51
She had been watching television the night it happened. Not for entertainment, but for the live news coverage of a hostage standoff at the sheriff’s office. Dennis Farman’s father had a gun to the head of Cal Dixon. Vince was trying to talk him down. The situation that had begun with violence had ended in violence.
At the time that news had come, Anne had no way of knowing if Vince had survived. She had busied herself opening a small gift Tommy Crane had given to her earlier that night—a necklace. A necklace that could only have come from a murder victim.
And then Peter Crane was there, at her home, seeming fine, polite, apologetic. So sorry. A misunderstanding. He needed that necklace back. There had been a mistake. It belonged to his wife.
Anne had told him that was no problem. She understood completely. She just had to go into the kitchen to get it—a lie—thinking she would go straight out the back door and run for her life.
She never made it to the door. Peter Crane had her by the hair—
Gasping for air, her heart pounding out of her chest, Anne sat bolt upright in bed. For a moment she didn’t know where she was and panic grabbed her by the throat. She was soaking wet with sweat.
There was a light on in the far corner of the room. Just a soft amber glow to chase away the dark and the bogeymen that came with it.
She was in her own home. She was safe. This was the guest room she had chosen for Haley. She was safe. Haley was safe, sound asleep.
What she wanted was to have her husband’s arms around her, so strong, so warm, and to have his voice whispering those words to her as he held her and rocked her. But Vince had gone back to the sheriff’s office for a meeting with the detectives. She hadn’t even gotten to feed him. He had ordered pizza for the guys.
She looked at the clock on the nightstand. It wasn’t quite ten thirty. Not late. Vince would be home soon—if he wasn’t already. He never disturbed her if she was already sleeping when he came home—specifically so as not to frighten her.
Even though Vince hadn’t been there, Anne and Haley had the cozy evening she had thought of earlier in the day. After bath time, with Haley in her Rainbow Brite pajamas, they had snuggled together under the covers of Haley’s bed and listened to the rain while Anne read to her.
After Haley was asleep, Anne had done some reading of her own, searching her psychology books for anything she could find on children as witnesses to violent crime—she found nothing—and children and traumatic memories—she found practically nothing. She had finally turned out her reading light and fallen asleep with the books spread around her on her side of the double bed.
She got up now, plucking at her sweat-damp T-shirt. The rush of adrenaline had ebbed, leaving her with the familiar and hated feeling of weakness. Leaving the bedroom door open, she went across the hall to change.
Vince was on their bed in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, propped up reading. He looked up from his book, his glasses perched on his nose. The television was mumbling to itself in the armoire that housed it.
Anne went into her closet and put on a fresh FBI T-shirt, then went to the bed and crawled up beside him, tucking her head into his shoulder and wrapping an arm across his broad chest.
“Hey, precious,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head.
He set his book aside and wrapped his arms around her. Anne knew he could feel the residual tremors going through her as the adrenaline ebbed out of her system.
“Did you have a bad dream?” he asked quietly.
Anne nodded. “I’m okay. I’m okay now.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
Tears stung her eyes. “I hate it.”
“I know, baby.”
“It never goes away.”
He didn’t tell her that it would eventually, because he knew it wouldn’t, and she knew it wouldn’t. The best she could hope for was that the incidents would lessen over time. She wanted to wish her nightmares on Peter Crane, locked in a cell in the county jail. The irony was that her nightmares would be his wet dreams.
Vince stroked her back and kissed her forehead.
“What are you reading about?” Anne asked.
“Dissociation disorder. What were you reading about?” he asked. “I stuck my head in and saw you were asleep. Must not have been a thriller.”
“Children as victims and witnesses.”
“We’re some exciting couple,” he joked.
Anne found a smile. “Earlier I was reading about a princess who wanted to become a fairy.”
“Oh, I’ve read that one. A real page-turner,” he said. “How was your evening?”
“Good. We missed you.”
“Mmmmm ... good ... How’s Haley?”
“She asked when is her mommy coming.”
“What did you tell her?”
“The same thing I told her before—that her mommy was hurt very badly and can’t come for her,” Anne said. “I want to spare her that awful truth, but at the same time I hate that I’m lying to her. She’s going to continue to have this building expectation and excitement that Mommy is coming back. I feel almost cruel.”
“That’s a tough call,” Vince said. “You’re the expert on kids, not me, but I don’t think kids appreciate being lied to any more than we do.”
Anne looked up at him. “What about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny?”
“That’s different. By the time they’re old enough to figure that out, they get it. You can’t wait until the age of reason to tell Haley her mother is dead.”
“I know. And I know that at Haley’s age, death is a pretty abstract concept. She isn’t liable to understand that death is final. It usually takes time for it to sink in and become real for the little ones. I suppose you could say the news is less traumatic for them in an immediate way. That’s a blessing. But she’s been through so much trauma already ...”
“Has she talked at all about what happened?”
“Has she named the killer?” Anne said. “No. Maybe she’ll get really lucky and never remember any of it.”
No sooner had she said it, a piercing scream came from the room across the hall.
Anne bolted.
Haley was sitting up in bed, screaming like she had been the first time Anne had seen her in the hospital. Caught in the grip of a private terror, unable to break free of it or even see past it.
“Haley!” Anne said, sitting on the bed, gently taking hold of the little girl by her fragile shoulders. “Haley, it’s me, Anne. You’re okay, sweetheart. You’re safe.”
“Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” Haley called, then again came the blood-curdling screams.
“Haley, you’re safe, honey,” Anne said and called herself a liar. She knew there was no such thing as being safe from the nightmares. Those would come again and again.
She drew the child to her and held her close. She felt the bed dip beneath Vince’s weight as he sat down behind her. He wrapped them both in his arms and held them, his head bent, his cheek pressed to Anne’s.
Gradually, Haley’s screams gave way to sobs, and gradually the sobs gave way to sniffles and hiccups. Vince went into the bathroom and returned with a damp washcloth to wipe away tears—both Haley’s and Anne’s.
“I was scared!” Haley cried.
