Page 11 of Protected from Torment

“Former teammate, really. From the Army.”

Her brow furrows. “You were Army?”

The way she says it makes me think she knows people who served. “Yeah.” I don’t usually tell people what I actually did, but there’s something about Melissa that has me saying, “I was a Green Beret, actually.”

Melissa gives me a long look. “I thought you looked familiar. Were you based at Fort Campbell?”

“I was.” Now I’m confused. “How did you know?”

Her teeth dig into her lower lip. “Because I used to live off-base there.” Gaze dipping to her plate, she adds, “I didn’t go to many events on base. But…” When she looks back up at me, resignation shadows her gaze. “I think I must have seen you there.”

That would explain why I thought Melissa looked familiar, too. “Did you serve?”

She shakes her head. The light in her eyes is gone. “No.” A long pause, and then, “My husband did. Well, he’s gone now. But he did.”

Now it’s my turn to stare at her.

And in a flash of recognition, I realize who she is.

Melissa Silver.

Married to Vince Silver, a Night Stalker who was indeed based out of Fort Campbell.

Vince Silver, who died six years ago in a tragic helicopter crash, along with five other men.

“I don’t talk about it,” Melissa says softly. Sadly. “Not to people I’ve only just met. But as soon as I realized… it didn’t seem right to hide it. Especially after you saved my life.”

“Why would you hide it?” I ask. “Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t know Vince well, but he seemed like a good guy.”

“He was.” Her teeth dig even deeper. It looks painful, and my hand twitches to release her poor lip. “But… you know Enzo. He’s your old teammate, right?”

“He is,” I affirm. “But why⁠—”

In a flash, the second part of the story hits me.

The part of the story that happened after Vince died.

Grief-stricken and suffering from extreme PTSD, Melissa snapped while at an annual fundraiser held in Vince’s name. She’d been drinking—which probably explains the water she’s having now—and she went after Vince’s former teammate, Gage, who survived the helo crash while her husband was killed.

“So you know,” Melissa says. “I won’t deny what I did. Or make excuses. It was a horrible thing. And—” She starts to push her chair away from the table. “I can just leave. It’s okay.”

My hand instinctively reaches across the table to grasp hers. “You don’t have to leave.”

Her hand is cold and stiff in mine. “It’s stupid, really. I thought I could escape it all for a night. Be someone else. But as soon as I realized, I knew I had to tell you. It wouldn’t be right, keeping it a secret like that.”

I can see the pain in her eyes. The guilt. The regret. The fear of being judged, which I’m guessing she’s dealt with in the three years since it happened.

But I can’t judge her.

Not when I know the pain she suffered.

Not when I’ve made my own mistakes.

“There’s nothing to hide,” I tell her. “Knowing doesn’t change how I think about you.”

Melissa blinks in surprise. “How can it not? I tried—” She stops before adding in a near-whisper, “I shot a man, Tyler. That’s horrible. I hate myself for it. I’ve done community service, been to treatment, counseling, I have Oscar—-he’s a therapy dog, not just a regular one—but it doesn’t fix what I did. Nothing can.”

Before answering, I just study her, thinking.