6:36 A.M.
As she walked downstairs, Hannah didn't know what to expect. Would Tom still be there? Had he already left for work? If he had, when would she see him again?
She wanted to see him.
She wanted him to stay.
And she was trying really hard not to get her hopes up too high.
Although that goal flew out the window when she walked into the kitchen and found Tom standing at her stove wearing a pair of sweatpants and nothing else.
She might have drooled a little at the sight. And not because she was hungry for breakfast.
“You hungry?”
Hungry?
At the moment, she couldn’t really think.
All she could do was stare at Tom.
She really had missed him so much.
“Hannah? Breakfast?”
“Yes,” she pulled her robe tighter around herself and went to sit at the table. “You making French toast?”
“Mmhmm,” he nodded, dipping a couple of pieces of toast into the bowl and then putting them into a frying pan.
“Your special recipe?”
“Yep.”
She had tried so many times to make French toast the way Tom did, but she just couldn’t seem to get it right no matter how many times she tried, and no matter how many times she adjusted the quantities. She knew he used eggs and milk, adding cinnamon, vanilla, sugar, and maple syrup. She knew all the ingredients, but she just couldn’t get it right.
“Breakfast is served.” Tom set a plate down in front of her.
“These are so good,” she said as she took a bite. “How are they this good?”
“I'm a good cook.”
She laughed at that. French toast was about the only thing Tom could cook. She took another bite and another, each mouthful was so fluffy and light and perfectly sweet. Her eyes closed as she savored another bite; it was like eating little pieces of heaven. “No matter how many times I try, I can't make mine taste like yours. How do you make them taste so good?”
“Secret family recipe.”
“One you want to share?” she asked hopefully.
“Nope.” Tom grinned at her. His whole face relaxed when he smiled, and she liked seeing him like this. She’d missed it. Those last few months before they divorced had been anything but relaxing.
As they ate, they lapsed into a comfortable silence. She’d missed Tom cooking her breakfast. When they’d still been married, he’d always cooked her breakfast on his days off. They’d usually eat in bed, then take a long hot shower together before getting up to start their day. She had missed so many things about him. But now he was here, and they actually had a chance at reconciling.
When they were finished eating, Tom gathered up the dishes, rinsed them and loaded the dishwasher. He no longer looked relaxed. His work face was back.
“How’s your chest feeling this morning?”
“It’s all right,” she assured him, although it hurt whenever she moved. She didn't want to tell Tom that; he’d only worry.
“I want to check it before I go to work,” he informed her.
Hannah wasn't embarrassed for Tom to see her bare chest. They’d been married, after all, and he’d seen her naked lots of times before, but she didn't want to reinforce Tom’s penchant for being her protector. “I can clean the wound myself.”
“Why do you have to argue with me all the time?” Tom frowned.
“I don’t want to argue with you,” she said quietly. Give and take. Tom needed to protect and take care of her so he didn't feel useless, she needed to take care of herself so that she didn't feel helpless, but there had to be a middle ground. If they wanted to work things out, then there had to be. “Okay. Thank you for offering to check it out for me.”
Tom looked surprised by her sudden change of heart. “And we need to have it checked out by a doctor tomorrow,” he added.
He was pushing his luck. “It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow.”
“I’m sure we can get you an appointment.”
She was giving in only because she knew the wound did need to be checked by a doctor. And because she loved Tom. And if taking care of her made him happy, then she could let him do it. Maybe it wasn't the worst thing in the world to have a husband who wanted to protect her and look after her, as long as he knew that she could do those things for herself. “Fine. So, how’s the case going?” She changed the subject.
“We’re looking into Jeff and Vincent, but you know them. Which one of them do you think could have set all this up?” Tom sat back down at the table across from her.
“I have no idea. I would have said neither. I've known Jeff for almost three years. He worked at Mr. Thames’ store, and he seemed to like him.”
“Did you ask him to stay on or did he ask to stay on?”
“I think he asked, but it might have been Mr. Thames’ idea. It was so long ago, it’s hard to remember. Either way, I was happy to have him.”
“Have you had any troubles with him?”
“No. Never. He’s been great. Any time I’m sick and haven't been able to make it in, he’s filled in for me. And he often stays late to pack up and clean so I don’t have to do it. It’s hard running a small business on your own. I don’t have the resources to hire a lot of employees, and having one that is really supportive has been a godsend.”
What she’d said made it sound like Jeff Shields was out as a suspect, but Tom’s serious face was troubled. “So, Jeff made a point of helping you and spending time around you.”
“I guess,” she agreed, even though it seemed to be putting a bad spin on things.
“When did you buy this house?”
“About eighteen months ago. I rented an apartment for a while after we broke up. Then when my business started to really take off and I could afford to buy, I got this place.”
“Did you know Ellen Zimmerman before?”
“No; we met the day I moved in. She brought around a casserole and introduced herself, offered to show me around the neighborhood. I liked her. She invited me to dinner the following night and I went. Ellen and Gavin and I had a great time and we were firm friends by the end of the evening.” Although she tended to keep her distance from people since the assault, Ellen was so lighthearted, although perhaps a little shallow, and that made spending time with her easy and relaxing and even a little freeing. She could just sit back and relax and not worry about anything but having fun.
“What about Ellen’s sons?”
“What about them?”
“Vincent works for you. Did you know Charles?”
“Yes, I’d met both of her sons before. Vincent was away at college studying pre-med, but I think the shock of his father and brother’s deaths kind of hit him hard and he took a break. That’s why he was working for me. Charles had some alcohol problems. I had to call the cops a couple of times when he pulled out one of Gavin’s guns and threatened his family.”
“Would you say you knew the sons well?”
“No, not well. Like I said, Vincent was away at college, so I’d only met him a couple of times before he came to work for me. And Charles spent most of his time either drinking or hungover. Why the questions about Charles? He’s dead; he can't have anything to do with this.”
Tom looked like he was debating whether or not to tell her something. He must have decided to because he reached across the table and took her hand. “Chloe suggested something that sounds crazy but might possibly be true.”
“What?”
“She thinks there’s a possibility that Vincent might really be Charles. That it was Vincent who died in the accident, but Charles decided to assume his identity, get out from under the charges that were going to send him to prison if he didn't complete his rehab.”
That was the single most crazy thing she had ever heard.
It couldn’t be true.
It couldn’t.
How could it?
People didn't just assume their dead brother’s identity in real life. That was crazy movie stuff. There was no way that Charles could pull off pretending to be Vincent—the brothers were too different. And Ellen. She would know that it was really Charles who had survived. Why would she go along with that? Simple answer was that she wasn't.
“Charles was an alcoholic. I've never seen Vincent drink. Ever.”
“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t. Or maybe the accident was a wake-up call. The push he needed to stop drinking.”
“You really think Vincent isn’t really Vincent?”
“I don’t know. We’re going to speak with Ellen this morning. Maybe that’ll help us clear things up. Is there anything that you can remember that happened during the robbery that would make you suspicious of either Vincent or Jeff?”
She tried to put herself back in her store on the night of the robbery, replaying the events over and over, trying to focus on the details, but there was nothing that occurred to her that she hadn’t already told Tom. “I'm sorry. I can't think of anything else.”
“That’s okay.” Tom still held her hand and squeezed it, his thumb brushing backward and forward across her knuckles. “I lied, Hannah.”
Like magnets, his eyes held hers, and she couldn’t look away. “About what?” she whispered.
“It’s not just a job. Nothing about you is just a job. I've kissed you twice now; you should know that you mean something to me.”
She had known that. She had always known that, but she had needed to hear him say it.
“When this case is over,” Tom continued, “we need to talk.”
That Tom looked every bit as anxious and unsure as she had felt the last few days was immensely reassuring. They both wanted to find a way to fix what had been broken between them, but neither of them was quite sure how to do it, or quite sure that it was what the other wanted.
But now, she knew.
They still had a lot they needed to sort out, but they would.
She didn't doubt that.
And she could wait until Tom and his partner had found and arrested whoever was stalking her.
There was one thing she couldn’t wait for.
Tugging her hand free from Tom’s, she ignored the surprise and hurt that flashed through his eyes, then she stood and walked around the table.
It didn't seem fair that he had kissed her twice, but she hadn’t kissed him once.
She was going to have to change that.
* * * * *
9:12 A.M.
Hannah had kissed him
Tom was finding it difficult to think about anything else.
When he had told her they needed to talk and she’d just sat there looking at him, his heart had dropped. He had been sure that she didn't want to reconcile, that she was just trying to think of a gentle way to let him down.
When she had pulled her hand out of his, he’d felt like his world was crashing down around him. Until these last few days, seeing Hannah again, he hadn’t realized how much he still loved her, how strong his feelings still were, and how much he wanted her back.
But he did.
And he would do whatever it took to make it happen.
He had been about to tell her that when she had stood, not to leave the room as he had first thought, but to come to him. To kiss him.
In that moment, he’d known that everything would work out. It might be a lot of work, and it might take some time, but he and Hannah would get back what they had lost. They were already making progress. Although she had initially turned down his request to check on her wounds from yesterday, she had then backed down, and allowed him to clean and tend to the cuts, which looked clean and like they were already beginning to heal.
Now he was so much more motivated to end this case. Today, hopefully.
“She's coming,” Chloe said as they heard footsteps on the other side of the door.
They were at Hannah’s next-door neighbor Ellen Zimmerman’s house, waiting to talk with the woman, who he hoped was going to confirm that Vincent was really her other son Charles, or that Vincent had some reason why he might want to go after Hannah. He didn't care who was targeting Hannah; he just wanted them stopped.
“Hello?” Ellen asked as she opened the door. “May I help you?”
“I'm Special Agent Drake, and this is my partner, Special Agent Luckman. We need to ask you a few questions.”
“Is this about the robbery at Hannah’s store?”
“It is,” he confirmed.
“I don’t know what I can tell you that Hannah or Vince couldn’t, but sure, come on in.”
She held the door farther open and led them into a living room filled with art supplies. There were half-finished canvases, a paint-stained easel, tables covered in paints, and brushes and pencils. Ellen was an artist, and although she had inherited her husband’s businesses upon his death, Hannah had told them that she had hired someone to manage them for her because she wasn't a businesswoman.
“Vince said that the people who held him and Hannah and Jeff at gunpoint weren’t the same people who had robbed the other jewelry stores,” Ellen said as she shoved aside a stack of unused canvases from the couch and indicated they should sit.
“That’s correct,” Chloe replied.
“Did Vincent tell you anything else about the robbery?” Tom asked. It would be helpful to get his take on things.
“He didn't talk about it much. It’s been a rough year for him. Losing his dad and his twin brother in such a way. Being in the car with them. My husband was killed instantly, but Charles was still alive. Vincent held his hand while he died. Then only seven months later, he’s held at gunpoint. He didn't really want to talk about it. I was just so grateful he wasn't killed. I couldn’t take losing him, too.” Ellen plucked a tissue from the box on the table beside the armchair she had sunk down into and blotted at her wet eyes.
“Vincent dropped out of college?” Chloe asked. It made sense if Charles was pretending to be his brother. Vincent was the academic one and Charles would most likely have struggled to keep up in the pre-med classes, plus the accident was the perfect excuse to drop out and have no one question it. On the other hand, it could also be perfectly true. The traumatic loss of his brother and father could be a reason for the real Vincent to drop out of school.
“He didn't drop out,” Ellen corrected. “He just took some time. He needed to be home as we both deal with the loss.”
“Is he living here?” Tom asked.
“No, he has his own apartment, but it’s nice to have him close by. I need him right now. I'm just so grateful that the cops turned up when they did. Those men had already shot Jeff; they would have shot Hannah and Vincent, too.”
He understood timing.
If the timing hadn’t worked out as it had, then he and Hannah would have been killed the night of the home invasion.
They had been saved by a nosy neighbor who noticed that their back door was open and that there were a mess of muddy footprints all over their back deck.
Thank goodness it had been raining for a week straight.
The elderly woman who lived behind them and spent all of her time watching the goings on in the neighborhood had known that he was an FBI agent and that there was no way he would leave his back door wide open. She had called 911, and the cops had arrived promptly.
Tom had been sure that he and Hannah didn't have long left when two cops had suddenly burst into the room.
The officers had ordered the six men, who had tortured him and Hannah for almost seven hours to put down their weapons and get down on the floor, but they had refused to comply. Four had been shot. Three died instantly. One was left in critical condition and later passed away. Two had followed the cops’ directions.
The nosy neighbor had saved their lives; he could never thank her enough.
“Was it your idea or Vincent’s to go and work for Hannah?” he asked.
“It was mine. I knew she needed someone on short notice, and Vincent was kind of at loose ends. I thought it would be good for him.”
“How did he get along with Hannah?”
“He liked her, thought she was a fair boss.”
“Does Vincent have a girlfriend?”
“No, he had been dating someone at college, but they broke up after the accident. It really shook up his whole world.”
The accident was potentially the catalyst for all of this. It was time to confront Ellen with their suspicions and see how she reacted. Tom looked to Chloe and nodded. This was her theory, and she should be the one to ask the question.
“Mrs. Zimmerman, is Vincent really Charles?”
Ellen’s face drained of all color.
Her mouth dropped open.
Her eyes scanned the room, seeking an escape route.
But there was none.
“Mrs. Zimmerman?” Chloe prompted.
“Wh—why would you a—ask me that?” she stammered.
“Is it true?” Tom asked quietly.
“Charles died,” Ellen whispered.
“But did he die in the accident or did he die when he assumed his brother’s identity?” Chloe pushed.
Ellen looked like a deer caught in the headlights. She didn't want to answer their questions, but she couldn’t find another option. There was no way out. They already knew the answer. It was written all over her face.
Vincent Zimmerman had died in that car, and his brother Charles had decided to take over his identity.
“I couldn’t lose him, too,” Ellen whispered.
“It’s true?” Tom asked. He wanted her to admit it out loud.
She nodded. “Yes. They would have taken him away from me.”
“It was your idea?” Chloe asked.
She nodded again. “He was in shock when I got to the hospital. He hadn’t spoken to anyone. He was still drinking so much, it was only a matter of time before they threw him in prison. I couldn’t lose him, too. I told him if he pretended to be Vincent, then all the charges against him would just disappear. He could have a fresh start. He promised me,” her eyes bored into them, begging them to believe her. “He promised me he wouldn’t drink anymore.”
An alcoholic couldn’t make that kind of promise. But Hannah had said that she had never seen him drink. Maybe the shock of the accident and losing his brother and his father in one swoop had been enough to get him to quit cold turkey. They now knew that Chloe’s theory had been correct, but that didn't mean that it was Charles who had set up the robbery.
“We think the robbery was an inside job,” Tom told Ellen. “A ring was stolen after the robbery, after Hannah had given the code to Jeff and Charles. Someone came back and attacked Hannah a second time and then broke into her home and left her gifts.”
“You think it’s Charles?” Ellen looked genuinely shocked.
“Do you?”
“He’s never said anything to me about Hannah before. I mean, nothing much. I didn't think he was interested in her or angry at her or anything.”
“Have you seen him drink since the accident?” Charles was violent when he drank. If he wasn't sober, then they needed to be extra careful when they approached him.
“I—I'm not sure,” Ellen admitted. Then her eyes grew wide; something had occurred to her.
“What?” he asked.
“Sometimes he spends the night here.”
That didn't seem significant. “And?”
“When Charles stays here, he doesn’t sleep in his old room, he stays in Vincent’s.”
Tom still didn't get it. “Why is that important?”
“Vincent’s room looks straight into Hannah’s.”
Now he got it. Hannah liked to sleep with her curtains open so the moonlight could stream through into the room. She had always liked that. When they had first gotten married, it disturbed his sleep because he was used to complete dark when he slept, not half-light. If Hannah’s blinds were open and Charles was sleeping in his brother’s room that overlooked Hannah’s, then it meant he could watch her while she slept.
* * * * *
1:31 P.M.
It was time.
They were here at the place Charles Zimmerman rented.
All they had to do was arrest him, then this was over, and Tom could go and give the good news to Hannah. With Charles in custody and Hannah safe, there was nothing left standing between them. They could finally sit down and work on their issues, or at least come up with a plan on how to get back what they’d lost.
Tom just prayed this went smoothly, that Charles didn't do anything stupid. But Charles was an alcoholic, and despite his promises to his mother that if he took over his brother’s identity he would stop drinking, it didn't look like he’d been able to do it. If he’d been drinking already today, then he would be volatile and violent, which made for a potentially deadly combination.
“Ready to go in?” he asked his partner.
Chloe nodded. “Ready.”
They had decided it would be best if only he and Chloe went in to talk to Charles. He already knew them from when they had interviewed him about the robbery. There were other cops here, waiting outside, ready to move in if things escalated, but Tom was hoping that wouldn’t be necessary. Hopefully, Charles was ready to accept the consequences of his actions instead of trying to hide from them.
“Let’s go,” he said to Chloe. He was ready to end this.
Together, they headed to the eighth floor of the apartment building where Charles lived. The place was quiet. Thankfully, most people seemed to be out, braving the cold and snow on this the second last day before Christmas. Should Charles decide he wasn't going to go down without a fight, it was a good thing there wasn't going to be people about who might get caught in the crossfire.
Tom honestly didn't think Charles would try anything. But the teenager did have a history of pulling a gun on his family when drunk, and if he was backed into a corner, then there was no telling what he might try in a desperate bid for escape. Cops had cleared all the apartments on the eighth floor just to be safe.
Reaching Charles’ front door, he knocked once.
There was no answer.
He knocked again, but didn't identify himself. He thought it was better to wait until Charles opened the door to do that.
Still, there was no answer.
They knew he was in there. One of the residents had confirmed that Charles had arrived home about an hour ago with a paper bag full of groceries and several rolls of Christmas wrapping paper and hadn’t left. Maybe he had seen them and was hoping they thought he wasn't in there, or perhaps, his mother had managed to get word to him that they knew who he really was and were coming to get him.
He would give it one last try before they entered by force.
Tom knocked again, but still Charles refused to acknowledge them.
With a nod at Chloe, they both pulled out their weapons and he reached for the doorknob. It was unlocked and turned, and he opened the door. They were met with a long narrow hallway. There was a door to their left, another to their right, another farther down the hall on the right, and one at the end.
Taking the door on the left, Tom eased it open, and with Chloe covering him, he entered the room. It was a medium-sized kitchen, living, dining room. It was messy and looked just like he would expect a young, single, bachelor’s home to look. There were empty food wrappers and bottles of soda and pizza boxes strewn everywhere. There were clothes piled on the sofa but Tom couldn’t tell if they were clean or dirty. On a coffee table were a pair of scissors, the rolls of wrapping paper, and a couple of boxes. It looked like Charles had been doing his Christmas wrapping when they arrived.
There was no sign of Charles.
With the room cleared, they returned to the hallway and moved on to the first door on the right. It opened onto a small bedroom, clearly not the one Charles occupied because the only contents were a home gym and more litter piled about.
Again, there was no sign of Charles.
They moved on to the next door on the right. It was the bathroom. Surprisingly, this room was virtually spotless. The white tiles sparkled, the towels were hung neatly on a metal bar next to the bath, and the shower curtain was green and blue striped and looked nearly new. On the counter top, there was a toothbrush in a holder shaped like a snowman—that looked like something his mom would have picked out for him—a shaver, some deodorant, and aftershave. Charles was messy but obviously liked a clean bathroom.
He wasn't in there, either, which meant there was only one other room he could be in.
Cautiously, they approached the door at the end of the hall.
Tom swung the door slowly open and saw Charles Zimmerman sitting on the bed, a gun in his hands.
The weapon wasn't pointed at them, and Charles didn't look up at the opening door. Instead, he stared at the gun he clutched tightly in his hands.
“Charles,” Tom said. “It’s Special Agent Drake. We met after the robbery.”
The teenager didn't look up.
Nor did he protest that his name was Vincent; it seemed like he had given up the charade.
“Put the gun down, Charles.”
“It was my fault,” the young man mumbled.
Was he admitting that he was the one who was after Hannah? “What was, Charles?” Tom asked, edging closer.
“The accident.” He finally looked up, his dark eyes bottomless pools of pain and guilt.
“The car accident?” Tom asked, continuing to carefully maneuver himself closer to the bed. Charles still held the gun, and although he didn't appear to be intoxicated, as long as he held a weapon, he was a threat to himself and to them.
“We were arguing. I was arguing. I gave him the heart attack. He was trying to help me, but I didn't want to be helped. I wanted him to stop comparing me to Vincent. He was the good twin, I was the bad one. I accepted that. I just wanted them to leave me alone. But they wouldn’t. I said some things I shouldn’t, and he had a heart attack.”
Tom doubted that Charles was the cause of his father’s fatal heart attack, but he didn't think reasoning with the teenager would be productive right now. “Put the gun down, Charles. Your mother doesn’t want to lose you, too.”
“She’ll be better off without me.” Charles lifted the gun and pointed it at his own head.
“She loves you,” he countered. “You’re all she has left.”
“When she finds out all the bad things I've done, that I was the reason she lost her husband and son, she won't want anything to do with me.”
“She loves you,” Tom repeated.
“No,” Charles spat the word out. “She loved Vincent. She wished it was me who died. I wasn't the son she wanted. She wanted me to pretend that I was Vincent, that it was Charles who had died.”
“Because she was afraid that you would go to prison and she would be all alone.”
“Because she wanted Vincent more than me,” Charles countered, he was growing increasingly agitated. “It was all her fault. She’s the reason I started drinking. ‘Why can't you be more like Vincent,’ she would always say to me. He was the good one, the smart one, the sporty one, the musical one, the funny one, the one everyone loved. I was nothing.”
Tom was sure that wasn't true, but he understood what it was like to feel overshadowed by a sibling. He had heard similar things growing up about his oldest sister. He had never taken his parents comments too seriously or committed them to heart like Charles obviously had. “Your mother loves you, Charles. She loved both her sons. Don’t make her lose you, too.”
“I'm going to prison. She’s already lost me.” Charles’ face went faraway, his eyes grew distant, and Tom knew they had already lost him.
“Chloe.”
That was all he needed to say.
His partner fired a split second before Charles Zimmerman did.
Charles’ shot went high and the bullet plowed into the ceiling.
Chloe’s shot hit its target perfectly, connecting with Charles’ shoulder and stopping him from killing himself.
Both he and Chloe ran toward the teenager. Chloe grabbed the gun, which Charles had dropped when she’d shot him and moved it from his reach, while Tom grabbed the pillow from the bed and held it firmly against Charles’ bleeding shoulder.
“Why did you do that? I'm better off dead,” Charles mumbled before his eyes drooped closed.
For what he’d done to Hannah, Tom almost agreed with him. Whatever psychological problems the teenager had, which had no doubt been made worse by his alcohol abuse, that didn't give him the right to stalk and hurt Hannah. But having Charles commit suicide wouldn’t have helped Hannah recover. The pain and fear would still be there.
Footsteps sounded down the hall, and paramedics and cops poured into the room. Tom stood back, relinquishing care of Charles to the professionals.
It was over.
Hannah was safe.
And all his.
* * * * *
6:44 P.M.
He hadn’t been so excited in years. Tom couldn’t wait to show Hannah what he’d brought for her.
“Tom,” she beamed at him as she threw open the door and saw him standing on her front porch. Then she grew serious. “It’s over?”
“It is.”
“Vincent—I mean, Charles—you arrested him?”
“He’s in the hospital, but he’s been arrested, and he’s handcuffed to the bed.”
“He really tried to kill himself?” She looked both shocked and distressed at the prospect.
“He did. He’s a messed up young man, but that’s not an excuse for his behavior.” He didn’t want Hannah taking responsibility for Charles’ actions.
“So, it’s over? It’s really over?”
It sounded more like a question, so he answered, “It is. You’re safe now, baby.”
She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly, pressing her face into his neck. “Thank you.”
Tom wrapped his arms around her and lifted her feet off the ground, holding her every bit as tightly as she held him. “You don’t have to thank me. You know I would do anything for you.”
“You coming in?” she asked as he set her back down.
“Yes, but I have something for you first.”
“An early Christmas gift?” her eyes lit up.
“Sort of.” He walked down the steps of the porch to Hannah’s front yard and picked up what he’d got for her.
Pure joy filled her face when she saw what it was. “Oh, Tom, it’s perfect.” She clapped her hands with glee, and came running over to kiss his cheek.
“You didn't have one,” he told her, ridiculously pleased that she was so excited.
“I haven't, not since the last Christmas we spent together. I just couldn’t. Not without you; it just wasn't the same.”
“I haven't either,” he told her. “But this year is different.”
“Because we’re together again,” she smiled. Then her smile grew wider. “Let’s get it inside. I’ll go grab the boxes from the attic.”
I’ll get them, was on the tip of his tongue, but he stopped himself. Hannah was making an effort to let him do things for her, so he had to do the same. He couldn’t keep wanting to step in and take over doing everything. “I’ll help,” he told her.
“Okay,” she readily agreed and darted off back inside.
Tom laughed, and hiked up the seven-foot Christmas tree to drag it indoors. By the time he stepped through the front door, Hannah was already clunking around up in the attic.
He knew that Hannah loved to have the tree in the front window, so he hauled it into the living room. When he had it set up, he headed upstairs to the attic where he found Hannah had stacked all the boxes marked “Christmas” at the top of the steps.
“I forgot there were so many.” She giggled as she saw him.
“Because you buy new decorations every single year,” he reminded her as he grabbed the closest box.
“Well, you always bought me more.” She poked her tongue out at him.
He couldn’t help but laugh again. Hannah’s Christmassy enthusiasm was contagious. It took them five trips to bring down all the boxes. Hannah apparently knew exactly what each one contained because she went straight to one and opened it, removing a skirt to go around the bottom of the tree, along with a string of fairy lights.
“Lights first,” she told him once he’d put the Christmas tree skirt on.
“I know, I remember the routine.”
When Hannah was happy with the placement of the lights, they moved on to tinsel, pulling out long garlands of sparkly gold tinsel. Again, Hannah was very particular with the placement of it and it took several tries before she was happy with the spacing between the lights and tinsel.
“Oh, Tom, look.”
He turned to see what Hannah had pulled out of a box.
“Remember when you got this for me?”
Of course, he did. It was the first Christmas they’d spent together back when they were dating. “I think you cried when you opened it.” He smiled at the memory.
“I loved it; it was the perfect gift. Can you put it on the tree for me?” Hannah asked.
“Sure.” He took the shiny gold star and set it on the top of the tree.
“Now we can lay out all the decorations on the table so we can decide what should go where,” she said as she opened up another box. “Make sure to group everything together. Angels, then snowmen, then candy canes, then Santas, and reindeer, and then miscellaneous.”
He knew the drill. Once they got everything laid out, Hannah got busy adding each decoration to the tree, humming and hawing about just where each one should go. She liked everything to be just right, shiny decorations interspaced with wooden ones interspaced with plastic ones.
Tom sat on the couch and just watched her. If it was possible, she’d grown even more beautiful over the last three years. Especially like this, when she was happy and relaxed. It made her eyes shine a most gorgeous shade of bluey green, and her auburn hair looked luscious and beautiful against the purple sweater she wore.
“There.” Hannah hung the final ornament and stood back to admire her work. “What do you think?”
Tom couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was so happy, and he’d missed seeing her like this. “Perfect.”
Hannah rolled her eyes at him. “I meant the tree.”
“It’s pretty perfect, too.” He grinned.
She laughed and came to sit beside him on the sofa. When he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, she leaned into him. “I missed having a Christmas tree. I didn't realize how much until just now.”
“You really did a great job with it.”
“Thanks.” She snuggled closer and rested her head against his shoulder. “There’s only one thing that could make this night even better.”
“Cocoa.” Basically every night from Halloween through Christmas Day, they would sit on the couch in the evenings and sip steaming cups of hot cocoa. “I’ll go make us some.”
“Thanks, Tom.”
Leaving Hannah to fiddle a little with the tree decorations, which she always did, tweaking things a little and then a little more, until she was completely satisfied, he headed to the kitchen feeling pretty satisfied himself. This was all he needed in life—the woman he loved by his side. Everything else was just icing on the cake.
“Here you go, one mug of steaming hot cocoa coming right up,” Tom announced as he carried the mugs back into the living room.
Hannah didn't answer. She was sitting on the sofa where he’d left her, but as he got closer, he saw tears were trickling down her cheeks. When he’d gone to the kitchen, she’d been so happy. Now, she was crying.
Quickly, he set the mugs on the table and went to her, “Baby, what’s wrong?”
“What are we doing?”
Confused, he answered, “Decorating the Christmas tree.”
“No, I mean with us.” She met his gaze squarely, “Are we back together now?”
Fighting the urge to let Hannah confirm that first, he couldn’t be a coward. “Yes. At least, as far as I'm concerned.”
“We have a lot we need to talk about.”
“We do,” he agreed.
“You can't be trying to save me anymore. I don’t need you to save me. I never did. All I needed was just for you to be there for me.”
“I tried to be there for you, but you kept shutting me out.”
“That wasn't intentional. I wasn't trying to shut you out. I was just trying to prove to myself and to you and to everyone else, that I wasn't a victim. That I wasn't helpless and I wasn't going to break.”
“I never thought you would, Hannah. You are the single strongest person I know.” He sat beside her and took her hands. How had he failed to let her know how amazing he thought she was?
“I didn't know you thought that. I thought you thought that I couldn’t do anything on my own, that I needed you to save me.”
“But I didn't. I didn't save you; instead, I got you hurt.” His grip on her hands loosened, but she tightened hers, latching on to his fingers.
“No one but you blamed you for what happened. There were six men, Tom. Six men. Six men with guns. You were just one man. You're not a superhero and you don’t have magical powers. There was nothing you could have done against six armed men. The odds were just stacked too firmly against you.”
Logically, he knew Hannah was right, but she was his wife, and he was an FBI agent. He should have been able to protect her, keep her safe. Instead, he’d failed her. Failed the one person he loved the most in the world.
Reading his expression, Hannah released his hands and twisted hers together in her lap. “I was so hurt when you turned your back on me. It felt like you abandoned me. I thought you were the one person that I could always count on to be there for me.”
“You asked me before if I would have stayed if you had asked me to. I would have. I didn't want to walk away. I was hurt, too. I wanted to help you, but you wouldn’t let me. I understand that you wanted to rebuild your confidence and your strength, but you shut me out every chance you got.”
“You walked away because of your guilt,” she corrected. “And I let you because I was afraid I couldn’t be the wife you deserved anymore.”
He reached out and cupped her face in his hand, his thumb wiped away her still-falling tears. “You have always been the wife I wanted. We were both hurting, and we made it worse by shutting each other out.”
“We can't do that this time. We have to communicate, we have to compromise, we have to support each other and try to see things from the other person’s point of view.”
“I will work on being your husband and not your bodyguard. I’ll give you space when you need it and not try to do everything for you, so you know how strong I think you are.”
“And I’ll work on reminding myself that letting you help me isn’t a bad thing. That I can be strong and still accept help, that the two aren’t mutually exclusive. And I will remind you every day that what happened was not your fault, so that maybe one day you’ll believe it.”
“Deal,” he held out his hand.
“Deal,” Hannah took it and shook it.
They’d just taken the first—and biggest—step in repairing their relationship and getting back what they had lost.
* * * * *
10:52 P.M.
This had been the most perfect day.
She felt so happy, so light, so free. Hannah hadn’t felt this way since the day before the home invasion.
She scrambled up onto her knees and took Tom’s face in her hands, kissing him. The kind of kiss that held everything that went with three long years of separation.
Tom kissed her back, one of his hands curling around her neck, his fingers threading through her hair. His other hand traced around the small of her back and landed on her hip, drawing her closer so she was right up against his body. Her hands dropped to his chest to brace herself as he deepened the kiss.
Too soon, he broke contact. He was panting, his eyes glittering with desire and self-restraint.
But she didn't want restraint.
She wanted Tom.
More than that, she needed him.
“Hannah.”
That was all he said, but it was enough. He looked so conflicted. He wanted to take things further. She knew he did—she could feel the evidence of his desire. But he also wasn't sure if they were ready to take that step. If she was ready. They hadn’t been intimate since she’d been raped.
At first, it had been too soon. She hadn’t been able to even think about sex after what had happened. And she was pretty sure Tom had felt the same way. Then they had drifted apart. They’d barely been able to stand in the same room without bickering, let alone been close enough to make love.
After the divorce, she had just never met anyone she cared about enough to want to sleep with.
From the look on Tom’s face, he was putting the ball in her court. If she wanted to continue, he would. If she said stop, he would do that, too.
But Hannah didn't want to stop.
She was ready to take this next step in her recovery.
There was a time when she hadn’t been sure that she would ever reach this point. She had thought that the rape might have ruined sex for her forever. She’d spoken with her therapist about it, and Dr. Langley had told her that she would know if and when she was ready to take that step, and that however long it took her was fine. There was no timeline for recovering from what she had been through.
Right now, her body was telling her that she was ready.
“Let’s go upstairs.” She stood, grabbing Tom’s hand on the way and tugging him to his feet.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she answered honestly.
“Have you . . .? Since . . .?” he asked awkwardly.
“No.”
“Garry?”
“We never. I haven't slept with anyone else since we broke up. I couldn’t. I didn't love them.”
Tom looked relieved to hear that she and Garry hadn’t had sex. She didn't need to ask him if he’d been intimate with any of the women he’d dated since their divorce. She could read in his face that he had. Just as she could read that it hadn’t meant anything to him. Part of her wished that he hadn’t, but another part—the bigger part—understood that it hadn’t been about the women. It had been about him, proving to himself that what had happened hadn’t affected him, that he wasn't a victim, too, and that his life could go on as though nothing had happened.
It wasn't true, of course.
But it was what he had needed to tell himself so he could survive.
This was what was important.
What was happening between them right now.
Tom picked her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist, kissing him as he carried her up the stairs and down the hall to her bedroom.
Inside, he laid her down on the bed, and knelt above her. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, his voice husky, as he brushed the back of his knuckles across her cheeks.
“You’re pretty beautiful yourself,” she said as her fingertips traced over every inch of his face as though seeing it for the first time.
His hands dropped to the buttons of her purple sweater, undoing them slowly. As her top opened, his face changed—growing fierce as he looked at the white gauze bandages covering the knife wounds on her chest. One of his big hands covered it, as though attempting to block it out.
“I'm sorry, Hannah. I hate that you got hurt.” His eyes sparked with anger.
“I’m okay, Tom,” she reminded him.
“You might not have been.” The anger turned to raw fear. “If anything happened to you . . .” He trailed off and she felt his entire body shudder.
“I feel the same about you.” Her fingers curled into his sweater and held on tightly.
She could feel tears welling in her eyes, and Tom must have noticed, too, because he leaned down and kissed her. “You are breathtaking,” he murmured against her lips.
Hannah tensed at his words. She didn't feel beautiful right now, not with a ten-inch gash running from her cheek down her neck and onto her chest. She knew Tom didn't care about it, and she knew that over time the gash would heal and the scar would fade, but it would always be there, and people would know that someone had hurt her just by looking at her. That made her feel so exposed and vulnerable.
“I don’t care about the cut.” Tom read what she was feeling in her face. “I hate that Charles got you hurt, but it doesn’t make you any less beautiful.”
“It will leave a scar.”
“It will.”
“Everyone will know when they look at me that I'm a victim.”
“Hannah,” Tom said sternly, “when people look at you, they don’t see a victim, they see a survivor. There’s a difference. When I look at this cut, I see your strength—you fought back, and you amaze me.” His lips touched her cheek beside the cut, then trailed a line of kisses along it. His hands undid her jeans and he slid them down her legs, leaving her mostly undressed and him still fully clothed.
“How come you still have all your clothes on? That seems unfair.” She gave a nervous laugh. As much as she wanted to do this, she was a little anxious about how she would react. She wanted it to be like making love to Tom had always been, but what if the rape had changed things? What if she freaked out right in the middle of things? What if it triggered flashbacks? What if she couldn’t do it? What if she could never do it again?
“I think we can rectify that,” he smiled, pulling his sweater off.
She stared at the six-pack she remembered so well, and of their own volition, her hands lifted to touch him.
Tom took her hands one by one and slid her arms out of her sweater, and since she wasn't wearing a bra, that left her in only her panties. Then he kissed her again, while one of his hands tugged on the waistband of her underwear.
Hannah tensed. She didn't mean to; she just couldn’t help it.
“Do you want to stop, sweetheart?” Tom asked, as he noticed the sudden change in her body language.
“No,” she answered, and she really didn't. “It’s just . . .”
“Your first time and you're a little nervous. We’ll go slowly, and if you want to stop, then all you have to do is say so,” he promised.
“I love you, Tom.” Her whole body swelled with emotion. Love, gratitude, trust, faith; she loved Tom so much, and she wished she hadn’t let what had happened rip them apart.
“I love you, too.” His fingers stroked her hair, then trailed down her body with a feather soft touch that made her skin goose pimple, and she shivered with delight.
Then he was kissing her again, and his hand found its way inside her underwear, and all her fears and anxieties melted away.
She wasn't afraid anymore.
She was safe with Tom.
Because he loved her and she loved him and together they were stronger than they were on their own.
This day really was the most perfect day ever.