Page 24 of The Chain House

His vision swirled, his brain felt loose inside his skull, afloat on violent ocean waves with no shore in sight. He sat up against the headboard, closed his eyes again. Opened them. His underwear was cold and wet and clinging to his skin. He wore nothing else beneath the coiled bed sheets. He typically slept in pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, and he knew what Lizzie Hall smelled like because … because she’d stopped by last night. He’d smelled her perfume when he’d closed the door behind her, just before he’d asked her if she liked wine … and the last thing he remembered was …

Jesus, he thought, his fingers massaging his temples, remembering he’d opened a third bottle of merlot at some point.

He’d been in his recliner. She’d been sitting on the couch cattycorner to him, and at one animated moment when she’d leaned forward laughing to touch his arm, their knees had touched, and they’d locked eyes, and it had gotten momentarily quiet and awkward.

And that’s when she started crying.

And she apologized profusely for doing that in front of him because they barely knew each other and then damn if he didn’t recall maybe crying too, because she wasn’t the only one with baggage. She wasn’t the only victim of horrible abuse.

Damn, he thought now … had he really said that to her?

He had.

Because sometimes victims have to get practically murdered before anything is ever done about it.

Had he said that? No, that had been her, and he’d agreed so wholeheartedly they’d locked eyes again. The understood sympathy was there between them, hard and true, but the empathy … that had linked hitch and trailer and from there their conversation … had gotten deep.

Cathartic, he remembered thinking at one point and recalled cloudily now.

He’d passed out at some point.

He’d blacked out.

It was something that had never happened to him before, at least not with alcohol. With a punch to the head, yes, multiple times in his younger years, which made him wonder if that had made him more susceptible to blacking out last night, not only the overindulgence with the wine but with the painful conversation itself.

But how did I end up undressed in bed?

Trevor swung his feet from the sheets and touched his toes on the hardwood floor; he wasn’t tall enough for his full foot to touch. He looked at his underwear, the clear wet stain on the crotch. He’d had a wet dream, the first since God only knew when, and it shamed him. He was a fifty-year-old man who had, long ago, after Annie’s death, mentally and emotionally turned off those nether region waterworks. At least he thought he had. But it made him feel dirty. Made him feel like a teenager again, which was a time in his life to which he never wanted to return, because no years had been worse. The cold sensation reminded him of the years he’d wet the bed, and the cruel ridicule his brother gave him for doing so at that age.

Shame.

Ashamed.

You’re a disgraceful little pussy, Tommy, the voice screamed at him from the past. Who does that, Tommy? Huh? What twelve-year-old pisses himself like a little baby?

Trevor stepped out of his underwear and grabbed a clean pair from his top drawer, thinking, If only Sam knew about me. The real me. What would Sam think if he knew that Trevor wasn’t even my real name? And neither was Harper.

Although both had been necessary to save lives.

You aren’t a coward, Trevor. Lizzie had said that last night.

Christ, what had he told her?

Every movement brought with it pangs of nausea, and even though he was on the verge of throwing up, he managed to get on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and only then did he notice the note on his bedside table, the edge of it tucked under the lamp stand.

The bottom of it signed simply, Talk soon, Lizzie.

His first thought was, What did I do? So she had been in the bedroom at some point. But had she come in here for certain reasons that had led to his dream? Had the dream really been a memory? Or had he been so drunk …

Jake, Trevor thought suddenly of Lizzie’s husband, he’s gonna kill me. He’ll find out his wife was over here, and he’ll tear me limb from limb.

Not if you kill him first, Trevor.

Across the room, next to the windowsill, leaned his Louisville Slugger baseball bat. That was his weapon of choice in case of a home invasion. He might be pint sized, but at one time, in another life, he’d had a solid swing at the plate. He remembered his father telling him that much, right before he’d thrown the next baseball right at his head.

But he could use that on Jake Hall, if it came to it. He had a history of having to defend himself from bullies.

He pulled the note out from beneath the lamp and read it.