Page 12 of Protected from Torment

Yes, she committed a crime.

But she was sick. Grieving.

Grief makes people do crazy things. I know that from experience.

And besides, would a bad person risk her life to help others?

Would she have revealed her identity instead of keeping it a secret?

Then there’s that feeling in my gut. The one that tells me she’s a good person. One that made mistakes, but…

“We all make mistakes,” I tell her. I don’t let her hand go. “And when we’re in a dark place, sometimes it’s hard to know right from wrong. But that doesn’t make you a bad person.”

“No?” Melissa’s chin takes on a defiant jut. “So you’ve held a gun on an innocent person? Threatened to kill them?”

“No, I haven’t. But I’ve done some pretty stupid things myself.” Without thinking, I thread my fingers between hers. “My wife died. Four years ago. After that, I did some pretty stupid things. Things I regret. So, I understand. Better than most.”

Melissa puts her other hand to her mouth. Tears fill her eyes. “Oh, Tyler. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It was after I left the Army,” I reply. “So you wouldn’t have. And I’m not saying it for sympathy. I’m saying it so you know I get it. How fucking horrible grief can be.”

She squeezes my hand. “Yeah. It really can be.”

“But that doesn’t mean our mistakes are unforgivable. And it doesn’t make us bad. It just makes us human.”

“I guess so.” A tear trickles down her cheek. “I’m so sorry, Tyler. I really am.”

A lump swells in my throat. But this time, it’s not for my loss. It’s for hers. “I’m sorry, too, Mel.”

Her features jolt. “Mel?”

My face warms. “I don’t know. It just came out.”

After a brief pause, she says, “I like it. Much quicker than the mouthful my name usually is.”

“Melissa?”

“Yeah.”

“Melissa’s a pretty name.” I swallow back the cheesy follow-up, which I might have tried back in my twenties. But she is pretty.

No. Not just pretty. Beautiful. And knowing what she went through—losing her husband and fighting to put her life back together again—it makes me like her even more.

The stubbornly-single part of my brain chooses this moment to interject. How do you know she’s not crazy? it asks. Or violent? Three years isn’t that long. Just because she seems okay doesn’t mean she really is.

I don’t know how I know. I just do.

And that’s why I give Melissa’s hand another squeeze. With a small smile, I say, “So. I’d love to hear more about Oscar. I don’t have a dog myself, but now that I’m settled in one place, I’ve thought about getting one.”

Surprise flickers in her eyes. “You want to hear about Oscar?”

“Absolutely. If you don’t mind telling me.”

A cautious smile curves her lips. Her expression brightens. “Oscar’s just the best dog. He’s so sweet, but funny, too. He does these silly things like plugging in when he wants attention.”

Without thinking, I stroke the back of her hand with my thumb. “Plugging in?”

“Yeah. He sticks his head between my legs when he wants to be petted.” A beat later, Melissa stops. Her cheeks turn red. “Oh, my gosh. That sounds a lot worse than I meant it. When I’m standing, he’ll put his head between my thighs⁠—”