by Jane Blythe
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.”
DECEMBER 22nd
7:56 A.M.
Tom actually felt well rested this morning. It wasn't as though he had gotten a lot of sleep last night, between the hubbub with Garry Smith, half expecting another monster to turn up at Hannah’s door, and knowing that she was upstairs asleep in her bed—well, her armchair—he had laid awake most of the night. But knowing he was making progress with her was like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.
Things with Hannah were still pretty precarious, teetering between growing closer and pushing each other away again. He wanted to make his focus solving this case, but whenever he was around Hannah, he couldn’t help but kiss her. Tom knew he was sending her mixed signals, and he knew it needed to stop.
He’d been going to talk with her this morning, but she had been asleep when he’d left and she needed the rest so he hadn’t wanted to wake her, but he couldn’t put it off any longer. The longer he waited, the more he continued to tell her this was his job, the greater the chance that he would lose her again. He kept saying the wrong thing because he was trying to make keeping her safe his top priority. Thinking back, that might have been why he lost her in the first place. He couldn’t bear the thought of her in pain, so he had constantly tried to wipe it all away, to take it from her and make it his own. Hannah hadn’t wanted that, she had accepted quicker than he had that what had happened was a part of them forever. They couldn’t take it away, but they could learn to live with it.