That’s a different matter, one upon which I don’t like to dwell. Who is in control? Who is the real Hank Reams—me or him?
Tess wears a long white dress today, a sundress like the one she wore sometimes in summer. Her feet are bare, and her hair is loose, strands of sunlight gold. She would have been a beautiful woman. Not as beautiful as you, of course. Different. She stands, disapproving, by the door as I open it for Agent Brower, who is alone today.
“Thank you for seeing me again,” she says. I direct her toward the couch, where she sits perched on the edge. “I feel like I’ve taken up a lot of your time.”
What’s your story, Agent Brower? I find myself wondering. What is it about your life that has you chasing monsters? We all have our reasons. Most of us don’t come to this work without them. It takes drive and ambition to become these things—doctor, law enforcement agent, investigative reporter. There are grueling trials, failures, sacrifices. I wonder what’s driving this young woman.
“This is my job,” I say. “I’m happy to help if I can. No partner today?”
“He’s following up another lead,” she says vaguely.
“I see. Coffee?”
“Please.”
Is there something about her that reminds me of you? Or is it just that you are rarely far from my thoughts. No, I think it’s the practiced facade—as different from you as flame is from jade, silk from metal, sunlight from moonbeams. But that still surface belies a wildness beneath, that’s what you both share.
She follows me down the hallway to the kitchen.
Does Greg know about us, Lara? Your husband. Does he know about our time together? Does he know the side of you that you revealed to me? About our correspondence—albeit a one-sided endeavor? I’ve always wondered about that. How much of yourself you share with him.
You made your choice. And to be truthful, it was the right choice.
Because Greg is the kind of man you marry, right? Handsome, stable. He’s a big guy, well built. He loves you, anyone can see that. He’s attentive to you, to the baby. He carries your bags. He does the grocery shopping—I’m guessing when you can’t get out during the day. But he’s not a big personality, not like your dad. He doesn’t have some huge ego that needs to be stroked and fed. He doesn’t crave the spotlight, doesn’t need to be the most interesting man in the room. He’s perfect for you. Really.
I still wonder. Do you love him as much as he loves you?
If I were your confidant, or your priest, or your shrink, I’d have advised you to marry Greg. Certainly no one with half a brain would recommend that you throw in with the man who shared your dark past, who was still mired in it. Who’d been changed by it. No matter how you felt about him. I’d tell you to marry the man who loved you best. Because marriage is less about that kind of knock-your-socks-off, head-over-heels thing than it is about compatibility, patience, warmth, respect. The hot stuff burns out fast, but the other qualities endure. They deepen. Or so the research suggests. I, obviously, wouldn’t know.
For me, there has never been anyone but you.
That night when we found each other again—we left the bookstore and found a table at the restaurant on Seventeenth Street, some unknown spot with a fireplace—I go back there again and again. The way the candlelight lit your skin, your shining eyes, the silken ink of your long hair. The way you tugged at it. Your pink lips. I loved you when we were children, but that love stayed buried deep. It was alive that night, its heart still beating.
We talked and talked, catching up on years—a lifetime really.
Then you said, your voice hoarse with emotion: “I’m so sorry for that day. If I’d listened to my mother, Tess and I would have gone the long way. Then I sat there, in shock, for so long. If I’d been stronger, I could have fought with you. I could have run for help. But it was hours. I don’t remember anything after he hit me. I’ve carried it with me.”
The man who sat across from you, the student of human psychology, he understood. We always imagine ourselves as heroes. But the truth is that shock and terror are a brain event. The limbic responses of the brain, it’s hardwired, biological, the