He cups my cheek. “No, Abigail. I’m not angry with you.” His tone gentles slightly. “I need you to tell me what happened that made you sick.”
I blink. “I… I don’t know. I guess I was more stressed out by my family than I realized.” My cheeks flush with shame. “That’s so stupid of me. I’m sorry.”
“No more apologies,” he says curtly. “You are not stupid.”
He studies my face intently, analyzing each of my features as though he’s searching for something.
“What happened when your uncle put his arm around you?”
I flinch.
His thumb hooks beneath my jaw, gently holding my face so that I’m trapped in his tender hand.
“I understand if you don’t want to remember,” he says quietly.
The flashes from the gallery flicker over my mind again, and I shudder in pure revulsion.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I just felt…trapped.”
“By your uncle?” That rough, gravelly tone again.
I look up at him, beseeching. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“Don’t you?” Dane prompts, gentler this time.
My heart gives a painful twist, as though it might tear asunder.
“Your nightmares,” he says. “You said there was a man who scared you. And there was a frightened child: you.”
“What are you saying?” I ask raggedly, even though I already know.
But I don’t want the knowledge. I want to forget.
Just like I’ve managed to forget for all these years.
But now, the memories are bubbling just beneath the surface of my conscious thoughts, threatening to spill over and taint the happy new life I’m building with Dane.
“You had a flashback,” he tells me. “Has that ever happened before?”
“No!” Alarm bursts through me. I don’t want this to be real.
Because if it is, all the horrors of my adult life are starting to make some sort of terrible sense. I can’t face it.
I thread my fingers through my hair, tugging at the delicate strands as though I can tear the memories from my brain.
Dane’s long fingers encircle my wrists and direct my hands away from my head before I can hurt myself.
“No.” This time, my refusal is a low groan.
His face is drawn in lines of anguish, as though my pain is his own. I can’t bear the sight of his suffering. My determination to spare him pain gives me the strength I need to draw in a ragged breath.
“Why do you think…” I swallow against another surge of nausea. “Have you always suspected?”
I can’t bring myself to put the crime against me into words. If I say it aloud, I’ll never be able to take it back. It’ll be irrevocably true, and I’m not ready to face that.
He shakes his head. “Only since you described your nightmare. But from what you told me about your debutante date and how you reacted to Ron’s assault, I drew a likely conclusion based on your freeze response. I just didn’t know who it was.”
His eyes glint with a lethal light, but I’m too bogged down in my trauma to think about my uncle’s potential murder.
