Zane woke from the nightmare, heart pounding, sweat covering his entire body despite the cool air coming through the screened windows of his bedroom.
He’d dreamed about the night Caroline had been attacked by Paul Trumpold a year and a half ago. It had been a while since he’d dreamed about it. Although it was no surprise that he’d had it again after what had happened in the parking lot of the Silver Eagle two nights ago.
He probably would’ve had the dream last night if he’d slept a wink.
The dream—really more of a memory—always started the same way: Zane sitting at his desk at the CCPD headquarters, even though it was late at night, doing some work, avoiding doing what he really wanted to do, which was accept Caroline’s invitation to go over to her house when he got off work. He hadn’t wanted to give her the upper hand in their relationship. Wanted to keep her a little off balance like she so often kept him. Wanted to let her know, for once, what it felt like to wonder what would happen next. She did it to him without even thinking. He wanted her to know—wanted himself to know—that he could do it to her.
It all seemed so ridiculous now.
The uniformed cop—a young kid, Zane couldn’t even remember his name—who’d wanted to give Zane a heads-up before he got the official call had run up to Zane’s desk, knowing Zane was lead detective in the case. The cop had been out of breath when he told Zane the serial rapist had struck again.
Zane always remembered that moment in his dream and in his life. Because that had been the last time he’d ever been okay. The last time his world had been whole.
He’d been pissed that the rapist had struck again before they could catch him, but his world had still had a foundation.
He could never stop the next moment in his dream any more than he could in real life: when the cop gave him the address of the rapist’s latest victim.
Caroline’s address.
He’d written down the first two numbers as the cop had said it out loud before he’d realized where it was, then had dropped everything and run as fast as he could to his car, driving way past the limitations of safety to get to Caroline’s house.
Praying the entire time that there had been some mistake. That the address was wrong. That the kid cop, in all his excitement to be helpful, had gotten the numbers wrong or something.
The numbers hadn’t been wrong.
The ambulance at Caroline’s house had thrown him. He’d seen an ambulance there before, one Caroline had driven. Hell, she’d even driven an ambulance to his house to meet him for a quickie once.
But she hadn’t driven this one. This time the ambulance had been for her.
The dream sometimes changed from there. He always had to cross her yard to get to the door of her house. Sometimes as he ran across the yard in his dream the ground swallowed him like quicksand, slowing him from reaching the door. Sometimes there were thousands of people all over the yard and he couldn’t get through no matter how hard he tried.
Sometimes he ran as fast as he could, but the door kept getting farther and farther away.
But no matter what happened, the rapist—Dr. Trumpold—always just stood there laughing at Zane. And when Zane would finally fight his way to the door, the man would turn and whisper, “You know why she opened the door for me? Because she thought it was you knocking. Thanks for the help.” Then he would disappear.
And in his place would be Caroline. Lying on the floor of her own foyer, beaten until she was unconscious. Clothes ripped off her small body. Being treated by her own EMT colleagues, handling her with care even though she was long past feeling any pain at that point.
Zane had just stared, watching his entire world lying broken at his feet. He hadn’t been able to move, hadn’t been able to say a thing, even if there had been something that could’ve been said or done.
In real life Zane had ridden in the ambulance with Caroline, had stayed by her side in the hospital until she’d finally woken up forty-eight hours later and helped them catch the rapist.
But in his dream he was always stuck there in the doorway of her house, looking down at Caroline’s broken, battered body. Knowing she would never be okay again, that they would never be okay again.
And in the worst of the nightmares she would open her eyes from where she lay on the floor—although he knew that would’ve been impossible, since the blows from the rapist had caused both her eyes to be swollen completely shut—and echo her rapist’s earlier comment, in an oddly conversational voice.
Where were you, Zane? I thought it was you knocking at the door.
And he would never have an answer.
He got out of bed now, knowing he wouldn’t get any more sleep. Hell, he’d be lucky if he got any sleep any night this week after what had happened in the parking lot of the Silver Eagle.
He’d flown at least one flight each of the last fifteen days straight, so he should be glad he had nothing scheduled for today, but now he wished he could get back up in the air. After the nightmare, today wasn’t a good day to be grounded. Zane wanted to be up in his Cessna.
Flying had been the only thing that had come even a little close to filling the hole in his life since he left the department. Like Captain Harris suggested, flying wasn’t enough to completely eliminate the void, but it at least did something.
Zane wished he had another organ donor trip. That had been exciting. The deadline, the pressure, knowing someone was counting on you to get the job done.
That had been what his life had been like every day when he’d been a detective on the force.
Life when he’d had Caroline in it.
That wasn’t any easier to think about than not being on the force any longer. Especially after what had happened in the Silver Eagle parking lot.
What in heaven’s name had come over him? How could he have possibly treated Caroline like that?
They’d been fighting just like old times. Yelling at each other.
Then she’d poked him in the chest with that tiny finger of hers, just like she had so many times in the past. And in the past it had almost always ended with them on top of each other.
He had moved out of muscle memory more than anything else. Covered her finger with his hand like he had so many times before, moving in for a kiss.
Basic instinct, a primal need for Caroline, had taken over from there. He’d been so caught up in the kiss, knew she had been too. Had felt her hands in his hair, felt her legs pull him closer when he’d set her up on the hood of her truck. It had been so long; they’d been desperate for each other.
But then she’d told him to stop and his first instinct, the only one he’d been able to hear at all, had been to keep kissing her. Keep kissing that throat. That neck. Those lips.
Then when she should’ve slapped him, she’d simply tugged at his hair and told him to stop again.
And finally reason had returned.
He scrubbed a hand over his face now, despair tugging at him. He’d been holding her in place, unwilling to let her go.
Caroline, a rape victim.
He had to give her credit; she hadn’t seemed panicked. She hadn’t cried or punched him or run screaming back into the Silver Eagle. When he’d jumped back, she’d started to say something to him.
He could think of a number of things she’d had a right to say to him. And none of them were pretty. So when Wade had yelled whatever he had to say—Zane totally hadn’t been listening—he’d gotten away from Caroline.
Because once again, as had been true for the past eighteen