by Jane Blythe
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 r
emember 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.