by Jane Blythe
“Vincent was in the car at the time, too. The bodies were pretty badly messed up. The car hit a brick wall, which crushed the entire front of the car. Gavin and Charles were unrecognizable, and . . .”
“And you think Charles Zimmerman saw an opportunity to change his fate,” he finished, finally catching on. “It was really Vincent Zimmerman who died in the car accident, and Charles decided to assume his brother’s identity.”
“If Charles didn't successfully complete his rehab program, he was facing prison time. Maybe he found the perfect way around that.”
“That is the craziest idea I’ve ever heard.” Tom shook his head in disbelief. “And you thought I was seeing things that weren’t there when I first suggested the robbery at Hannah’s store wasn't committed by the same men who’d been robbing jewelry stores. We have zero proof that Hannah’s employee, Vincent Zimmerman, is really Charles Zimmerman.”
“We had no proof that your theory was right either, but it was. There’s someone who would know which son died in the accident.”
“Hannah’s friend and neighbor—Ellen Zimmerman. If you're right, then she’s helped cover this up. She went along with it, even coming up with a story about why Vincent had dropped out of pre-med and needed a job at the jewelry store. Why would she do that?”
“She lost her husband and one of her boys. The only one that survived was facing prison time; maybe she couldn’t face any more loss.”
“Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say that Charles stole Vincent’s identity, but none of that explains why he would want to hurt Hannah.” Right now, as interesting as Chloe’s theory was, that was all he cared about. He wanted to know who was after Hannah before they managed to hurt her again.
Or worse.
If someone was obsessed with her, then when they made their play for her and realized that she was never going to reciprocate their feelings, then there was a chance that they would kill her.
The thought of Hannah being gone paralyzed him.
He couldn’t let that happen.
He wouldn’t.
They needed to talk with Vincent or Charles Zimmerman and Jeff Shields. They needed answers and they needed them now.
* * * * *
8:59 P.M.
Sometimes she was too stubborn.
Hannah knew that.
Like tonight, she would have preferred to spend the night at her older sister Rachel's house, but when her sister had offered, she’d said no, she would be fine at home on her own. Then when Rachel dropped her off here, she would have preferred that her sister come inside and stay the night, or at least stay for a while, but again when her sister had offered she had said no, that she would be fine here on her own.
Her desire to prove that she wasn't a victim, that being raped hadn’t turned her into a different person, that it hadn’t destroyed her, that she was a survivor, was sometimes stronger than she could manage. It made her feel like she needed to keep proving herself over and over again. She had to show everyone that she was okay, that she wasn't fragile, that she wasn't going to break.
Tom wasn't the only one who had treated her like a delicate porcelain doll after the assault. Her parents and sisters had, too. Hannah didn't want anyone to see her that way. Those men hadn’t destroyed her. She had bounced back; she was resilient, and she wasn't going to let anyone crush her.
But maybe it was time to find a balance between being strong and being human. And humans needed other humans. Over the last three years, she had emotionally distanced herself from everyone. It was hard to know that the people she loved hurt because she hurt, and there was only so much hurt she could cope with. As much as she claimed she was strong and she could handle everything all by herself, some days she didn't want to. Some days, she wanted someone there to give her their strength when her own faltered. It was exhausting pretending she had everything under control all the time, that she was strong enough to handle everything, that she could do it all herself.
She wanted a break.
She wanted Tom.
She just had to be positive he wanted her, too, and for the right reasons.
She couldn’t take him back if this was just about him and his need to save her because in his mind he failed her last time.
Hannah waved to Rachel as her sister backed down the driveway and pressed her other hand to her chest. The deeper wound on her breast ached, and the stitches pulled when she moved or turned. It was going to leave a nasty scar. Despite the violence of her assault, she hadn’t been left with any physical scars, and the prospect now of having one, and on her breast, was upsetting.
She knew it was just a scar, nothing more than a mark on her skin. But it was on her breast. How was Tom going to feel about that? Would he still find her attractive? And even if she and Tom never got back together and she ended up with someone else, would it impact how they saw her?
There was no point in worrying about it now. She and Tom weren’t even close to sorting things out, and other than him, she couldn’t really ever see herself with anyone else.
Hannah opened her front door and walked inside.
Her house looked so empty.
Well, it wasn't empty. She had lots of beautiful furniture, and she had spent ages searching for and choosing just the right pieces. There was art on her walls, and photos and vases of flowers and other accents on the tables. There were throw cushions on her sofas, and all the other little things that made a house a home.
But there were no Christmas decorations.
There were only three days until Christmas, but you couldn’t tell it by walking inside her house.
Christmas had been her favorite holiday for as long as she could remember, but the last few years, she just hadn’t had the heart or the energy to decorate her home and immerse herself in the joys and fun of the season. She still had all the decorations she had been collecting since she was a little girl packed in boxes in her attic, and maybe one day soon, she would feel like getting them out again, but for now, she was okay with just enjoying Christmas day with her family and nothing else.
As she flicked on lights and made her way through the dining room to the kitchen, she remembered the fun she and Tom had had celebrating Christmas together. He had enthusiastically embraced her all-encompassing love and childish joy around the holidays, going along with the traditions she hadn’t let go from her childhood. He had made Christmas all the more special, and . . .
She lost her train of thought the moment she stepped into the kitchen.
Her back door stood slightly ajar.
On her kitchen table, there was a bright red box shaped like a heart and a bouquet of flowers.
Someone had been inside her home.
It had to be whoever was targeting her.
Were they still here?
Slowly, she began to back out of the house.
As she walked, she scanned her surroundings, searching for signs of movement or a person hiding in the shadows. She couldn’t see anyone, but that didn't mean that they weren’t there.
Her hand fumbled around inside her bag, then her fingers curled around her phone.
Who should she call?
911 or Tom?
She was scared and she wanted to call Tom, but she wasn't sure she should. She wasn't quite sure exactly where she stood with him right now. He kept telling her that he was just doing his job, and while she knew he still had feelings for her—maybe even still loved her—he had made it very clear that his job was his number one priority at the moment. He had said that this was just a job so many times that she had gotten the message.
Hannah was dialing 911 as she unlocked her front door and stepped outside, but as she turned around, she saw Tom’s car.
Relief washed over her.
Shoving her cell back into her bag, she ran toward him. She wasn't even halfway there when he got out and came running to meet her.
“What's wrong?” he asked, his brown eyes glowing with concern.
“Someone was i
n my house. He left me gifts. On the kitchen table.”
He reached for his gun. “Is he still there?”
“I don’t think so.” She already felt so much better having Tom here, she might be able to take care of herself, but this went beyond that. Tom was an FBI agent; he knew what he was doing.
“Go wait in my car, lock the doors,” Tom ordered as he started toward her house.
No way was she waiting out here on her own. What if the man who left her gifts was still around? What if that was his plan? Wait for her to be alone and unprotected, then make his move. “I'm coming with you,” she said as she hurried to catch up.
“Hannah,” Tom groaned.
“I'm not staying out here on my own,” she said firmly.
“Fine. Then at least stay behind me.”
That she was happy to do.
Keeping close to Tom, they crossed her front lawn. She had left the front door open, and Tom cautiously entered, holding an arm out to keep her in place as he scanned her front hall and the dining room to their left. When he saw nothing, he moved into the house, heading for the kitchen. Hannah followed. She didn't think that there was anyone in here, because if there was, they had already had their chance to grab her, and she was, presumably, what they wanted.
Once Tom had cleared the kitchen, he paused at the table, studying the gifts the man had left her. Eventually, he tore his gaze away and ordered, “Stay here and I’ll check the rest of the house.”
This time she didn't argue, just scrunched herself into a corner and waited for him to return.
“Nothing looks disturbed up there,” he announced when he walked back into the room a couple of minutes later. “I’ll have you check later to confirm that you don’t think he touched anything. I called the FBI’s ERT unit to come and dust for fingerprints, but we know it was one of two men.”
Vincent or Jeff.
She still couldn’t believe one of her employees was doing this to her. It didn't make sense. She didn't understand.
“You all right?”
She blinked and Tom was standing in front of her.
“Hannah?”
Drawing on reserves of strength she didn't know she had left, she nodded. “Yeah. I'm all right. A little shaken up to know he was here in my home, but I’ll be okay.”
“You will,” he agreed.
Tom kept saying that. She had spent these last three years thinking he believed she was weak and helpless, but it seemed she’d been wrong. Maybe he really did see her as strong. Hannah wanted to rest against his sturdy chest. She wanted him to wrap his arms around her and hold her up. She wanted to lean against someone, even if it was just for a little while.
“Hannah,” Tom’s voice had gone soft, gentle, without the cop tone, “we need to talk.”
They did.
She knew that.
But maybe this wasn't the time.
Maybe Tom was right.
Maybe his focus did need to be his job right now.
Whoever was intent on torturing her had already set up an armed robbery at her store, sent someone to terrorize her and leave her bleeding and tied up, then broken into her home and left her gifts. What would they do next? She didn't want to die and she didn't want to live in fear. She needed Tom to find who was after her and stop them.
“Not now,” she said. “Later. I know that you’re here to do your job. Are you going to stay here again tonight?” Hannah couldn’t keep the longing out of her voice and didn't bother to try.
“Of course.” Tom sounded all business again.
“Do you need anything from me right now?”
“No. ERT will dust down here for fingerprints and take the gifts.”
“I'm going to go to bed. Just call me if you need me.”
Part of her thought that Tom would follow her or ask her to stay, but he didn't.
He let her go.
Part of her wanted him to follow her or ask her to stay, but it was better this way.
Job first.
At least with Tom here, she might actually sleep well again tonight.
She appreciated his presence more than she could express right now.
Hannah paused at the door. “Thanks for being here, Tom.”
“Always.”
DECEMBER 23rd
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. T
hank 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.”