by Elle James
“This is Murray Cho’s fault,” she said. “It was his son, Patrick, who’d peeked in the window on the day of your daddy’s funeral.” She’d been terrified to see two men looking in her window, gaping into her private life.
“Our private life. I’m not sure I’ll ever be the same.” She sighed. “Not even when you get here,” she said softly, patting her tummy where she thought his little back was. “It’s their fault I’m scared.”
She turned out the light and lay down, but there was no way she was going to fall asleep. It was just like the night before. Every time she closed her eyes, horrific visions haunted her. With a sigh, she sat up and turned on the lamp.
Opening the bedside table drawer, she picked up the prescription bottle and considered the label. Take one or two for sleep. She could take one. One would be safe. Extra safe, since the doctor had prescribed two.
She swallowed the pill with water. “Okay, let’s try again,” she whispered, then lay down on her side and cradled her pudgy tummy.
“Good night, little bean,” she said as she felt something wet trickle down the side of her face to the pillow. “Why am I crying?” she grumbled out loud. She rarely cried and seldom ever needed help sleeping. But tonight, there was something bothering her and it wasn’t the memory of two men peeking in her window.
She’d insisted on coming back here, had declared to Tristan’s mother that she had to come back to the house where she and Tristan had lived together. She’d told her it was the only way she could heal. She’d meant it then, but now she wasn’t so sure she’d made the best decision. An impossible thought had occurred to her while she’d been on the phone with Maddy. A ridiculous thought. A thought that couldn’t possibly ever be true. But, whether it made sense or not, she couldn’t get it out of her head.
What if it wasn’t the Chos who had spawned this fear and dread that was keeping her from sleeping? What if it was the figure she’d seen at the window later on the night of Tristan’s funeral? The figure that had to be a dream. Or was he? What if he’d been the one who’d taken her laptop computer?
Was it Tristan—or his ghost—that she was really afraid of?
She remembered him standing there just inside the bedroom window, dripping wet, his face pale and haggard. Blood had dribbled down the side of his head, mixing with the water. Sandy shuddered. She never wanted to see that apparition again as long as she lived. She did not believe in voodoo. She did not believe in ghosts or demons or goblins—not on this earth. But she knew she couldn’t live here if Tristan was going to keep showing up, even if he was just a figment of her grief-stricken imagination.
She knew he was only in her imagination, because if he were alive, he would never hurt her by pretending he was dead.
If Tristan were alive, he’d be here with her and their unborn baby.
* * *
TRISTAN UNLOCKED THE French doors of his home with the spare key that had been hidden in a fake flowerpot bottom for as long as he could remember. He shook himself, trying to get rid of the rainwater dripping off him.
Boudreau was right again. He’d been sure Tristan wasn’t strong enough yet. Now, with his leg throbbing with pain and his head fuzzy with fatigue, Tristan had to agree. But he’d had no other choice.
Boudreau had told him about Sandy showing up at his cabin that morning while Tristan was swimming. But Tristan already knew she’d been out walking.
He’d gotten a glimpse of her at the dock from the water. She’d been shading her eyes and craning her neck, so the odds were that she couldn’t see him because of the sun’s glare. The fact that she hadn’t shouted at him or marched back up to Boudreau’s asking about him had been reassuring.
According to Boudreau she’d been agitated and nervous, as if she was afraid of something. And she’d seemed desperate to talk to him. But Boudreau, knowing that Tristan would soon be coming up the same path that Sandy would be walking down, had put her off and sent her home, hopefully in time to prevent them from running into each other.
Tristan made his way across the kitchen floor to the alarm control box behind the hall door, worrying about the squeaking of his sneakers. He disabled the alarm with two seconds to spare. He was way too slow.
He shook his head in disgust. He’d brought his walking stick with him, but he’d abandoned it by the French doors. He didn’t want to use it inside the house and take a chance on dropping it or banging it into something.
He hobbled down the hall to the nursery, where he’d hidden the flash drive in plain sight. He’d thought at the time that he’d chosen an excellent hiding place. He had no idea how well it had worked, although he figured if anyone had found it, Boudreau would know.
So unless Sandy had noticed it, the device was probably still exactly where he’d put it. He’d grab it and go, and Sandy would no longer have anything that anyone wanted.
Of course, he’d have to figure out a way to assure the mysterious head of the terrorist group that had tried to smuggle guns, using his dock, that Sandy had no idea that he had been working undercover, nor was there anything in the house that could incriminate him.
But he would work that out later. Right now he just needed to get the drive and get out of the house without Sandy hearing him.
As he started to open the nursery door, he heard a sound from behind him. He stopped dead still and listened.
Nothing. What had he heard, exactly? He reached for the knob and heard the same sound again. It was soft and low-pitched, and his heart wrenched when he realized what it was.
That was Sandy. He was sure of it. She was talking. It was almost two o’clock in the morning. She should be sound asleep. She was a lark, an early riser. She’d never stayed up past midnight or gotten up later than seven or seven-thirty. Although she was pregnant now, and he remembered his mom telling her that she’d be going to the bathroom almost constantly by the time the baby was born.
That was probably it. She’d gotten up to go to the bathroom. On the other hand, maybe she was talking or moaning in her sleep.
He waited, listening. He was in no hurry. Once she settled down he could sneak out without her ever knowing he’d been there.
He stood there on his left foot, flexing the right, trying to stretch and exercise the muscles that were left beneath the ugly scar where Boudreau had stitched up the gaping wound. Point then flex. Point then flex.
After a few moments without a sound, he turned the knob again. He was just about to push the door open and slip into the nursery when he heard a familiar sound that twisted his aching heart even more. The sound of Sandy’s bare feet on the hardwood floor. Then the knob on the master bedroom door turned. Within the couple of seconds while he wondered if he had time to push the door open, slip through and ease it shut, the master bedroom door opened and his wife stepped through it into the hall.
In the dim glow of a night-light from the kitchen, he saw that she had on pajama pants and a little sleeveless pajama top that stretched over an obvious baby bump. She’d hardly been showing at all the last time he’d seen her.
He stared at her smooth, rounded belly barely covered by her pajama top. He wanted to touch it, to kiss it, to feel the movements of the tiny little child growing inside. He had missed her so much, and here she was, close enough that he could reach out and take her into his arms, and he couldn’t.
If she knew he was alive, she would be furious—more than furious—that he’d let her believe he was dead. She wouldn’t understand the danger. She’d spent her entire life in the belief that just because he was with her, she was safe.
That was the one thing about her that had always awed him.
Sandy had always believed in him.
He just prayed that she loved him enough to forgive him for this unforgivable hurt he’d caused her.
She yawned and pushed her fingers through her hair, leavi
ng it sticking out in tangled waves all over her head. He smiled. He knew her, knew her every move, her every little gesture. She was three-quarters asleep, padding on autopilot to the kitchen in her bare feet. Her habit of getting a drink of water without ever completely waking up might save him if he stood perfectly still. Often, people only noticed things that moved.
He concentrated on keeping his bad leg still. If he tensed it too much, the muscles jerked involuntarily. “It’s okay,” she whispered.
Shock flashed through his body like lightning and instantly the muscles in his right leg cramped. He clenched his jaw. Was she talking to him? He couldn’t move. Didn’t dare.
“Ow. Watch it, bean. I know I woke you up. Just need some ice for my water and maybe a couple of crackers. Kinda nauseated,” she murmured, rubbing the side of her belly. “Then we’ll get back in bed.”
She wasn’t talking to him. She was talking to her baby. To their baby. Tristan’s eyes stung. It hurt his heart to know how much he had missed. He’d been gone too much, working on the oil rig for two weeks or more at a time, and he’d missed most of the pregnancy. And now...now she thought he was dead.
He held his breath as she took her first step up the hall. There was no way she could pass by without seeing him. He debated whether he should speak to her or wait and let her notice him on her own. Which would be less traumatic?
Sandy jerked as the baby’s foot knocked the haze of sleep right out of her head. “Oh, why do you have to kick, bean,” Sandy said, rubbing her belly. “One day your foot’s going to kick right through—”
She gasped and stopped cold. What was that? Her heart suddenly vied with the baby’s foot to see which could burst through her skin first. She pressed her fist to her chest.
Dear God help her. There was someone there. In the dark. Right in front of her. Her first instinct was to turn and run, but she couldn’t move. Her arms and legs were numb with fear.
“Who are you? Wh-what do you want?” she asked, trying to force a cold sternness into her voice, but hearing it quaver.
The dark shadow didn’t move. She took a step backward as the nausea that had woken her hit her again. She felt hot and cold and terrified.
“Get out,” she said hoarsely, then filled her lungs and shrieked, “Get out! Get out now!” She ran out of breath too fast. Her heart was drumming against her chest wall now. Boom-boom run! Boom-boom run! Boom-boom!
“Sandy,” a voice that could not possibly be speaking said.
She recoiled, her back slamming against the wall. Her throat closed up. Her lungs burned with the need for oxygen. Another scream built behind her throat, but when she opened her mouth all that escaped was a quiet squeak.
She pressed her hands flat against the wall behind her, as if she could make it move, and dug her heels into the hardwood floor, trying to get away from the thing that was hovering in front of her. “Oh, please,” she whispered desperately. “Come on, Sandy, wake up. Stupid dream.”
“San, you’re not asleep,” the voice said gently. “Don’t be afraid.”
She tried one more time to get air past her strictured throat into her lungs, but she couldn’t. Her fingers curled at her constricted throat, then stars danced before her eyes and the next thing she knew, she was crumpled on the floor and the wet, haggard ghost from her nightmare was crouching above her, dripping water on her and calling her name.
“I’m asleep,” she muttered. “In bed, asleep.”
“You’re not asleep,” a familiar voice said softly.
“No, no, not again,” she whispered, shaking her head back and forth. Then she felt a wet hand on her cheek and she squealed and propelled herself backward as fast and hard as she could, but she was already up against the wall.
“No!” she cried. “No, no. Get away.”
“Sandy, listen to me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She felt his hand and the soft whisper of his breath against her cheek. Water dripped down his pale, drawn face, just as it had in her dream.
She understood now that on the night of his funeral what she’d seen had been a dream. He’d hovered by the same window where Patrick Cho had peeped in on her. But unlike Patrick, Tristan had been insubstantial, a shimmering awful specter that had dissolved into nothing as she’d watched.
Tonight he was not dissolving. She touched his face. “Tristan?” she whispered. “You’re real.” It wasn’t a question.
The water dripping off his hair and clothes was wet on her skin. The face she was touching was sickly white, yes, but it was warm and fleshy and, most important, it was not fading before her eyes. She grabbed a handful of his hair and squeezed it. Her hand came away soaking wet. She looked at it and laughed, but the laugh turned into a sob.
His brown eyes turned darker. “I’m real,” he said, his mouth stretching into a wry smile as a dampness glistened in his eyes.
She sobbed again and put her hand over her mouth, hoping to stop the hiccuping sobs before they stole what little oxygen she had left in her lungs.
“It’s okay, San. It’s okay.”
“How—” She reached out to touch him, hesitated, then gingerly touched his shoulder. It was firm, strong, alive. Oh, dear God.
She met his gaze and found him watching her intently. He didn’t try to pull her close or hug her, and she was fine with that.
He was here, and his hair was dripping with real water and his face was damp. But there was a part of her that was afraid to trust her own eyes and ears and fingers. She looked at her hand, then back at him.
“San? It’s okay,” he said again. “It’s me.”
The voice. The eyes. “It is you,” she said. “How? Shouldn’t you be dead?”
“Almost was,” he muttered. “How’re you doing? How’s—”
“But where?” she broke in. “Where have you been? Where did you go? It’s been two months!”
“Boudreau found me. He’s been taking care of me.”
“Boudreau? You mean you’ve been right over there all this time?” She dug her heels into the hardwood floor to push away from him.
“We. Buried. You. We had a funeral. We cried. We mourned you. I thought I was going to die because I would never see you again. And you were less than a mile away the whole time?” She pushed at his chest and he almost toppled over. He caught himself with a hand to the floor just in time.
“Sandy, it’s okay.”
“Okay?” She laughed hollowly. “You think so? I wake up in the middle of the night and find my dead husband sneaking into my home and looking cornered when I run into him. What the hell are you doing here?”
Suddenly, the floodgates opened in her mind. Thoughts and questions whirled around in her head so fast that she could barely speak. As soon as she started to demand one answer, another question pushed its way to the forefront, insisting on being asked. A still shot of memory flashed across her inner vision.
The casket at the open door of the DuChaud vault as Father Duffy deliberately turned her away from the sight and asked her a distracting question.
She stared at him in horror, her mouth turning dry with trepidation. “Who was in there?” She pressed a hand to her lips. “Who’s in the vault? Who’s...buried in—” she giggled a bit hysterically “—in Tristan’s tomb?” She hiccuped.
Tristan stared at her for a brief moment. “My...tomb?” he echoed, as if the fact that a casket was placed in the DuChaud family tomb had never occurred to him. “I don’t know,” he said, his eyes burning like dark fire.
Then he sat back, put his hands on the floor and maneuvered his left foot under him. She could barely see his face, which was in profile to her, but his jaw tensed and he bared his teeth as he used just his left foot and his hands to push himself to his feet.
She watched and realized why he’d almost
toppled over when she’d pushed him.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered.
He finally got himself upright. He stood with his head bowed, his breaths sawing loudly in his throat. He flattened a palm against the wall to steady himself. In the dark, his pale face floated above his dark clothes like a disembodied head.
“What happened to you?” She was still sitting with her back to the wall. She pushed herself to her feet, murmuring to her little bean encouragingly as she stood.
“It’s okay, bean. You’re fine. I’m fine.” She looked up, realizing that her fear and panic had drained away and the only thing left inside her was anger, rising to the surface like a bubble in a lake.
“Tristan? Talk to me,” she said through gritted teeth.
He glanced at her sidelong. “Sorry, San. It’s a long story.” He huffed. It could have been a chuckle, except that his expression didn’t change. “A very long story,” he mumbled.
The bubble burst and fury washed over her like a red tide. This was Tristan, standing in front of her. He was real. And he’d been alive. All this time, he’d been alive. “A long story? That’s your answer?”
She realized that the anger felt good. It didn’t weigh on her like grief and sorrow. It invigorated her. She clenched her fingers into fists. Her husband was alive and she was pissed off.
He glanced at her for an instant, then looked away. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. I should have been in and out of here in, like, two minutes.”
“In and out?” she echoed.
He spread his hands. “I don’t know where to start. It’s—”
“A long story. Yeah. I got that,” she said. “Not a problem, sweetheart. I’ve got all night.”
Chapter Four
Ten minutes later, Sandy sat at the kitchen table, clutching a rapidly cooling mug of decaf coffee that her husband, who was supposed to be dead, had made for her.
