8:44 A.M.
His back was aching today. Sleeping in his car, while Tom believed it to be a necessity, was still the most uncomfortable night he’d spent in years.
Hannah had always hogged the bed, plastering herself all over him: her head on his chest, her leg thrown across his, her hair tickling his nose all night. She was a cold sleeper so even on the hottest of nights she never kept to her side of the bed, instead draping herself on top of him. He, on the other hand, was a hot sleeper, and most nights her body heat had made his own rise to the point where he was sweltering.
He had loved every second of it—falling asleep with her at his side, feeling her warm body against his if he woke during the night.
It was heaven.
And never once, not even on the hottest of summer nights, had he ever rolled her body off his.
Tom knew he didn't want it to be over between them.
He wanted there to be a way for them to have a second chance.
But he wasn't sure if it was already too late.
Last night, as he’d sat in his car watching Hannah’s house, he’d known that he didn't want to walk away when this was done. He hadn’t slept much; his eyes had remained glued to the house, watching the light in what he assumed was Hannah’s bedroom remain on till the early hours of the morning, and he realized that he wanted to be there to support her.
He never should have walked away in the first place. He knew that now. Believing it was what Hannah wanted was a cop-out. Even if he’d been right—and now, he wasn't sure that he was—that Hannah wanted to deal with what had happened on her own without him, he should have insisted on staying, on being there for her, on helping them both heal. Because he now admitted that he had needed to heal just as much as Hannah had.
Even if it wasn't possible for them to find a way to reconcile, Tom knew he had to try. And step number one was finding who bugged Hannah’s office and if they were really targeting her.
“Garry Smith?” he asked as he opened the door to the interview room where the man was waiting for them.
“Yes. I was told this was about Hannah and the robbery. Is she all right?”
Tom assessed the man. Garry Smith was thirty—the same age as Hannah and himself. He had thick blond hair, bright blue eyes, and no doubt a perfect six pack under his grey sweater. He looked like he could be a male model. Despite the fact that Tom knew he was in just as good shape, he couldn’t help the spear of jealousy he felt coming face-to-face with Hannah’s ex-boyfriend.
There were so many things he wanted to know, and yet didn't. Had Garry and Hannah been intimate? And he didn't just mean sexually, although he wondered about that, too. But had Hannah confided in Garry? Had she shared her thoughts and feelings with him? How close had the two of them been? And were things really completely over between them?
“Hannah is fine,” he answered, and he would make sure she stayed that way. “But the robbery wasn't connected to the others, and we’re looking into the possibility that robbery wasn't the prime motivation for the attack on her store.”
“What else could it be?” Garry’s forehead crinkled in confusion.
“Do you think there’s a chance anyone might want to target Hannah?” Chloe asked.
“Hannah?” Garry repeated as though the very notion was preposterous. “Why would anyone want to hurt Hannah?”
“It was her store; we have to look into that possibility,” he replied, deciding he didn't like Garry Smith. He was pretty sure that had more to do with hating the idea of this man with his ex-wife than because he thought the man was involved in bugging and robbing Hannah’s store.
“How long did you and Hannah date?” Chloe asked.
“A little over a year.”
A little over a year? The longest he had ever dated anyone since the divorce was four months. Hannah had been with Garry for over three times that. Just how close had the two of them been? He was almost afraid to find out.
“And who ended things?” Chloe asked.
They already knew that Hannah had, but it would be interesting to see Garry’s take on things to gain some insight into whether he might have reason—in his mind, at least—to cause Hannah harm.
“She did.”
“Why?” Tom asked, pleased to have confirmation that it had been Hannah who had ended the relationship. He wasn't sure why that made him feel better. Maybe because it somehow meant that Hannah wasn't really over him. Which meant that maybe, somehow, there was hope for the two of them after all.
“I guess she wasn't as into the relationship as I was.”
“Is that what she said?” Chloe asked.
Garry shrugged. His blue eyes had darkened a little, taken on a dismal gleam. “Pretty much. I started talking about our future, and whenever I would bring it up, Hannah would get uncomfortable and change the subject. The first few times I just let it go, thinking she needed a little more time, but when she continued to show no interest in taking our relationship to the next level, I confronted her. She finally told me that she didn't want things to get serious between us and that she was ending things.”
“Did you try to change her mind?” he asked.
“I tried to talk to her about it. I tried to find out why she didn't want to keep seeing me; I didn't understand. Everything had been going so well between us. I knew that I loved Hannah, and I thought she felt the same way.”
“It must have made you angry when you found out that she didn't,” Chloe said.
“Angry? No. Disappointed, sad, confused, let down, yes.”
“How let down?” Chloe asked.
Garry narrowed his eyes at them. “I know where you're going with that, and I know what you're thinking. But I would never hurt Hannah. I loved her.”
“Do you still love her?” Tom asked.
He hesitated for a moment. “If I say yes, it’s going to make me look bad. Like I haven't let go. Like I'm some kind of creep who might want to get revenge on her for breaking up with me, but it’s not like that. If Hannah gave me another chance, would I go back to her in a second? Yes. But I'm not angry with her. She didn't want to keep seeing me. There was nothing I could do to change her mind, and I’ve accepted that.”
Garry claimed he had accepted it, yet he had admitted that the breakup was not his idea. He hadn’t wanted it to happen, and he had tried to change her mind. If Hannah would agree to date him again, then he would. It didn't sound like he was over Hannah at all. “How did you try to change her mind, Mr. Smith?”
“I didn't hurt her, if that’s what you're implying. How many times do I have to say it? I would never hurt Hannah. Ever. For any reason. I loved her. Okay, I still love her. She’s beautiful and smart and strong, and any man would be lucky to have her. I know I was.”
Tom knew he had been lucky to have Hannah, too. He just wished he’d been smart enough to remember that while he still had her. “If you didn't set up this robbery to hurt Hannah, then do you have any ideas of anyone who might?”
“No, I told you everyone loved Hannah. No one would want to hurt her. She was so sweet, wouldn’t hurt a fly, and she’d . . .” Garry trailed off, looking thoughtful.
“Did you think of something, Mr. Smith?” Chloe asked.
He looked up at them, earnest now. “Her therapist.”
Hannah was still seeing a therapist? He shouldn’t be surprised. She’d been very diligent with her therapy after the assault. He had met Dr. Langley and liked the woman a lot—thought she was great for Hannah. Tom couldn’t see her doing anything to hurt Hannah now. Why would she?
“What about her therapist?” Chloe asked.
“He’s creepy. I don’t like him,” Garry replied.
He? Hannah must have stopped seeing Dr. Langley along the way and moved on to someone new. “What’s his name?”
“Bryce McCracken.”
“And what about him makes him creepy?”
“His methods,” Garry answered quickly. “I didn't agree with them at all.”
“What were his methods?”
“He believed in this ‘exposure therapy technique.’ You know, where you take someone and expose them to whatever it is they’re afraid of until it doesn’t bother them anymore. I thought after what Hannah had been through she shouldn’t be letting anyone put her through that.”
Tom stiffened. Had Hannah told Garry about the home invasion? He didn't like that idea. At all. He hadn’t told any of the women he’d dated. But Hannah had been with Garry for over a year, long enough for them to grow close and for Garry to start thinking that they had a future. “What had Hannah been through?”
“I don’t know the details. Just that it was something bad. I tried to get her to talk to me about it, but she wouldn’t. All I know is, she is petrified of guns and most nights can't sleep in a bed.”
Finding out Hannah still struggled to sleep in a bed was overshadowed by the fact that Garry knew that. If he knew that, then he must have spent the night at Hannah’s. Tom struggled to control his breathing as images of Hannah and Garry being intimate filled his head.
He had to let go of the jealousy.
He knew that.
But he couldn’t.
Nor could he stand to be in the same room as Hannah’s ex-boyfriend for a moment longer.
“We need contact information for Bryce McCracken,” he said. Or snarled.
“Yeah, sure.” Garry Smith looked confused by his sudden hostility. Which somehow only made him hate the man more.
Tom stood, threw back his chair, and stalked out of the room.
His feet knew where they were going even before his mind consciously processed it.
He had to see Hannah.
Now.
* * * * *
9:51 A.M.
She was wandering aimlessly around her store. Although Hannah had been hoping to get it back up and running to make the most of the last few days before Christmas, she had to face the reality that it wasn’t going to happen.
Too much needed to be done before she could reopen. The glass display cases needed to be rebuilt, and she couldn’t get anyone to come and do it until January. She still had to finish making a list of everything that had been taken. She was down one employee. And to be honest, she just didn't have the energy to face customers and long work days right now.
But she also couldn’t just spend her days hanging around her house.
So, she was here, pacing up and down her store and procrastinating the tedious and time-consuming task of figuring out what was missing.
Part of her wanted to just give up. Declare it too much to handle and shove it into the “too-hard basket,” sell the store, cut her losses, and find something else to do with her life. But the other part of her knew that wasn’t an option. She couldn’t allow it to be an option. If she gave up, it would make the last three years one big pointless waste of her time.
She couldn’t allow that. She had fought too long and too hard to get where she was to throw it all away. As tempting as it was some days to just throw in the towel, curl up under the covers in her armchair and never get up again, Hannah knew she wouldn’t do it. She would never give up. Not even if she had to struggle through every single day of the rest of her life.
Some days she wished there was something that made it all worthwhile.
Her job was important to her, and she loved it. She loved seeing her store grow, and she loved making jewelry that brought people joy and made their special occasions extra special, but she wanted something just for her. Something that made her eager to get up in the morning, that made her heart light, that made her forget about the horror of the past and be excited about the future.
For a while, she’d thought it might be Garry Smith. He was sweet and funny and kind, and she had enjoyed spending time with him. But instead of the more time she spent with him making her like him more and start to fall in love with him, it had the opposite effect. The more time they spent together, the more she knew that nothing was ever going to happen between them. She didn't feel anything. Hannah knew she should have told him sooner, that it hadn’t been fair to let him think that they had a future when she knew they didn't, but she just hadn’t had the heart to tell him.
She had worked so diligently on overcoming the assault that it seemed only fair that she get something that made her truly happy. Something that made her life full. Something—or someone—that made her live again.
The door opened, and as she turned, she knew who she was going to see standing there.
Tom.
She didn't like the way her heart stuttered every time they were in the same room. He had made it perfectly clear that he was here only because it was his job. That even if she had asked him to stay three years ago, he would have left anyway.
It was over.
She had to keep reminding herself of that; otherwise, she was going to get her heart broken all over again.
Tom stood still for a long moment, staring at her with an inscrutable expression on his face—so intently, she squirmed.
Then he was walking toward her.
Hannah felt like she should back away, unsure what he was going to do.
But she didn't.
She just stood there and watched him.
When he reached her, he paused for barely a moment before wrapping one arm around her waist, yanking her up against his body. His other hand curled around her neck. Then his mouth was on hers.
The kiss was hot and fiery and over before she even knew if she’d kissed him back or not.
Tom released her, and Hannah just stood there staring at him.
Had that really just happened?
If it weren’t for Tom’s heavy breathing, echoed by her own, she would have thought she just imagined the whole thing.
Why had he done that?
They were divorced. It had been over between them for three long years. He had been the one to walk out on her. And she had collected up the scattered pieces of her heart and her life and put them back together again. Who did Tom think he was to come back into her life, repeatedly tell her he was here only because it was his job, and then kiss her?
Angry now, she glared at him. “What are you doing here? Again.”
“I came to see you.”
“You can't just kiss me, Tom. We’re not a couple anymore.”
He ignored her and instead said, “You’re still seeing a therapist.”
She shrugged. What she was or wasn't doing was none of his business. He had made it very clear that she either did her recovery his way or he wasn't interested. Since she hadn’t, he’d walked out the door. Why did he care now? What difference did it make to him if she still needed the help of a professional to deal with what had happened?
“You didn't mention that,” he continued.
“Why would I?”
“Because I asked you if there was anyone who might want to hurt you.”
She wasn’t understanding what he was getting at. “Why would my therapist want to hurt me? I see him so he can help me.”
“He believed in exposure therapy.”
“You spoke to Garry.” There was no other explanation. Garry was the only one who knew she saw a therapist and what treatment methods he used.
“Did Bryce McCracken talk to you about helping you with your phobia of guns?”
“No. Why?” She still didn't know where this was going.
“Could he have set this up? Thrown you into a situation where you’d have to be exposed to a gun so you could work on your fears? Did you know he was going to do it?”
Furious, she responded, “If this was all a setup to help me overcome my phobia, then wouldn’t I have told you that? And Jeff was shot. If this was a game, then why would he have been hurt?”
“Maybe that wasn't part of the plan. Maybe you thought you’d just make the most of the spate of jewelry store robberies. Maybe you thought no one would get hurt. Maybe you got scared when Jeff was shot and didn't want to admit the truth.”
She slapped him.
It happened before she could even register what she was doing.
Hannah had never struck another living being in her life, but no one had ever made such a repulsively ridiculous accusation toward her before.
Tears burned the backs of her eyes. How could Tom, of all people, suggest such a thing? He knew her. They’d been married. He’d lived through the horrific home invasion with her. He knew better than anyone how she’d suffered. To know that he thought so little of her, that she would purposely expose her employees to a traumatic experience where they would be psychologically scarred for life just to work on her own problems, was devastating.
“How could you even ask me that?” she demanded.
Tom’s eyes remained cold and empty as he examined her closely, trying to gauge whether she was lying. Apparently, he decided that she wasn't because his face grew sad. “I'm sorry, Hannah. I didn't think you really did, but I had to ask. I needed to see your honest reaction. I was just doing my job. If it hadn’t been me who asked, my partner was going to, and I thought it would be better if it was me.”
“Well, it wasn't,” she replied sullenly, feeling only marginally better to know that Tom didn't really think she would fake the robbery.
“I'm sorry.”
“Tom, why did you kiss me?”
“Why did you choose the name Sunkissed Jewels for your store?”
Not going to be distracted, she asked, “Was kissing me just part of your plan, as well? Was that just you ‘doing your job’?”
“No.”
“Then why did you do it?”
His gaze squarely met hers. “Because I wanted to.”
Talk about mixed signals. He kissed her, then accused her of setting up the robbery. Why didn't he just leave her alone? He was working the robbery, but that didn't mean he had to keep seeing her. His partner could always come if they needed some information from her. Having him constantly around made everything too confusing. Her heart wanted Tom back while her head wasn't sure it was a good idea.
“Hannah, why did you use my nickname for you as the name of your store?”
He was staring at her so intently. As though the answer she gave could change things. But change what? They were divorced. It was over. That was what Tom had wanted. She was tempted to lie to him, but she had never been dishonest with him before, and she couldn’t start now. “Because it reminded me of happy times. Of the life I had before. Because it reminded me of you.”
* * * * *
12:21 P.M.
He had kissed her.
Tom still couldn’t believe he’d done it.
What had he been thinking?
That was not the way to win Hannah back.
Neither was accusing her of putting her employees in danger by faking the robbery as part of her therapy. He hadn’t wanted to ask her. He hadn’t seen the point. He already knew what the answer was, but Chloe had said if he didn't ask her about it, she would, and he had honestly thought it would be better coming from him.
Again, he’d been wrong.
It seemed he wasn't as good at reading his ex-wife as he hoped he would be.
Why had he kissed her? He was pretty sure it was a mistake and only going to grow the gap between them, not close it. She hadn’t even kissed him back. He’d thought that meant she wasn't interested in seeing if they could work things out, but then she’d told him she’d used his nickname for her store because it reminded her of him, of how happy they had been, of their lives before that night.
There was hope. He knew there was. But they had to sit down and actually talk without it devolving into an argument. And he had to stop telling her it was just a job when he knew that was a bold-faced lie.
It wasn't just a job.
Hannah could never be just a job to him.
Trying to forget about her over the last three years had been a pointless waste of time. He could never forget her. He loved her. She and she alone laid claim to his heart.
Now, his sole focus had to be on solving this case. Once that was done, he and Hannah could find a way to work things out.
The door to the office opened, and both he and Chloe stood. A man of around forty, with bright orangey-red hair, striking blue eyes, and so many freckles it was almost impossible to see any space between them, looked back at them.
“You’re the agents who called?” Dr. Bryce McCracken asked.
“Yes. Special Agent Drake, and this is my partner, Special Agent Luckman.” Tom made the introductions, eager to get started. Just because Hannah said that her therapist didn't try to create a situation where she would be forced to confront her fears didn't mean he hadn’t done it without her knowledge.
“Come in, I have about thirty minutes until my next patient arrives for their session,” the doctor told them as they followed him into his office.
Bryce was fairly recently divorced, and his ex-wife bore a striking resemblance to Hannah. Tom was concerned that since he had lost his marriage that he had fixated on Hannah in an attempt to save her and then possibly pursue her romantically. “You work primarily with victims of trauma, treating post-traumatic stress disorder and related conditions?”
“Yes, that’s what I've spent most of my career doing.” Bryce nodded.
“Why don’t you tell us a little about your methods,” Tom suggested. He wanted to get an understanding of exactly what this man did with his patients.
“Okay. Well most sufferers of PTSD struggle to deal with the emotions surrounding the traumatic event that they suffered because those emotions are just so understandingly overwhelming. Because those feelings are so negative and so difficult to cope with, PTSD sufferers can often hamper their own recovery by avoiding anything and everything that reminds them of the trauma. It might be a strategy that helps them to function day to day, but it also limits their processing of the event and thus limits their recovery,” Dr. McCracken summarized.
“So, what do you do to help them?” Chloe asked, looking genuinely interested.
Focusing on Chloe, the doctor explained, “I use cognitive processing therapy. I use trauma specific techniques to help victims work through what happened to them and their feelings and emotions surrounding it and help them work toward recovery.”
“One of those techniques is exposure therapy?” Tom asked.
“Yes, it is. The primary focus of what I do, or cognitive processing therapy in general, is to help the patient learn to face and understand the trauma they experienced, and the beliefs it has created in them and the emotions that it sparks, so we can decrease the ongoing negative impact it has on their life. Learning to stop avoiding those triggers is a major part of that. Avoiding doesn’t solve the problem; in fact, it makes it worse. So, we start by helping the patient to better understand PTSD symptoms and the way that treatment is going to help them. Then we want the patient to think about where they are currently, what are their understandings of why the traumatic event occurred, and the impact it’s had on them and their beliefs and feelings about themselves and the world following the trauma. Next, we work on processing the trauma. This is understandably the most difficult part, but it is necessary for the patient to learn to clarify and then modify their distortions in their views of themselves and the world that the trauma created. Once we’ve done that, we can work on helping them change those so we can improve their quality of life.”
“How does the exposure therapy fit into that?” he asked. That’s what they needed to know. Had the doctor taken that theory to the extreme and set up the robbery to try to help Hannah overcome her fears?
“Exposure therapy is based on the principle of respondent conditioning. We want to identify the thoughts, emotions, and physiological arousal that accompanies the stimuli that induces fear, then break that pattern by facing the fear rather than running and hiding from it. We usually take small steps toward the greatest fear-invoking stimuli, working through them, processing them, and making sure the patient is ready to move on to the next step. Depending on the condition, generalized anxiety disorder, phobias, obsessive compulsive disorder, or what I primarily deal with, which is PTSD, we might approach things a little differently.”
“What specifically do you do to help them learn to face their fears?” Chloe asked.
“Well, there are three types of exposure. One is confronting feared bodily symptoms, such as panic attacks with increased heart rate and shortness of breath that make the sufferer feel like they can't breathe, so we work on calming techniques and how these feelings will pass and are nothing to be feared. Another is confronting the fear of thoughts and memories, where we work on imagining a situation that they fear, and that again these thoughts and memories can be managed and are not anything to be afraid of. And the third, is real-life exposure, where we put the patient in a situation where they must confront their fear-inducing stimuli.”
That was what he wanted to know more about. “Isn't that harmful to the patient? Putting them back into a situation where they were harmed and traumatized in the first place?”
“Obviously, it’s a case-by-case situation. And obviously, I'm not going to take a sexual assault victim and put them back in a situation where they fear they are going to be raped. But we can work on things such as returning to the location or type of location where the assault occurred, so they no longer fear that place. Or we can work on issues such as regaining intimacy with their significant other that might have been compromised by the assault.”
“From what we heard, you like to put your patients in the most dangerous of situations you can to help them overcome their fears,” Tom said, watching for the doctor’s reaction.
“I have a good success rate,” Bryce said evenly.
“One of your patients is Hannah Buffy?”
“Yes. Is this about the robbery at her store?”
“You heard about that?” Tom asked.
“Hannah called me the following morning and asked if we could make an appointment. I have her booked to come in on December twenty-ninth.”
“Did you set up the robbery?” he confronted the doctor with their suspicions.
Bryce’s eyes grew wide. “Of course not. I would never set up a dangerous situation as a form of therapy without the patient’s consent, otherwise it’s just going to do more harm than good. In Hannah’s case, given her fear of guns, having her held at gunpoint when she wasn't prepared to come face-to-face with a weapon would be extremely counterproductive.” The doctor paused and eyed him shrewdly. “I know who you are. You're Hannah’s ex-husband.”
“You know about me?”
“Of course. I've been seeing Hannah for close to three years now. I know about the home invasion, and I know about what it did to your marriage.” The doctor’s face now turned sympathetic.
“Did Hannah talk about me? About us?” Tom wanted someone to tell him that Hannah still loved him, and that they could fix the problems in their relationship the assault had caused.
“You know that’s privileged. I told you about the gun phobia because I know you already knew about it, given your relationship with her, but don’t forget I'm Hannah’s doctor, I can't tell you what we spoke about. Hannah is a very special woman, strong and resilient, and I want to see her happy. I want to see her succeed in life. I would never do anything that would prevent that from happening. And pretending to rob her store just to make her confront her fear of guns would hamper her recovery, and thus stop her from being happy.”
Looking into Dr. Bryce McCracken’s earnest face, Tom couldn’t decide if he was simply a dedicated doctor wanting to help his patients however he could. Or someone who’d gone beyond the realm of the doctor-patient relationship and developed an obsession with Hannah that ran so deep he would do whatever it took to save her and make her his very own.
* * * * *
10:17 P.M.
She couldn’t move.
There were so many hands on her, holding her down.
She tried to fight against them, but there were too many.
And they were so strong.
She was never getting away.
Hannah knew she was going to die here in this room, with her husband watching.
That was the worst.
As those men held her down, their fingertips digging into the flesh of her arms and her thighs as they pulled her legs apart, she couldn’t bear to look at him. She could hear his agonized groans and grunts of impotent fury as he tried to break free of his own bonds.
Every time one of the men entered her body, she could hear the chair Tom was tied to thumping and clattering against the floor as he tried to get to her.
Having accepted her fate, she scrunched her eyes shut and tried to block everything out. Tried to put herself in a place where she couldn’t feel anything.
The best she could hope for right now was a quick and painless death, but feared her death would be anything but.
She had no hope.
She knew only pain.
Hannah had no idea how long it went on.
Eventually, the pain faded and she became numb.
Then a gunshot sliced through the stillness . . .
Hannah woke with a start.
Her heart was hammering and her body was drenched in an icy sheen of sweat. She was shaking so badly she was making the chair shake with her.
Scrunching her eyes closed, she tried to breathe through her terror.
In through her nose and out through her mouth.
In through her nose and out through her mouth.
In through her nose and out through her mouth.
Eventually, she started to regain control of herself. Her breathing had slowed, as had her heart rate, she still shivered a little, but now it was more from cold as the air met her wet skin than from fear.
She had clenched her hands into fists, clutching the blanket that was draped across her, so tightly that it took a moment for her stiff fingers to uncurl. She flexed her hands, stretching her fingers out wide, then took hold of the blanket again and pulled it up to her chin.
Hannah glanced at the clock on the small table beside her armchair. It wasn't even eleven o’clock yet. It was going to be a long night. A very long night.
She eyed her bed. Should she go and lie down, make herself more comfortable and see if that helped her go back to sleep? She hadn’t spent a full night sleeping in a bed since the night before the home invasion. She had spent months working on the issue with both Dr. Langley and Dr. McCracken, but she couldn’t seem to overcome the fear.
Some nights she would start in the bed, but she always had nightmares and lasted no more than a couple of hours before she woke in a panic. When that happened, she would give up and move to the armchair in the corner of her bedroom. Most nights she didn't even bother attempting the bed.
It was one thing for Dr. McCracken to say that her nightmares couldn’t hurt her, that her bed was only an object, that nothing bad was going to happen if she slept in it, but he wasn't the one who felt the fear. She knew that the nightmares couldn’t hurt her physically, but they certainly hurt her psychologically. And on the nights when she tried the bed, she always—without fail—had bad dreams. Then she was afraid to close her eyes for the rest of the night, so she didn't sleep. Then she walked around the rest of the day in a fog.
If it was up to her, she probably wouldn’t even bother to keep the bed. She never saw herself spending an entire night in one again, but it was easier to have it there in case friends or family happened to come up to her bedroom. It saved a lot of questions. Dr. Langley, Dr. McCracken, Garry, and Tom were the only ones who knew that she usually slept in a chair.
Tom.
He seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her head.
She couldn’t not think about him.
At the moment, that kiss was at the forefront of her mind. When his lips met hers, it took her back to the past. To how happy she had been with him, how happy they had been together. At how excited she had been to share her future with him and of all the things they had to look forward to together. Of the deep, passionate, all-consuming love she’d had for him.
That love was still there.
It hadn’t gone; it had only been overshadowed by the trauma they had shared.
They had turned their backs on each other, right when they needed each other the most. She couldn’t blame Tom for leaving. He wasn't altogether wrong when he accused her of pushing him away. It hadn’t been intentional, though. Hannah had wanted him there by her side, but not to cosset and protect her, just to encourage and support her. And when he hadn’t done that, she had started insisting that he not hover at her side, that he not be with her all the time, that he let her do things for herself.
She had given him the impression that he wasn't wanted.
So, he’d left.
Tom might have been gone from her life for three years, but what she felt for him had remained.
Maybe there was a way to bring it back.
She hoped there was.
Giving up on sleep for now, Hannah stood up, tossed the blanket onto the armchair, and snuggled into her fuzzy pink robe with a teddy bear face on the hood. She headed downstairs to the kitchen, flipping on lights as she went. She’d worked hard to overcome her phobia of the dark, eventually learning not to need the light on all night every night, but after a nightmare, she reverted back to needing the light.
In the kitchen, she set about making herself a snack. She hadn’t had any dinner. Her stomach had been all tied up in knots thinking about Tom and the kiss and whether or not it meant that they might get back together or whether he just felt sorry for her.
That was her biggest fear.
To Tom, she would always be a victim. He couldn’t help but see her as one after he watched her be gang raped for almost seven hours. She understood that. She just couldn’t allow that sort of mentality to be around her. She had fought so hard to overcome the victim label, and she didn't want to go back to that place. She didn't want to be pitied. She wanted to be treated like she wasn’t helpless, and she didn't want to be treated like she was fragile and might fall apart if she was handled the wrong way.
She wanted to be treated like the strong, resilient, independent woman that she was.
If Tom couldn’t do that, then no matter how much she still loved him, they could never work things out.
And if Tom never admitted he needed help, that he needed to let go of the guilt he felt, that he needed to acknowledge that he had been a victim too, then she didn't think he could ever see her as anything other than a victim.
Right now, the ball was squarely in his court. He could keep pretending that this was just a job and that she was just a victim who needed saving, or he could recognize things for what they were and do something about it.
She really hoped he chose the latter. Because she couldn’t allow anything to interfere with her sanity. Most days it balanced precariously between survivor and victim, and it took a lot of effort and work and conscious action to keep herself firmly on the survivor side. And not even for Tom would she allow herself to cross back over to victim.
Hannah was just removing her bowl of oatmeal from the microwave when she heard a sound.
She froze.
Surely, she must be wrong.
But then she heard it again.
Something was definitely moving around out there.
Someone.
What should she do?
Should she hide? Should she call 911? Should she try to find a weapon and stay here and defend herself?
Her eyes scanned the kitchen and fell on the utensil drawer. Setting the bowl on the countertop, she armed herself with the biggest knife she could find. Her cell phone was still upstairs on the table beside her armchair, but there was a phone on the table over by the fireplace. She just had to get to it.
She was halfway there when she heard something bump against her door.
For a moment, she was paralyzed with fear.
This could not be happening again.
But then, she relaxed.
Tom.
It would be just like him to be patrolling her house, paranoid that if he didn't, this “monster” he believed was stalking her would show up and hurt her.
In a way, his overprotectiveness was a little endearing, but in an even bigger way, it was annoying and even insulting. How many times did she have to tell him that she didn't need to be saved?
Knife still in hand, she stalked to the door, unlocked it, and threw it open, prepared to give him a piece of her mind, but choked when she saw who was standing on her doorstep.
* * * * *
11:28 P.M.
Hannah’s house was exactly what he would have expected her to choose. Two stories, painted a fresh, bright white, a big porch, a neat and simple garden with neatly mowed lawns, and big trees that would provide lots of leafy shade in the summertime. It was exactly the type of house they had spoken about owning one day.
Only that day had never come.
As Tom watched her house from his car, he saw a light flicker on upstairs, and then a moment later, one downstairs.
Hannah couldn’t sleep.
They’d both had issues with sleep following the home invasion. For months afterward, every time he closed his eyes, he was back in their bedroom, reliving that hell over and over again until it threatened to send him insane.
Part of him wished that he had never woken up. That the blow to his head had kept him unconscious throughout the entire ordeal.
But it hadn’t.
The men who had broken into their home that night had waited for him to regain consciousness before beginning their assault on Hannah.
They had wanted him to watch.
To have to sit there, tied to a chair, helpless, and watch every despicable thing they did to his wife.
The look of horrified resignation on Hannah’s face as they ripped off her clothes was forever seared into his consciousness.
As were her anguished cries, muffled by the hand over her mouth, as those men had forced themselves inside her.
Tears had streamed down her pale face, trickling down onto the pillow.
As he tried relentlessly to free himself so he could rip those monsters to shreds with his bare hands, he had watched, unable to tear his eyes away, as blood began to pool between her legs, staining their white sheets a vivid red.
Tom remembered the sounds of Hannah dragging in a harsh breath as the men wrapped their hands around her slim throat and squeezed, cutting off her air supply, then letting go just as she began to pass out.
They’d laughed while they tortured her.
That sound was almost worst of all.
By the time he had been freed and gotten to her, she was in shock. She was covered in blood—not all of it her own—and it had smeared all over his naked chest as he had gathered her limp form into his arms. Her eyes had been open and vacant, staring at nothing as he rocked her and whispered a string of meaningless consolations into her tangled auburn hair, that were more for his benefit than hers, because he didn't think they penetrated her shock-fogged brain.
Hannah had been shaking so badly that, by the time the paramedics had arrived, the cops had collected every blanket in the house for him to wrap around her, which had done nothing to still her tremors. The EMTs had sedated her and her haunted eyes had finally fallen shut.
He had refused to release Hannah, holding her the whole drive in the ambulance to the hospital. Once there, he had refused treatment until he knew for sure that Hannah was okay. And even then, he had had the doctor stitch the gash in his head in Hannah’s hospital room, as he kept a vigil at her bedside, holding her hand.
Concerned that there might be further swelling in her throat from the damage it had sustained, and dealing with internal injuries, Hannah had been kept in the hospital for several days. Even before she was released, as soon as she was allowed out of bed, she had started sleeping in a chair.
According to Garry Smith, she still did.
Tom wished he could wipe all that fear away.
If he could, he would.
In a heartbeat.
His attention suddenly snapped to Hannah’s front yard.
Was that movement?
A shadowy figure was heading straight for Hannah’s front door.
He was out of his car and moving before he even knew it.
As he was running across the street, he saw light spill out as Hannah’s door opened, and he could see that the figure he’d seen in her yard was none other than Garry Smith.
For a moment, he faltered.
Was he overreacting?
Had Hannah and Garry lied that they had broken up and were, in fact, still a couple?
Was this just some midnight rendezvous?
As soon as he reached her door, he knew it wasn’t.
Hannah’s face was a mask of fear, and in her hands, she clutched a large knife.
Tom wasn't sure whether Garry was a threat to Hannah or not, but he was going to play things carefully just in case the man was dangerous.
“Everything okay here?” he asked. His hand hovered over the butt of his gun, but he didn't pull it out.
Hannah’s eyes darted in his direction, and he saw her relax a little, but she didn't loosen the death grip she had on the knife.
“Everything’s fine,” Garry said, but didn't take his eyes of Hannah.
The look on the man’s face was borderline crazy. He was obsessed. He couldn’t let Hannah go. Tom just hoped he wasn't going to turn violent. “It’s pretty late, Garry, maybe we should let Hannah get some sleep.”
“She was up. I didn't disturb her. I would never disturb her. She doesn’t sleep much. I'm always telling her she needs her rest.” Garry spoke like he and Hannah were still a couple. Perhaps in his mind they were.
“She was up,” Tom said agreeably, “but she shouldn’t be. Like you said, she doesn’t sleep much, and when she does, it’s always in a chair. She needs to rest.”
“When you leave, I’ll take her to bed,” Garry said.
Hannah stiffened. She was so pale, Tom was afraid she was going to faint. But she didn't. Instead, she pulled herself together. “I don’t need you to take me to bed, Garry. I can take care of myself. It’s late. You should go home now.”
Garry wavered, apparently not wanting to upset Hannah by not doing as she asked, but clearly not wanting to leave. “I’ll call you tomorrow?”
“No,” Hannah said firmly. “I told you that it was over between us. You shouldn’t be calling me.”
“Someone robbed your store. I just wanted to make sure you were safe,” Garry said in a whine.
“You don’t need to worry about that, Tom and his partner will find the people who did that,” Hannah told him.
Garry grew angry at that. “Tom, your ex-husband. Since when did he ever help you?”
The man whirled around to face him, and Tom was glad to have his attention away from Hannah. “You need to leave, now, Mr. Smith. Or I will be placing you under arrest.” Trespassing was the best he could do. It wasn't a crime to turn up at your ex-girlfriend’s house in the middle of the night. The most Garry Smith would get was a fine, but Hannah could apply for a protective order, and if Garry was the one who had set up the robbery, then he would find that out and send him to prison.
“You should leave. You and Hannah are divorced. You hurt her when you left. Just leave her alone; she doesn’t want to see you.” Garry was devolving right before his eyes, and Tom knew then and there that the man was a threat and should be treated as such.
Keeping Garry’s attention focused on him, he took a step closer. “Hannah ended things with you, Garry. She has asked you to leave. You have two choices: you can do as she asked, or I can arrest you and have you removed from the property in handcuffs.”
With a frustrated growl, Garry turned, and Tom thought he was going to accept defeat and leave, but then he turned back, his fist swinging through the air. Instead of connecting with his jaw, Garry’s fist sailed past when he ducked, then Tom grabbed the man’s arm, twisting it up behind his back, causing Garry to yelp.
Whipping out a pair of handcuffs, he snapped them on then pushed the man down onto his stomach. With Garry restrained, Tom turned his attention to Hannah who still stood, rooted to the spot, her wide eyes staring in disbelief at the man whom she’d dated, whom she’d trusted.
She still held the knife.
“Hannah,” he said softly, taking a cautious step toward her, not wanting to startle her.
Slowly, her eyes moved to meet his, and some of the shock and fear left them, replaced by gratefulness, and something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
“Here, let me take that.” His hands closed around hers, finding them ice cold, and gently eased the knife from her grip, setting it down on the counter, then taking hold of her hands again, rubbing them vigorously between his own, trying to warm them. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” her voice trembled. “Tom, if you hadn’t been here—”
“Stop,” he held a finger to her lips to silence her. “I was here. And even if I wasn't, you would have handled yourself just fine.”
* * * * *
11:56 P.M.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Tom asked, probably for the twentieth time in the last twenty minutes.
Hannah nodded, still unable to comprehend everything that had just happened.
Her ex-boyfriend, Garry Smith, had just been dragged from her house—in handcuffs—screaming that he loved her and always would, and that he would do anything to make sure she was safe. For the first time since Tom had mentioned the possibility to her, she actually believed that someone had set up the robbery at her store because of her.
How had she not seen that Garry was obsessed with her?
She hadn’t been in love with him, but she had certainly liked him. He was definitely someone she would choose as a friend. He was sweet, gentle, and kind. She’d thought he was completely harmless.
Although she had known that his feelings for her ran deeper than hers did for him, she thought he’d taken the breakup well. He’d been disappointed but seemed to understand that she didn't want a future with him. She had thought he would just move on. Find someone else, someone who wanted the same things out of life he did, someone who would love him as much as he loved them.
“You’re not hurt?” Tom asked. Even though he knew that Garry had never laid a hand on her, he took hold of her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length, his eyes travelling her body in an assessing search. When he saw no injuries, he crushed her against his chest.
Hannah didn't fight him. Instead, she just rested her head against Tom’s strong chest, wrapped her arms around his waist, and leaned against him. For once, his overprotectiveness had worked in her favor. If he hadn’t been here tonight, she didn't even want to think about what might have happened. She didn't really think that Garry would have physically hurt her, but she also didn't think that he would have been watching her house in the middle of the night, and then turned up at her door because he saw that she was up.
He could have hurt her.
There would have been no one here to stop him.
But there had been.
Tom.
Not only had he been here, but he had told her that even if he hadn’t, he believed she would have known how to handle the situation. That he had that much faith in her made her heart swell in her chest till it filled to bursting. Maybe he didn't think she was a weak, helpless, victim who needed saving.
She wanted to believe that so badly, but she couldn’t let her heart rule her head until she knew for sure where he stood.
“What were you doing here tonight?” she asked, gently tugging herself out of his arms.
“Watching your house.” Tom released her slowly, letting his hands trail down her arms before finally letting go.
“Is this the first night you’ve done that?” She already knew it wasn't, but she wanted to hear him say it.
“No. I slept in my car across the street last night, as well.”
“Why?”
“It’s my job.”
So, they were back to that again. Hannah sighed and went to the kitchen, putting the knife she had armed herself with earlier away, and dumping the cold gluggy oatmeal into the trash. She was getting sick of Tom and his mixed messages. After everything he knew she had been through, it seemed so unfair that he would be here toying with her emotions for no good reason.
“It’s my job, Hannah, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be here.”
She turned around to find him standing just a couple of feet behind her, his brown eyes brimming with emotion.
“When I saw it was Garry at your door, at first, I was so jealous. I thought you were still with him, and you’d just lied to protect my feelings.”
Jealous?
That was a good sign, right?
It meant he still had feelings for her.
“Then when I saw the fear in your face, I knew that you’d been telling the truth, and I knew that if he’d been watching your house, it wasn't good. I was scared, Hannah. I don’t ever want to see you hurt again.”
Was that all this was?
He was being nice to her, hanging around, protecting her, not out of a sense of responsibility to his job, but as a sense of responsibility as her ex-husband. He blamed himself for the home invasion, so he was going to do whatever he had to, to make sure that this time she didn't get hurt.
Which did hurt.
She’d thought there was more to it.
Tired and overwhelmed by the night’s events, she just wanted to go upstairs to her room, curl up in her chair, let herself have a few minutes to cry and break down, then try to get some sleep. Not that she would.
“I'm going to bed.”
When she moved to brush past him, he grabbed her arm, holding her in place. “I said something wrong. What?”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said dismissively.
“I'm trying, Hannah.”
“To do your job. I get it. I really do. I'm sorry if I'm somehow making that difficult.”
He released her and huffed out a frustrated breath. Then grabbed her shoulders, pulled her close and kissed her. This time, the kiss was soft and gentle and tender.
When he pulled away, big fat tears began to roll down her cheeks. She wanted this. She hadn’t realized just how much. In the last three years, she had pushed all thoughts of Tom to the back recesses of her mind. It had been too painful. But now that he was back and standing here in her kitchen at midnight, she knew that she wanted him back. She just wasn't sure it was what he wanted.
Tom reached out and caught her tears on his thumb, brushing them away. “Don’t cry.”
“I can't help it,” she sniffed.
“I know. You should go and try to get some more sleep.” The backs of his fingers still rested against her cheek, and his voice was impossibly gentle.
The prospect of being alone in her house all night wasn't a pleasant one. If it hadn’t been so late, she might have even considered calling her parents or one of her sisters to ask about spending the night. “Yeah, okay. Thanks for being here tonight, Tom. I’ll see you out.”
“I'm not going anywhere. You don’t think I'd leave you here alone after what happened, do you? I’ll sleep on the couch.”
Her mouth opened, ready to shoot back a retort at the over confident way he declared that he was spending the night, but then she snapped it shut. Having Tom downstairs on the couch might help her to actually get some sleep, and maybe even sleep without nightmares. “Thanks, Tom.”
“No arguments?” He looked surprised, like he had been all ready for a fight.
She gave him a half smile, “No arguments.”
“So, the girl can be taught after all.” One side of his mouth quirked up in a half smile of his own.
“I guess she can; I’ll grab you some blankets and a pillow.”
“I’ll get them, just tell me where they are.”
“Upstairs hall closet, grab whatever you want.”
While Tom ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, Hannah picked up the bottle of sleeping pills from the kitchen counter and tipped two into her hand. She was just screwing the lid back on when Tom returned, his arms filled with blankets, a quilt, and two pillows.
“You're still taking sleeping pills?” he asked.
“It’s the only way I can sleep through the night. Or at least, mostly through the night.” She had been taking Silenor since the assault. She’d tried going off it and just sleeping on her own, but she usually stressed herself so much about whether she would fall asleep, whether she would stay asleep, and whether she would have nightmares, that every time one of her doctors tried taking her off it, they ended up putting her back on it within a couple of weeks.
“Don’t feel bad, Hannah,” Tom told her, beginning to make up the couch. “If you need the pills to sleep, then you need them. There’s nothing wrong with that. If your doctors didn't want you to take them, then they wouldn’t write you a prescription.”
Tom’s words made her feel better. She’d forgotten he had that effect on her. It was probably the main reason she had pushed him away. She trusted his opinions of her, and when it felt like he thought she was a victim who couldn’t cope without him, then it made her feel like that had to be true. “You can sleep upstairs, if you want, in one of the guest bedrooms,” she offered.
“Thanks, but I'm fine down here.” From the look on his face, she got what he meant without him having to say it out loud. He wanted to be downstairs in case there was any more trouble.
Feeling safer and more at peace than she had in three years, Hannah poured herself a glass of water, took her pills and headed for the stairs. “Goodnight, Tom.”
“Goodnight, Hannah.”