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I just hoped she wasn’t right about the mysterious man from out of town.
CHAPTER 2
GRAHAM
I sat bolt upright in
bed, sweat pouring down my face.
Another fucking nightmare.
It was the same dreadful day that replayed like a broken record. Like a curse.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and looked at the clock on the bedside table.
Four in the damn morning.
I got up and walked to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face and looked at myself in the mirror. The bags under my eyes made me look much older than my thirty-eight years. I rose to my full height of six three and studied my reflection. My dark brown hair was tousled from sleep, and my deep blue eyes were haunted.
All I made time for these mornings was my therapy of hitting the weights hard to take out my frustrations. My efforts resulted in well-muscled arms and a sculpted chest that narrowed to a V at my waist. I scrubbed a hand over my beard and sighed deeply.
It was the third time I had the nightmare in one week. Over the past year-and-a-half, the nightmare played out in my dreams and woke me from a dead sleep.
Knowing I wouldn’t be able to go back to bed, I climbed in the shower to wash the sweat and the haunted memories from my body and mind. The soap and water cascaded down my broad chest and thick thighs, and I scrubbed myself as if I could physically remove the memories.
It never worked.
Nothing worked.
I didn’t want it to work.
I coveted the pain.
The torment.
Pain was my way of seeking redemption. Redemption that I knew would never come.
I was living in my own personal hell, in the third town I’d moved to since that horrible night. I had to leave the place I’d once called home. It reeked of too many memories.
Too much guilt.
Too much innocence lost.
I walked to my kitchen to brew coffee, needing to kill time before Daniel would be awake in a few hours. He’d be up by five am his time. The Agency engrained that in him, just like it had in me.
Now, I was up before sunrise every damn day, but not because I had someplace to be. My mind was overwhelmed with memories that haunted me.
My little boy, Kason, had been sick that morning. He’d woken with a fever and his eyes crusted shut. I was pretty certain that he’d had pink eye, and my wife, Cary, had wanted to take him to the doctor to get checked out.
If I closed my eyes, I could still see the look of concern on her beautiful face. I could see the worry in her liquid brown eyes. I’d held her close to me and tried to tell her that everything would be fine.
Oh, how wrong I’d been. That was the last time I held her.
I remember sitting on the edge of my boy’s bed for a few moments, smoothing the dark blonde hair away from his flushed face. I bent down and kissed him before going to jump in the shower for work.
Little did I know when I left the house that morning, that it would be the last time I’d ever see them alive. If I’d only taken the day off to go to the doctor with them. If I’d only done any number of things differently that day, they’d still be alive.
I felt my heart begin to race, and I paced back and forth in my kitchen. I huffed a deep agonizing breath out into the air. It was happening again. A panic attack.
