She forced herself to open her eyes and look around the living room, noticing the small comforts of their temporary home. A throw blanket was folded neatly over the arm of the couch, and Andy’s backpacksat on the dining table. The faint scent of lemon cleaner lingering in the air—she’d scrubbed the kitchen and bathrooms twice already this morning, needing something to do with her hands. Normal things. She was safe, but her mind and body didn’t believe it yet.
A shiver ran through her body, and she pulled the blanket over her to ward off the sudden chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. She stretched out on the couch, the cushions dipping under her weight. The fabric brushed against her bandaged wrists, and she froze—just for a split second—before reminding herself it wasn’t restraints. Just cotton gauze.
Her gaze drifted to the back door. Locked. Deadbolt thrown. She’d checked it. Twice. She’d checked the rarely-used front door too. And the windows.
She almost got up to check again.
Instead, she drew in a slow breath, filling her lungs the way the nurse at the hospital had taught her last night. She’d completely unraveled—hyperventilating when the shock circled back and hit her all over again while Brian had stepped out to use the men’s room.
In for four. Hold. Out for six.
She winced. Every muscle in her body ached, and even though they weren’t broken, her ribs protested when she drew too deep a breath or turned too fast—a temporary souvenir of her abduction.
Her eyes stung unexpectedly.
She’d never been afraid of the dark. Nor afraid of silence. She worked around death every single day, soeven the sight of blood, internal organs, and brain matter didn’t bother her.
But now?—
Now every unexpected sound made her flinch. Every passing car outside slowed her pulse for a fraction of a second too long. Every creak of the house settling felt like a warning.
She adjusted a throw pillow under her head and stared at the ceiling, trying to get her mind to settle while debating whether to clean the kitchen for a third time.
Dr. Hansen had insisted she take the rest of the week off when she’d called him from the hospital the night before, and she hadn’t even tried to argue. The steady authority in his voice had made it clear it wasn’t a suggestion.
She’d waited in a private ER room for nearly two hours, wrapped in a thin hospital blanket that did nothing to stop the tremors that kept sneaking up on her. Uniformed officers had come first. Then, more plainclothes agents. An SBI supervisor whose name she’d already forgotten had introduced himself, his tone careful but direct.
Statements had been taken.
Forms signed.
Questions asked and answered.
Then asked again.
Every time she described what had happened, it felt less real and more horrifying all at once—as if shewere recounting someone else’s nightmare while still trapped inside it.
Brian had stayed the entire time after getting permission from his supervisor to have his debriefing this morning. He’d pulled a chair close to her bed and never once looked impatient or distracted. When her voice shook, he squeezed her hand. When she lost her place mid-sentence, he quietly filled in the gaps without speaking over her.
Meanwhile, Sean, Rafe, and the SRT team had handled the remaining arrests, given their own statements to their respective supervisors, and waded through what was undoubtedly a mountain of paperwork. Sean and Rafe had checked in with Brian several times while she was in the ER, asking how she was holding up. She’d caught pieces of those conversations and felt a surprising wave of gratitude. It made her feel like she was part of the family Brian had mentioned before—part of that thin blue line of law enforcement. Even if she stood on the outer edge of it, she wasn’t outside looking in.
She’d been in the ER for about half an hour before Andy had arrived with Dan and Bonnie.
She could still see her brother’s face when he first walked into her room. White. Tearful. Shattered.
“It’s my fault,” he’d kept saying. “I shouldn’t have— I didn’t think?—”
She’d grabbed his hand despite the IV in her arm. “Stop. I’m okay.”
But he hadn’t believed it.
And this morning, he still didn’t, if his avoiding her, downcast gaze, and slumped shoulders were any indication.
With her mind ping-ponging from one horrible memory to the next, unbidden and relentless, she glanced at the clock on the mantel.
Ugh.
What had felt like three hours had only been three minutes since she’d last checked the time.
