by Sophie Moss
“Sorry I’m late,” Della said, pausing in the doorway when her gaze landed on Annie. “Why aren’t you dressed up?”
Annie pulled a pair of cat ears from her back pocket and stuck them on her head. “I almost forgot.”
“That’s your costume?” Della asked, her expression dismayed.
“What?” Annie asked, adjusting the ears and looking down at her black top and dark jeans. “I’m a cat.”
“You could have put a little more effort into it.”
Annie bit back a smile. When Della had said she was dressing up as a witch earlier, Annie had figured that meant she’d be wearing a pointy black hat over a sweatshirt and jeans, not a costume that looked as if it had taken months to put together.
Annie dug in her purse for a black eyeliner pencil, swiping it across her cheeks to add whiskers. “Better?”
Della huffed out a breath and turned to Taylor, smiling broadly. “Now that is a costume!”
Taylor giggled as Della took her hands, twirling her around to admire her wings.
“Where’s Joe?” Annie asked, peering out on the porch to look for Della’s husband. After hearing that some of the kids were making fun of Taylor at school, he had offered to join them tonight and act as a buffer.
Joe Dozier was six-foot-three and over two hundred pounds of solid muscle. Born and raised on Heron Island, he had spent most of his life hauling his living from the Bay. When he wasn’t on the water, he was fighting fires with the volunteer fire department or helping out Jimmy Faulkner on his construction crew.
He had the shoulders of a linebacker, a deep gravelly voice that commanded authority, and he didn’t take crap from anyone.
Della batted at a cluster of leaves that blew into the room with her broom. “He overheard a few of the middle-school kids plotting a prank earlier. He’s trying to track down Don Thompson to warn him.”
“What are they planning to do?” Annie asked. She was used to kids playing pranks on Halloween. In D.C., most of the little kids went trick-or-treating before dark, so they didn’t get caught in the teenagers’ mischief. Heron Island was such a small community, she’d assumed the parents would keep a tight leash on their kids tonight. She hadn’t given the pranksters much thought.
Della swept out the last of the leaves. “Don was storing the leftover fireworks from the Fourth of July celebration in his garage. They’re planning to set them off tonight.”
Annie’s gaze snapped up. “Fireworks?”
Della nodded.
“Did you find Don to warn him?”
“His truck was gone. We think he might have gone into St. Michaels to run an errand. Joe’s trying to track down the kids.” Della smiled at Taylor, snagging her candy bag off the hook by the door and holding it out to her. “Are you ready?”
Taylor nodded excitedly, picking up her broom.
“Wait,” Annie said. She didn’t want to keep Taylor from trick-or-treating, but she also didn’t want her to mistake the sound of a firework going off for a gunshot. “Do the middle-school kids have the fireworks?”
“Don’s garage door was open,” Della answered. “There’s a pretty good chance they already took them.”
Annie looked out at the dark streets. Children dressed in costumes were already starting to wander up and down the sidewalks. “Where will they set them off?”
“They’ll probably take one of their father’s boats out. Don’t worry,” she said when she caught Annie’s worried expression. “Joe called the Fire Chief. He and a few of the guys are searching the docks now to see if any of the boats are missing. They’ll find them soon.”
Annie hesitated. She knew she couldn’t protect Taylor from every loud noise. She wouldn’t be there to hold her hand every time an engine backfired or thunder struck. But Halloween could be a scary holiday. She hadn’t given enough thought to the older kids who would be dressed as ghosts and skeletons, the teenagers who would jump out from behind dark corners to scare the younger children.
“Taylor,” she said, kneeling down so they were eye-to-eye. “You know the sound a firework makes when it goes off?”
Taylor nodded.
“If you hear that sound tonight, I want you to look up at the sky. I want you to look for the fireworks.” If she could get Taylor to focus on the beautiful sparkly display in the sky, instead of on the sounds and the terrible memories they could stir up, they might be able to make it through the night.
Taylor’s fingers curled around her broom. “I like fireworks.”
“Me too.” Annie squeezed her hand. At least, she had, until she’d remembered how much they sounded like gunshots. “Promise me that as soon as you hear them, you’ll look up at the sky, that you’ll be the first one to spot the fireworks.”
“I promise.”
Passing out candy to trick-or-treaters wasn’t exactly how Will had imagined he’d be spending a Friday night on leave, but nothing was turning out the way he’d expected since returning to Heron Island. Walking up the street to Ryan’s house, he kept an eye out for Annie and Taylor as he dodged groups of kids dressed in costumes.
Every house was decorated with pumpkins, gourds, and jack-o-lanterns. White ghosts hung from maple tree branches, and cobwebs cloaked boxwoods and porch rails. The sky was dark, a veil of clouds shrouding the moon. The smell of chimney smoke mingled with the salty air.
He spotted Becca sitting on Ryan’s porch steps, and he made his way toward her. She looked up as a group of kids dashed across the lawn to the next house, her smile fading when she saw him. “You look exhausted.”
He lowered himself to the step beside her. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
Ryan walked out of the house and handed him a beer.
“Thanks,” Will said. He couldn’t remember when he’d caught more than an hour or two of sleep at a time. The nightmares were getting worse, and the only way he could fight them was by staying awake.
A loud pop and sizzle had him glancing up. Over the roofs of the houses across the street, an explosion of fireworks went off. Will frowned. “Since when does the island have a fireworks show on Halloween?”
“We don’t,” Ryan said as another round went off.
Becca set down the bowl of candy. “I heard that some of the eighth-graders were planning to do something stupid tonight.” She reached into her purse for her cell phone. “Billy Thompson must have found his dad’s leftover stash from the Fourth of July celebration last summer.”
Will pushed to his feet, scanning the faces of the children for Taylor. “Was Taylor in school today?”
Becca nodded.
“Do you know what she was dressing up as tonight?”
Becca punched a number into the phone and held it up to her ear. “A butterfly.”
A group of teenage girls dressed as black cats raced toward the docks, laughing and carrying sparklers. Will strode into the street, searching for a pair of wings. A cherry bomb exploded by his feet and his muscles clenched, every nerve in his body switching to high alert.
It was Halloween mischief, he thought. Just kids playing pranks. But the memories crept in, chasing him like ghosts. More fireworks popped, lighting up the sky. A cloud of smoke, smelling of sulfur and cordite, floated toward him.
He needed to find Taylor. He needed to make sure she was okay.
Another cherry bomb popped and he spotted two girls wearing costumes with sparkly wings at the house across the street, but neither of them were Taylor. He cut through the neighbor’s yard and a boy in a zombie costume streaked past him. Fake blood spurted from a gaping wound in the child’s neck.
It’s a costume. It’s not real.
A cold sweat broke out on Will’s forehead as he reached blindly for the side of the house. He leaned against it, his heart pounding as the image of his youngest teammate, Kyle, taking a bullet to the head swam into his vision.
He heard the shots whizzing past him, missing him, as he helped Colin behind the rocks so they could radio for help. He foug
ht to slow the bleeding from his friend’s leg, his hands slipping as he tried to keep the sniper alive long enough to make the extraction. His best friend, Dylan, shouted for backup. The sweet hum of rotor blades echoed in the distance.
But it was too late.
He heard Dylan’s screams—the screams of a dying man. The same screams that had haunted his dreams for the past six months.
He felt a small hand slip into his, a small person lean against him.
Taylor.
She pressed the handle of her broom into his hand.
His fingers curled around it as he lifted his eyes to the woman standing only a few feet away. He held Annie’s gaze as the screams faded, as the images slowly subsided, until all that was left was the sound of crickets chirping in the grasses, halyards clanging in the marina, and kids running from house to house yelling, “trick-or-treat!”
“I’m sorry I don’t have anything stronger,” Annie said, sliding a cup of coffee across the counter at the café to Will. “I’m still waiting on my liquor license.”
“This is fine.” Will wrapped his big hands around the small cup.
Annie sat across from him, the silence in the room broken only by the sound of the branches scraping against the windows. Things had settled down in the streets, and they’d left Taylor with Della to continue trick-or-treating. She needed to talk to Will alone. “How long has this been going on?”
“The flashbacks started last week.”
“How many have you had?”
“This is the second.” Will stared at the steam rising from the mug. “During the day, at least. They used to only happen at night.”
No wonder he looked so tired, so ragged around the edges. She took in the dark circles under his eyes, the deep lines between his brows, and the tightly coiled bands of muscles along his neck and shoulders. Taylor still had nightmares, but they happened more sporadically now, and she’d never had one sneak up on her during the day. “When was the last time you slept through the night?”
Will lifted the mug, taking a sip of black coffee. “I can’t remember.”
“Have you thought about talking to someone?” Annie asked gently. “Someone who could help you work through what happened?”
Will shook his head.
“After what happened to Taylor, the school set her up with a grief counselor,” Annie said. “She’s been a big help.”
“It’s not that simple.” Will set down his mug. “If I make an appointment, it’ll be documented. My symptoms will be documented.”
“But it would be confidential,” Annie protested.
“Not in my line of work.”
“I don’t understand…”
“If I seek treatment, if any part of my health—mental or physical—is not one hundred percent, the military could strip my security clearance. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to go on classified missions. I wouldn’t be a SEAL.”
Annie stared at him. They would take away his job, his career because he was suffering through something that happened on a mission they sent him on?
“I know what you’re thinking,” Will said, “but people depend on me. Lives depend on me, on my ability to make split second decisions. I can’t go back out there; I can’t lead my team on an op if I can’t control my mind.”
“But if you don’t talk to someone, your symptoms could get worse.”
Will rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I just need to find a way to get my head straight. There’s got to be a way to outsmart the flashbacks, some kind of mental strategy I can use.”
“I don’t know if a flashback is something you can outsmart,” Annie said. “I’ve done a lot of research on PTSD since the school shooting. What you’re going through sounds a lot like PTSD.”
Will’s gaze drifted to the window as the wind snatched at the leaves clinging to the knobby oak branches.
“What happened, Will?” Annie asked.
Will tipped the coffee mug, letting the black liquid run around the rim. He didn’t talk about what happened. Ever. But maybe just this once, he could tell someone. He could try to get some of it out. “Do you follow the news?”
“I haven’t kept up with it much since we moved, but I used to watch the headlines on the evening news.”
“Do you remember a story last spring, about Governor Foley’s son?”
Annie nodded slowly. Everyone in the Beltway area had heard about what happened to Colin Foley. The governor of Maryland’s son was a Navy SEAL, or at least he had been until he’d lost a leg on a mission in Afghanistan that had gone terribly wrong. Two other SEALs had died, and only one of them had come back unharmed.
“That was my team,” Will said quietly. “I was in charge of those guys. I went out with three teammates, and I only brought one back. The two men who died, they had families—wives, children, mothers, fathers. They had people at home who depended on them. Even Colin had a fiancée. Not that she stuck around for long when he came back without one of his legs.”
Annie felt a deep well of anger form toward that woman, whoever she was.
Will rolled the cup around on the counter, watching the dark liquid threaten to spill over the edges. “I’m the only one who could have died and it wouldn’t have mattered.”
“Will,” Annie said, her heart going out to him as she reached across the table and laid her hand on his. “You can’t think that way.”
A dark cloud of grief passed over his eyes. “I can’t stop replaying that day in my mind. I keep thinking about what I could have done differently. Why I’m the only one who came back in one piece.”
Annie squeezed his hand. “Do you know how many times Taylor has asked me why she was the only one who survived the school shooting?”
Will shook his head.
“Countless,” Annie said. “And I don’t have an answer for her. All I know is that her life was spared. She was given a second chance. And so were you.”
Will looked down at their joined hands.
“Will,” Annie said softly. “Della told me why you joined the SEALs.”
His eyes lifted back to hers.
“I understand why you needed to get back at the people who hurt your family, but is this really what you want?”
“It’s who I am, Annie.”
She slowly withdrew her hand from his. “It’s not going to bring them back.”
“Maybe not,” Will said, “but as long as there are people out there who hate us, who want to destroy everything we stand for—as long as there is a war on terror, I want to be fighting in it.”
He stood abruptly, pushing back from the counter. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he started to pace. “The nightmares will go away eventually. I just need to find a way to control the flashbacks.”
Annie rose slowly, wanting to go to him, wanting to wrap her arms around him like she did with Taylor at night. But she knew there was nothing she could say or do to convince him that he needed help. “No matter how hard you fight to force them back, the memories will always be there.”
He stopped pacing, looking back at her. “I need more time.”
“It’s been six months, Will.” Annie rounded the edge of the counter, walking toward him. “If Taylor was experiencing what you’re experiencing now, six months after the fact, I would be very worried.”
“But Taylor’s doing fine,” Will argued. “You saw her tonight. She wasn’t even fazed by the fireworks. It just takes some people longer than others to work through it.”
“The only reason Taylor wasn’t afraid of the loud noises tonight was because Della warned us it might happen. She’d overheard some of the middle-school kids talking earlier. Taylor made it through the night because we talked about it beforehand. She knew what to expect. But there will be times when she won’t. And we’ll deal with them, the best way we can, when they happen.”
Laughter drifted in from the street, where a trio of girls dressed as fairy tale princesses searched for the last few houses with candy. Annie walked to where Will
stood in the middle of the dining room watching the children. She held out her hand. “I want to show you something.”
He looked down at her outstretched hand.
She remembered what Della had said about Will, that when he put his mind to something he wouldn’t stop until he got it. Will wouldn’t have made it into the SEALs if he was a quitter. It would go against everything inside him to admit he had a problem, that there was something wrong with him he couldn’t fix.
But she needed to show him, to help him understand that this wasn’t something he was going to be able to push through in the two weeks he had left on Heron Island. It was going to take a lot longer than that.
She took his hand, leading him up the stairs to her apartment. Walking with him to Taylor’s room, she paused in the doorway, waiting for him to take in the hideouts, the tent draped over her bed, the homemade wind chimes and dream catchers hanging from the ceiling. Dozens of hand-painted brooms adorned the walls, and several more were propped in the corners.
“Taylor thinks brooms mean safety,” Annie explained. “I don’t know how long it’ll be until she moves on from that. But it if helps her cope, I’ll buy every broom I can find and decorate her room with them.”
Will reached up, running a hand over a crooked-stemmed broom on the wall. It was painted purple and the bristles were covered in pink streamers from the handles of an old bike.
“She’s healing, Will, but it’s going to take a long time. I’ve been reading books and articles, everything I can get my hands on about PTSD. It’s not something that goes away. It’s something you learn to deal with, to live with.” She looked up at him—at this man who’d been to some of the darkest, most dangerous places in this world, but who had been brought to his knees tonight because of a flashback. “All we can do is start in one corner, together, and slowly begin sweeping out the memories.”
PTSD.
Will sat in an Adirondack chair at the end of the dock, mulling over the four letters Annie had dropped like a bomb in his lap last night.
