“I’ll lose it later, when I’m alone with my wife.”
“Please say as little as possible.”
“But I trust her.”
Carly stepped close. “I’m not referring to your spouse. I wouldn’t tell anyone else and I would advise her to do the same. Whoever murdered Rose might have moved far away or could still be living in Richmond, if they’re even alive. The press would love to get their hands on a forty-year-old cold case. You’d be hounded, your mom, too.”
“I understand.”
“If your mom mentions anything to you about Rose, please call or text me right away.”
“Where will you start?”
“By finding Rose’s lover.”
CARLY WOKE TO garbled shouting coming from somewhere in the boat.
“Hey, heyyyy. No!”
She shot out of bed, grabbed her weapon from the night table drawer, and hurried out.
“No! Don’t!” Ash’s shouts sent fear pounding through her.
She bolted into his stateroom to find him thrashing and muttering on the bed. She shoved her gun into his night table drawer.
“Hey, Ash.” She kept her voice soft.
He stopped flailing. “I can do it,” he said, his tone adamant.
No response. She sat beside him. “Ashton.” She touched his leg. He jerked awake, his eyes unseeing. “It’s me, Carly.” She caressed his arm. He was shaking, his breathing jagged.
She held his hand. “You were having a nightmare. It seemed pretty intense.”
He leaned up on his elbows, perspiration covering his face. “I’m sorry you heard that.”
She brought him a glass of water. When he sat up, his chest was drenched in sweat, the sheets soaked.
After he guzzled the drink, she retrieved her weapon. “Come on. You can’t sleep here.” Together, they went into her stateroom where she dried him with her towel. The dips and striations of his muscles were sublime, his physical form perfection to touch. But now, all she cared about was comforting him.
He climbed into bed. Grateful he didn’t argue, she slid in beside him. He laid his head on her chest while she caressed his hair and stroked his back. His breathing calmed down. A few moments later, he stopped shaking.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“Why didn’t you tell me you suffer from PTSD?”
He moved onto his pillow, stared into her eyes. “I’ve been having this nightmare for years.”
“What’s it about?” she asked, propping onto her elbow.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” He rolled onto his back, stared at the ceiling. Not wanting to push the subject, she rested her head on his chest and stayed quiet.
He wrapped his arms around her. “It’s always the same dream,” he said, after a moment of silence. “I’m trying to save my mom.”
Her heart broke. He strummed his fingers up and down her back, warming her through her T-shirt. “I see.”
“She’s being held captive, but I find her. Sometimes I can get her out, but most times they kill her and I can’t stop them.”
A lump formed in her throat. “Have you told anyone?”
