Page 47 of Unhinged

“No, I—” Her voice broke, and he cut her off.

“Doc, look at me.” She reluctantly met his gaze. “It was my fault. Let me take care of it.”

She swallowed hard. “I have a broom and dustpan in the pantry.”

He nodded. “Why don’t you head up to bed? I’ll crash down here on the couch.”

“You’re staying?” Hannah’s voice shook.

“I was planning to. Unless you prefer I leave?” He leaned a hip against the table and studied her.

After a moment, she shook her head. “You can stay if you want.”

He nodded. “I’m going to clean up then check the windows and doors. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

Hannah silently faded from the room, and he pondered her reaction. What had set her off? Even earlier that evening when he hugged her, she seemed perfectly fine. But the moment he had grabbed her wrist, everything had changed. Her anxiety stemmed from more than just a recent scare—it was a deeply ingrained response. She refused to talk about her past, glossing over the details and jerking away from his abrupt touch. What had happened to her?

He made quick work of cleaning up the kitchen then made his way through the house, checking each door and window to make sure they were locked up tight. Satisfied that everything was good, he headed into the living room. Sinking onto the couch, he dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling.

Was he reading her totally wrong? Was she not interested in him or was it something else, something that ran deeper, tied into a past she didn’t want to talk about? He listened to her move around upstairs. The water turned on, presumably for her shower, and he stifled a groan.

Propping his feet on the coffee table, he turned on the TV then flipped through channels until he came to a crime show. The lamp on the end table kicked off at eleven o’clock, triggered by an automatic timer, and he turned off the TV with a sigh then settled in for a night of restless sleep.

Although the couch was large and comfortable, he tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep. Sometime around midnight, he heard a soft creak on the stairs. Seconds later, Hannah’s wraith-like figure appeared in the doorway of the living room. She stood there, shifting from foot to foot for several moments before she finally spoke, her voice soft and timid.

“Luke?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry I freaked out on you earlier.”

He pushed to a sitting position. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Silence descended heavily over the room, and he held his breath, afraid that she would flee to the sanctuary of her room if he made one wrong move.

She hesitated for a moment before drifting toward the couch and propping a hip on the armrest. He turned to face her, examining her silhouette in the darkness, highlighted by the moonlight coming through the window.

“You know Monique Henderson’s killer contacted me from the murder scene?” He nodded at the rhetorical question, and she took a deep breath before continuing. “He didn’t ask for me, exactly.”

He froze. Why would she lie about that? Vantage had been called in specifically because of the murder. They had been under the impression that she was at risk because the killer had contacted her. If she was playing some kind of twisted game…

Anger burned through his gut, but before he could speak, Hannah continued. “I had a bad experience back in high school. I didn’t want to finish out the year up there, and I moved down here my senior year. I just had to get away.”

She stared at the floor, unwilling to look at him, lost in some memory ten years old. “My real name is Carrie Baker. He asked for me—for Carrie. He knows who I am.”

He sucked in a breath as a red haze filled his vision. She should have said something sooner. If he had known some idiot was stalking her, had been after her for God only knew how long, he could have been better prepared. This changed things completely.

“Doc, why the hell—” He abruptly cut off when she flinched. He dragged in a deep breath before continuing, this time more calmly than before. “Do you know who it is?”

She shook her head. “No. The police never found out back then”—she waved her hand as if to emulate the past—“and Detective Sanchez told me earlier they don’t have any suspects yet for Monique’s murder.”

He wanted to push for the truth, demand she tell him every detail of what had happened, but he forced it down. “Doc, look at me.”

Reluctantly, she lifted her gaze to his. Even in the dim light, he could see the haunted look was back in her eyes, and protectiveness welled up. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I will always keep you safe.”

She hesitated for a minute before finally nodding. “Would you mind if I… sat with you for a bit? I can’t sleep.”

“Of course.”