Candy made it home without puking. It wasn’t easy. Her gorge kept trying to rise, but she battled it down and finally reached her kitchen table with a cup of tea, the gentlest thing she could think of. It’d either settle her or get rid of her stomach contents. At this point, even the latter would be a relief. She hadn’t even changed out of her uniform, except for ditching her utility belt.
She put her hands on her head and tried not to cry. She had years of experience at holding back tears even though she’d seen plenty of tough guys give in to them occasionally. Still, she had tried not to. Tears might unnerve others who were holding up better.
But there was no one to see her right now, and nothing left to prove. She’d already proved she was as tough as anyone who went into battle. And her life had changed forever.
She couldn’t leave it all behind. No way. But with each passing day, she shoved it back deeper into the mental locker.
Until today. She’d seen even more gruesome things, but those kids...
What had they done? Nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing to deserve that. And she hadn’t expected to see such graphic video.
That had been a sideways punch to the gut. Maybe she ought to quit and find a different job. Except she’d tried that without success. Unless she wanted to be a mercenary.
Never.
Tears finally started rolling down her cheeks as memories of her time in the Army rolled through her mind. The sound, the smells, the screams. Oh, God, the screams. People she knew torn up, burned, dead. Faces she would never forget, not until the day she died.
Initially, she didn’t hear the knock on the door. Eventually it penetrated as it grew louder.
She shook her head, dashed away her tears on her shirtsleeve, hoping there hadn’t been another emergency. She’d turned off her radio. She was off duty now, her cell phone was off, and she sure as hell didn’t want to be bothered by anything less than a mass shooting in town.
So much for her idea that a small town would be calmer. Less violent. Stupid idea. People were the same everywhere.
She opened the door reluctantly and saw Steve Hawks. “Now’s not a good time,” she told him. Rudely, but it was the truth.
“I heard,” he said. “I heard something.”
For some reason that made her step back and let him in. He’d heard what? From where? She doubted the news was making the rounds in town yet. The sheriff had locked down all information. Did that matter? Maybe not, but Steve sure hadn’t seen what she’d seen.
“You don’t look good,” he said as soon as he was inside.
“Tough.”
“I’d have brought a bottle if I’d known. You’re white. Your eyes are red and swollen. Get your butt into the kitchen and tell me what you can stomach.”
He surprised her by reaching out to touch her cheek. “Cold as ice. Where’s a blanket?”
What did she care?
Then he spied the throw over the back of the couch in the next room. “Here or the kitchen?”
She moved toward the kitchen. It wasn’t as comfortable, but she didn’t care about comfort.
When she sat at the table, he spread the throw over her and tucked it around her. Vaguely she sensed the warmth.
“What have you got? Anything you prefer?”
Her lips felt frozen.
“Alrighty, then. I’ll look.” Followed by, “Damn, I can tell you were in the Army. Remind me to ask you to organize me someday.”
Distantly she felt as if that might be amusing. At another time. Right now it seemed pointless. Empty conversation.
Clatters. Cupboard doors closing. Even in this state, situational awareness never deserted her.
“Here.” A cup appeared before her. Steam rose from it. She saw it and didn’t care.
“Drink,” he ordered. “Hot milk.”
Hot milk? Her mother had made that for her. “I don’t like it.”
“Who cares. It’ll warm you, maybe help you relax a bit.”
Obediently, because she always followed orders, she reached for the mug with trembling hands. Hands that felt as if they belonged to someone else.
She hadn’t raised it more than an inch when it slipped from her grip and spilled everywhere. She stared at the milk running across the table, some of it down her front. What did it matter?
She watched Steve’s hands and arms as he wiped up the mess, including the milk that had run down her front.
“Okay, that’s not going to work. Not until your fingers warm up.”
He pulled a chair close and reached for her hands, chafing them with his bigger, warmer ones.
“Come back to me, Candy,” he said quietly. “You’ve come back from far worse.”
Had she? Apparently not. Like a tar pit, it just kept bubbling up and dragging her in.
But as he rubbed her hands, she began to return from the nightmare. His gentleness called to her. Drew her back from the brink. Offered her a touch of emotional safety. No one had ever treated her so kindly when the ugliness rose from the pit.
His touch reached her in a way that little enough had. Slowly she drew her hands back and tugged the throw tighter around her.
And gradually her vision returned from the tunnel. She saw Steve, saw her kitchen, saw the rag he’d used to wipe up her mess. Sour milk, she thought irrelevantly. She needed to wash it soon.
“Candy?”
Her gaze trailed back to Steve. “I’m here.”
“That was rough for you. Take your time. About that hot drink?”
Her stomach had settled, she realized. “Cider. Please.”
“Coming up. I think I’ll join you. I’m wondering how any little kids could possibly want to trick-or-treat around here, as cold as it’s getting.”
“There’s an annual Halloween party over at the high school. Or so I’ve heard.”
“Good idea.”
More clattering of pans followed by the glug of cider pouring from the gallon jug. A short while later, the aroma of hot cider and cinnamon. This time when he put a mug in front of her, she was able to reach with a steadier hand and stir it with the cinnamon stick.
Steve returned to his seat, moving it back to a more respectful distance. He had a mug of his own.
“Whatever you did after you left the Castelles was awful, wasn’t it?”
She responded with a jerky nod. “I...didn’t have to go to the scene, but the video was being broadcast into the office, and Gage asked me to watch it in case I noticed anything.”
“What happened?”
She looked down. “An ugly violent crime.” She couldn’t say more, not yet.
“God!”
She felt the cider had cooled enough to drink safely, and lifted the mug to her lips, glad to see her hands were steady and her fingers were feeling again. Hot and good. Very good.
She sensed he was withholding something, but she didn’t want to deal with it yet. She needed time to put all the tumbled blocks inside her head back into order. Whatever order they might find again.
Steve spoke. “I’m so sorry you had to see that.”
“I’ve seen worse.” Which was true. “It’s just so pointless. Not combatants. No threat to anyone.”
He nodded and reached out to touch her hand briefly. “Take your time. No rush.”
But another thought began to penetrate the fog in her head. “You must have come here for a reason.”
“Nothing that can’t wait until later.”
But she could tell he was troubled. For a detective who must have had a poker face at one time, he could be quite transparent. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing exactly. Nothing that can’t wait. Not urgent.”
She had to live with that, she supposed, at least for a little longer. Steve had a mulish look for the first time since she’d met him. Probably little budged him until he was ready.
A good trait for a detective? Another thing that didn’t matter.
She was searching for inanities, she realized. Anything to redirect her own mind. An escape hatch, or a temporary break. Anything that would help her finish moving from the past to the present—and the present wasn’t looking especially good right now.
She continued drinking the cider, beginning to wonder if she needed something sweeter. She might be having delayed shock, a mix of today’s events with memories.
Something sweet truly sounded good, and for once in her life she didn’t mind asking for some help. “On the counter there’s a bakery box. Cinnamon rolls. I need one. Please.”
“Coming right up. I may join you. Dinner wasn’t on my list this afternoon.”
“Help yourself.”
He found two small plates and brought the rolls to the table. “Maybe someone will eventually explain to me why cinnamon rolls are good for breakfast but not for dinner. Cake is for a dinner dessert, but not for breakfast. Why?”
That cracked the ice that encased her and drew forth a small laugh. “I never thought about it.”
“I mean, really, a sweet is a sweet and it shouldn’t be rigidly prescribed for a certain meal. I like pie. I’d eat apple pie and peach cobbler for breakfast. But no. I’m welcome to pancakes covered in maple syrup.”
“But not for dinner.”
“In theory, although I think some restaurants make a good living by providing them round the clock.”
“Which ought to tell us something.” She had begun to feel grounded again, firmly planted in the present, although that did not banish the murders of those teens. Nothing ever would. Her mind was like that camera she’d spent hours looking at. Odd how you’d forget things you didn’t want to and couldn’t forget things you wished you could erase forever.
But as she ate the roll and calories began to rush through her system, she remembered something else. “What did you mean, when you said you’d heard something?”
“I was given a vague prediction by this guy claiming to be a psychic. He came to the Castelles’, looking for me I think, and told me his spirits had told him that murders were going to happen again. He said it would happen the same way it had when some guy named Bride lived there.”
“God!” She dropped the remains of the roll and clenched her hands into fists. “God, Steve! You’re a detective. How could you have thought this could wait?”
“Because I didn’t know it had happened! I took it as a prediction, probably worthless, and came to you.”
But Candy was having none of it. She grabbed the landline phone off the wall and dialed the sheriff’s home number.
“Gage, Ben Wittes told Steve Hawks today that people might be murdered.”
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Gage Dalton arrived at Candy’s house. He looked slightly rumpled, especially his shirt, as if he had grabbed one from the laundry where he had tossed it.
Steve noticed his appearance. It was hard not to. One side of his face was scarred with burns, and his voice was roughened. There was a story there that Steve decided to ask about later. That detective that Candy had criticized as falling down on the job? He was still detective enough to want to know the stories of people he met.
“Okay,” Gage said. “Explain what Ben Wittes said.”
Candy waved at him and Steve took over. “It’s not much. Ben Wittes showed up at the house I’m investigating. He wanted to tell me one thing. He said his spirits were warning him that the murders were going to begin again, just like they had when a guy named Bride owned the house. I still haven’t heard anything about this Bride guy.”
Gage frowned. “I seem to vaguely remember something about a guy with that name after I started working for the department. Nothing important, some kind of local story or other. Since it didn’t involve me or the department, and was kind of vague anyway, I didn’t pay any attention.”
“Understandable,” Steve replied. “But Candy thought I was a jerk for not reporting it immediately. Former detective and all that.”
Gage smiled faintly. “You didn’t know what we found today, and the info you got was kind of squirrely anyway.”
Steve grinned back. “Hey, I like squirrels. Some of the most intelligent and cute members of the animal kingdom.”
Gage shook his head. “Tell that to the folks who spend a lot of time growing gardens only to see them ravaged by these so-called vermin. I think they’re a little upset they can’t shoot a gun anywhere in town, and they’re not allowed to poison anything. Kids and dogs, you know. Or cats.”
“I get it,” Steve answered. He also liked Gage’s answer. People in a tug-of-war against animals just trying to survive. A perennial problem.
But Gage was already rising. “I’m going to bring Wittes in for questioning. You want to be there, Candy?”
“Not tonight.”
Gage nodded. “After today I’m not surprised. Must have been hard on you. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t think it was important.”
“If you never ask anything of me, you might as well fire me.”
Gage paused to pat her shoulder. “You’re doing great. With time you’ll like the work even more. It’s not like we have problems like this very often. Anyway, I’ll bring Wittes in tomorrow morning. I’d like you to see his reaction.”
Candy nodded. “I’m sure I can do that.”
“No rush anyway since this guy claims he’s talking to spirits. He won’t ßexpect that to change matters so quickly for him, not even if he really knows something.”
Then Gage left. Steve didn’t move. He wasn’t going to leave Candy alone while she was still so fragile emotionally.
She didn’t speak for a while, intently staring at the table. He could only imagine the memories this had reawakened in her, but he had some experiences of his own. Well, more than a few. He didn’t miss that about his former job. Not one bit.
He rose eventually, deciding she probably needed more calories. He guessed she hadn’t been able to eat a thing since she’d been called in to monitor the video.
Overall, a good thing for the sheriff to have. He himself had seen too many blanks from crime scene techs’ cameras, from body cams. Everyone seemed to have their own point of view about what was important at the scene.
This time he looked for something in her refrigerator and cupboards that would give her more than a cinnamon roll.
He discovered chicken soup, one of the richer brands, and started with that. If she could get that down, he’d try a sandwich. She had peanut butter on the shelf. He believed he had spied some cold cuts in the lowest drawer of the fridge. Sandwich makings.
He heated the soup in her microwave, then set it before her on the table with a spoon. “Eat.”
She hesitated only a few moments before picking up the spoon. “You don’t have to babysit me.”
“I’m sure. I’m also equally certain that I want to. Quit objecting and get some more food in you.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll find something after you eat that soup.”
He sat waiting, and finally the spoon started making its way between the bowl and her mouth. She reached for a napkin from the basket on the far end of the table and wiped her chin, and he laughed.
“What’s so funny?” She looked right at him, a good sign.
“I see we both have a soup-drinking problem. I swear there’s a hole in my bottom lip.”
She managed a chuckle and went back to her soup. It must have agreed with her because she began to eat faster. That made him feel a whole lot better.
“It’s stupid,” she said as she finished the soup.
“What is?”
“I’ve seen things so much worse than those victims. Far worse. I shouldn’t have reacted so strongly.”
“I don’t know about that. Sometimes small things can be enough. A sight, a sound, a smell.”
She raised her head from the bowl. “You have it, too?”
“Believe it. While I’m sure my police experiences couldn’t be as bad as yours, cases still haunt me.”
She clearly pondered that. He rose. “What else can I feed you? Chicken soup may be great for viral infections, but not so much for shock. Sandwich?”
“There’s some sliced ham and some salami in the refrigerator meat drawer. And some Jarlsburg cheese on the next drawer up. Help yourself.”
Steve opened the refrigerator again and spied a bottle on the door. “Ooh, you like spicy mustard. A woman after my own heart.”
“No other kind,” she agreed listlessly.
She was sinking again. Steve found two plates and made some simple ham sandwiches on rye, faster than he’d ever made them before. He needed to get back quickly before the depression snagged her again.
“Here,” he said, sitting across from her and placing two plates on the table. “Have at it.”
“Thank you.”
She still sounded too quiet, too slow. He wondered whether he should bring the subject up now or wait until she’d eaten. Afterward, he decided.
She ate at least. No hesitation this time. Even if her mind was trying to wander elsewhere, her physical needs were taking priority.
When they were both done, he pushed the plates aside. “I want to talk.”
She had a distant look in her eyes. He recognized it. “Say, try to come back for just a minute. You don’t want to go there.”
“No.” She drew a deep breath. “Sometimes it’s hard.”
“I know it is. Are you getting any help with your PTSD?”
Her head jerked. “Why would I? Everyone has bad memories.”
“Not the same. Not when they take over like this and give you a thousand-yard stare. Talk to me, Candy. Talk us both through this.”
She sighed, picking up her napkin and folding it repeatedly, ignoring the yellow spot of mustard. As if she didn’t care about it getting onto her fingers. Right then, she probably didn’t.
“Candy? Look at me. Talk to me. Please.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not a good conversationalist right now.”
“I’m not asking you to make conversation. Just ramble.” He was starting to get seriously concerned about her. Maybe it was ER time.
After a minute or so, she sighed. “I ought to be in control.”
He waited to see if she would say more. When she didn’t, he asked, “In control of what?”
“These memories. The way they take over. When it starts, they just take over. I try to cram them away, but they don’t want to stop.”
He nodded understanding. “That happens to me occasionally. And you had a massive trigger today. I believe if I’d seen what you watched, I’d probably be having some awful memories, too.”
She sighed again and looked up from the napkin, which right now was about an inch square. “Sorry.”
“For what? Don’t apologize. This is a very difficult thing to deal with. Hell, I don’t like to admit I have a problem and I seriously believe mine couldn’t possibly be as bad as yours. You’ve seen a lot more of hell than I have.”
She looked away briefly. “Don’t minimize your experience, Steve.”
“Why the devil not? You’re busy minimizing yours. Guess you gotta be tough, huh?”
She looked so sad in that moment that he feared she was about to withdraw. His chest was already so tight with worry and concern that he doubted he could handle that. He was sure she wouldn’t like being bundled into the car and taken against her will to the ER. He knew he wouldn’t like it.
But then she spoke. “You’re right. Be tough. I had to be for so long. I hate to admit any weakness.”
“The good old Army. Well, cops have a bit of that, too. To some degree. And sometimes it makes us stupid.”
Her gaze snapped right back. Oh, she was here now. Relief nearly swamped him. “Stupid. Are you saying I need treatment?”
“It might help, but that’s not my decision. Anyway, I’ll sit here all night driving you nuts until you get past this. Wanna play Hearts? Or Spades?”
She shook her head, but a faint smile dawned on her lips. “I never thought you’d become a friend. Is this what you do with your clients?”
“I’m not doing anything except being myself.”
Candy chewed her lower lip, then said, “I believe that.”
Well, that was good, because he sure as heck wasn’t trying to shine her on.
“I think I can go to bed now,” she said soon.
“Good. Point me to the couch, because I’m not going anywhere.”
At least she didn’t argue. She told him where to find spare blankets and a pillow. “You’re not going to be comfortable. You’re kinda long.”
He flashed a smile. “I’ll be fine. You get to bed. Morning at the office, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Then she rose and walked away.
It still wasn’t good, but it was better. At least he knew he’d hear her if she stirred during the night. He’d always slept like a cat.