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Something in his expression and tone makes me think he’s talking from experience. I can only imagine some of the shit he’s seen during his time in the military. What I experienced today is most likely nothing compared to what he’s been through.
I settle further into the bed, curling onto my side. “I was talking to reporters about…today. But he was there again.”
“The shooter?”
I nod. “It felt so damn real, Creed. I was convinced it was happening again. That maybe you got wrong information and he didn’t kill himself.”
“Trust me.” He reaches across the bed and grabs my hand in his. “I saw the photos. He’s dead. His brain was splattered all over the window of his car. The car that was registered to him. The car dozens of eye witnesses saw him get into and flee the scene. I promise you, Esme. You’re safe.”
“I know. I just…” I push out a long breath, attempting to make sense of everything. “You know how dreams can be, your subconscious making you second-guess everything.”
He gives me an understanding smile as he squeezes my hand. “I do.”
I still struggle to wrap my mind around the fact that, mere days ago, I did everything I could to keep my distance from him.
Now, I never want him to leave my side. Want him as close as possible. Need him near just so I can feel safe again.
He clears his throat. “In your dream, did he…?”
I nod. “And you tackled me out of the way again. But when I hit the ground, the reporters and photographers were gone. I was somewhere else.”
“Where?”
I worry my bottom lip, then say, “I was in the car. With Adam.”
“Oh.” He pulls his hand from mine as he looks into the distance, brow furrowed in concentration. “What happened?” His voice is hesitant, muscles taut.
I sit up and take a sip of water from the bottle on my nightstand before facing him. “I was trapped in the back seat. Heard the liquid as it hit the roof of the car. And then…” I pause, trying to steady my trembling voice. “Then I looked out the window and he was there.”
“Adam?”
I shake my head. “The man with the gun. Charles Thacker. But he wasn’t holding a gun anymore. He was holding a match. I was fighting to get out of the car but couldn’t. That’s when I heard your voice.”
“It’s okay.” Creed grabs my hand and runs his thumb over my knuckles. “I know it can feel real when you’re in it, it was just a dream. Charles Thacker wasn’t responsible for that fire. Hayes Barlow was.”
I’m about to raise the same concerns I’ve been having lately, but hesitate.
What am I supposed to tell him? That, despite the mountains of physical evidence tying Hayes Barlow to the attack that took Adam’s life, I’m starting to question whether it was him simply because of some crazy dream I had?
Because of a feeling in my gut?
I doubt that would withstand muster in a court of law. But the compelling physical evidence uncovered in Hayes Barlow’s possession all those years ago certainly would.
Why can’t I be satisfied with that?
Why am I questioning everything now?
“You’re right,” I finally say. “It was just a dream.”
He studies me for a beat, obviously sensing I’m not being entirely forthcoming. But instead of pressing the issue, he stands. “You should try to get some sleep.”
My heart drops at the idea of being alone. Of him being in another room if the nightmare finds me again. Of him not getting to me in time.
I know it’s just a dream. That it’s not real.
But during those terrifying minutes, itwasreal. I don’t want to go through that alone. Not right now. Not when I’m feeling more vulnerable than I have in years.
Not when I can’t shake the feeling there’s more to my dreams than Creed wants me to believe.
