass. I want to call her as a man who cares for her, to ask how she’s doing, as a guy who likes spending time with her.

In the end, I settle for a text message. “How are you holding up?”

I get no reply.

And another night stretches in front of me. I don’t fucking wanna face it, not alone, and since I can’t have Octavia, I cuddle with my whiskey bottle on the sofa, letting the TV play whatever the hell is on.

I finish the bottle, then cave in and take my sleeping pills. I manage to fall asleep in the early hours, only to wake up time and again with that familiar sick dread in my stomach that has nothing to do with the booze I consumed and everything to do with Emma.

And Octavia.

Because every time I close my eyes now, it’s not Emma’s dead face I see, not her body lowered into the ground.

Not mine, either.

It’s Octavia’s, and that scares the motherfucking shit out of me. It scares me more than anything else has, because this time it really is up to me to save her.

* * *

When Monday morning rolls in, I call John, desperate for news.

He has some.

“Alina Solokov,” John says. “Assuming it’s the same woman you dated at school, she has passed away.” He pauses. “Declared suicide.”

Fuck. “She’s dead.”

I can’t fucking believe it. My memories from that time are frozen in time like photographs, perfect stills of a carefree time, a time without any emotions I can remember.

No great love.

No bright hope.

No crushing fear.

And no dark despair.

An unreal time, shallow and fun, a bit too bright, as if the picture was overexposed, the film burned.

Another woman I dated dead. It’s like I’m cursed, passing death to the women who come near me.

Christ. I am cursed. Fucking haunted and shit out of luck. As if I didn’t already know. Though when Octavia’s face flashes through my mind I wanna smile, and my luck doesn’t seem all bad.

“Hansen.” John clears his throat. “Matt. My apologies, I know this must be painful for you.”

“It’s not painful,” I snarl, then try to regain control of myself. “It was a shock, but I haven’t seen her in many years. We weren’t that close.”

“I see. Yes, you’ve said that before.”

I clench the phone in my hand until it creaks, close to breaking. “And? What else? Spit it out.”

It wasn’t Ross. I accused him, and punched him, and it wasn’t him.

He deserved it, though, for bullying Octavia all the years. He fucking did.

“You were right about the other matter,” John says. “Probably what led to her decision to end her life.”

“When was that?”

“In the year after you both graduated from school.”

Shit. The time frame fits. I don’t want this to be true. I don’t fucking want to be right about this.

But I am.

“Anything else? Any clue who might be leaving the messages and harassing Octavia?”

“Well, Alina wasn’t married, and there doesn’t seem to have been another boyfriend after you. Her parents live in St. Louis. There is a brother and a sister living in St. Louis and Tucson, respectively. No criminal records.”

“Christ, she never told me anything about a brother and a sister.”

John hums. “Different mother. And like I said, they live in a different town. In any case, Hansen, your theory doesn’t answer the question of why here, why now.”

No, it doesn’t.

“It has to be one of the siblings,” I tell him, thinking out loud. “My money’s on the brother. Check where he is at now, and I dunno, his bank activities, or whatever else you can think of.”

“So, what, you’re a cop now? Gonna tell me how to run an investigation?”

Ooh, John is grumpy today. “Why, got any better ideas, Johnny boy? If so, let me know.”

“Stay out of this, Hansen. I’ve got it.”

Yeah, sure. I get that he doesn’t like me butting in, but it’s not like he has turned up anything so far, and excuse me if I’m running low on fucks right about now.

It’s my family that’s at stake. My girl, too.

My girl… Fuck. There it is again, the admission, and with it the gut-clenching fear that something could happen to her, and then…

And then what the hell am I gonna do, and how will I go on living?

* * *

When Octavia arrives in the morning, in her pretty dress and heels, her dark hair tumbling on her shoulders like silk, a light in her eyes, I fight it.

It’s her own sake, her own safety. I fight what I want, what I need. I’m trying to do what’s best for her. I even think about firing her, but I can’t.

I fucking can’t. My kids need her. Love her.

I… Shit. What am I gonna do?

She comes close to me, smiling, and I inhale her sweet scent before I realize what I’m doing. I’m fucking reaching for her, about to draw her in my arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like I’ve been doing it for years.

But then I see the red mark on her pale throat, the scratch on her cheek, and all I want is to put my fist through a wall. Because otherwise I’ll go around punching random people, and that’s frowned upon in society, or so I’m told.

Hell.

So I just grunt at her when she greets me, and I’m out the fucking door before she has a chance to get closer.

Pretending I don’t notice the hurt in her eyes. It stabs me in the chest, twists inside my heart like a rusty switchblade.

So I throw myself into work, my cell phone stuffed in my pocket in case John calls with a breakthrough. I slide under the car I’m working on, losing myself in the intricacies of the engine, trying to fix it—since I can’t fix my life.

Since I can’t solve the riddle all the way, can’t reach the heart of the maze and catch the monster.

Capture it.

Punish it.

Instead I’m punishing myself, not that it’s anything new.

And I’m hurting her. For the thousandth time in these past weeks I wonder if she feels something for me.

Whatever that is. I can’t hope…

No, I fucking can’t. I’m seriously fucked in the head if I think she might feel anything for me. Yet letting her go hurts worse than a broken bone. If her life wasn’t in danger… That’s the only reason I’m not driving home right the hell now to take her in my arms.

As for what people must be saying behind my back, fuck, I’ve never cared about that. I’ve got that going for me. I don’t give a shit what they think about me.

It was the same thing when Emma died, when I couldn’t weep for her, couldn’t stay in the town we called our home, when I lost myself in medication and booze.

When I left and ended up here, without a job, or a goal, taking the kids with me. Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt.

But what about Octavia? She has to care what the wagging tongues say behind her back. She has lived here all her life. Her family is here, her friends. The bullies that hurt her.

She doesn’t need more teasing, more bullying. It’s the last thing she needs.

I am the last fucking thing she could ever need. Just because I need her… just because she’s sweet and nice and curious about sex, that doesn’t mean anything.

Fuck. I slam my fist against the metal over my head, wishing I could go get shitfaced and forget this mind-twister.

“Hey, dude, you okay?” Evan taps my feet that are sticking out from under the car. “What are you doing down there? Sounds like you’re dismantling the damn engine.”

“Go away,” I grunt.

“Back to grunting, I see.” Evans leans against the car, all fucking nonchalance, his dusty sneakers level with my head. “I thought you were over that.”

I consider grunting again just because. “Fuck off, Evan.”

“Uh-uh. You’re the grumpiest bastard I’ve ever known. What’s up? Tell your buddy.”

“You ain’t no buddy of mine.”

“But you’re my friend,” he says simply, and it stops me in my tracks.

Jesus.

What is it with this little town in the middle of nowhere that makes people so damn nice? Must be something in the water.

And why is it I got something in my eye and I have trouble swallowing?

“Whatever,” I mutter, and find myself smiling in spite of my foul mood. “Did you want something? Trying to get some fucking work done here.”

“Well…” His sneakers scuff on the concrete floor as he turns. “Octavia’s boyfriend is here. Well, the non-boyfriend.” He snickers.

Anger washes through me in a shocking, sudden wave. “The fuck.”

“I swear to God, he’s standing right across from me. Brought his car for repairs, looks like.”

“And you thought I had to know? See if I’ll come out and punch his fucking lights out? Give you a good show?”

“Nah.” He drums his fingers on the car. “I thought I’d poke the beast. See if I can get you out of that weird funk you’re in. Sometimes a bit of rage helps.”

As if I’m not furious already. Can you cure rage with rage?

But I pull myself out from under the car and climb to my feet, wiping my grimy hands on a rug, and take a look at the guy who’s held Octavia’s hand and ate ice cream with her. He’s all young and skinny and damn girly. Ugly as fuck.

Or he will be, after I’m done rearranging his face with my fists.

“Why are you so mad at him?” Evan fishes out a pack of smokes from his back pocket and offers me one. I take it, slip it behind my ear. “You said it yourself. He’s not her boyfriend.”

“Not for lack of trying,” I growl. “Motherfucker.”

“Don’t tell me you feel threatened by a baby like him.”

I grab the front of Evan’s sweaty T-shirt. “Maybe you want my fist in your face.”

Evan doesn’t look impressed. “So?”

“I don’t like him. Little shit shouldn’t even be allowed near Tay.”

“So now it’s Tay, huh?” Evan wags his brows. “Girl got under your skin, didn’t she?”

Releasing him, I turn around and stomp out the back, pulling the cigarette from behind my ear. Because he has no fucking idea.

Evan follows me out, offers me his lighter.

I light up, draw in the smoke, then let it out, trying to release my anger with it. It’s irrational anger, and I know it. That young guy did nothing wrong when he tried to get Octavia for himself.

But she’s mine.

It’s all sorts of wrong and fucked up, especially when I’ve decided to keep away from her for her own good, when I’ve almost convinced myself I mean nothing to her anyway, and when I can’t…

Can’t stop thinking about her, wanting her so much my blood sings and my fucking soul aches.

“You don’t like him, huh?” Evan mutters, but he isn’t smirking, doesn’t seem to be in a teasing mood. “Ross said the same.”

“You’re testing your luck, you know that, right? Mentioning Ross.”

“Yeah, you wanna beat someone up today, don’t you?” He opens his arms, smoking cig in one hand, the son of a bitch, and stares hard at me. “Have a go at it. See if it makes you feel better.”

“Asshole.” I step away from him so that I won’t be tempted.

Without missing a beat, he slaps my shoulder and steps right beside me again. “Look, I know Ross is a dick. And I know you think he posted those messages on your door and harassed Octavia.” At my dark look, he shrugs. “News travels fast here. All I’m saying is… Ross has a big mouth on him, and a small brain in his head. He’s a bully all right. But he was never the kid who pulled the wings off butterflies and kicked puppies.”

“So I guess that proves he’s innocent, huh?” I let the sarcasm drip off my voice.

“No, it doesn’t prove jack. I’m only saying.”

And I’m listening. But what’s the use? Ross isn’t at work today, his daddy neither, and what is his connection to Alina Solokov anyway?

If this unholy tension headache ever gave way, I might be able to think, make the connection somehow. As it is, nothing comes to me. Nothing to link Ross with my past.

A past I thought interested no one, until now. A past I had never spared a thought for, a girl I’ve never felt anything for.

A tragedy I never foresaw.

But you never foresee that shit. It strikes out of nowhere, without warning. Just when you think the storm is over and you can breathe again, life grabs you and rattles you until your teeth shake loose.

Disease, accidents, death.

Love.

You never see it coming.