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“Scares the fucking shit out of me,” Zane admits quietly. “Thinking the nightmares might be true. That they’re more than dreams, and even worse, that he’s fucking here, that—”
“I know.”
Here, in my hands, might lie proof that his worst fears—and mine, now—are true. That what he went through as a child wasn’t something his mind made up.
“But maybe here is proof that it was just a nightmare,” I mutter. “Wouldn’t you rather know?”
“Fuck.” He licks his lips, swallows hard. “What’s in the damn folder?”
A pack of legal documents and forms, with names and addresses, ordered chronologically.
The foster and group homes Zane passed from until his sister adopted him, and I have to swallow down the bitterness welling in my throat when I think how hard this has to have been for him as a child.
One thing the small pile of documents doesn’t contain is a name that sounds like Tyre or Tyrell.
“Where’s the Wausau address?” I mutter to myself. I turn the pages, scan everything. Some names have addresses attached, but I don’t see the name of the town. “Fuck. Where is it?”
“What?”
I shake the papers at him. “The house in Wausau. No Wausau. There’s nothing about it there.”
His brows draw over his eyes, and spots of color appear on his pale cheeks. “What the hell are you saying, Ash? That I lied to you?”
“No, man. Dammit, no, what I’m saying is, what if you remember wrong? What if it wasn’t there?”
“It was there,” Zane snaps. “I remembered, fuck, I recognized the neighborhood, the tree…”
“But not the house. Was that the house, Z-man?”
He shakes his head, his lips turning white. His hands clench in his lap. “I’m not sure. Fuck, Ash, I’m not sure.”
I drop the folder on the bench beside me and knock my head back on the wall. “Oh man.”
“I’m crazy,” Zane whispers, his eyes kinda wide. “I’ve gone fucking crazy. Tyler was right, I’ve made everything up. And I’m… relieved. I’m done with this shit.”
Can’t disagree with him on this. For him, and for the world. Thank fuck he was wrong.
On the heels of that realization comes another. What he needs is not a police investigation, it’s a psychiatrist. This is strangely anticlimactic, but at least it’s an answer.
I should be content with it. Or at least relieved, like Zane is.
Then why does that bad feeling persist, twisting my stomach into knots?
Chapter Thirteen
Audrey
Scott is asleep, and I turn off the light in his room, then tiptoe to our bedroom next door. Ash is sitting on our bed, bare-chested, his back to the wall, his eyes closed.
I stand in the doorway for a long moment, looking at him, taking in his sculpted torso and arms, his beautiful face, his silky dark hair that’s sticking up in small spikes. The light from the bedside lamp gilts the powerful planes and ridges of his chest, the strong lines of his face.
“Auds,” he says, and I realize then that his eyes aren’t closed, a faint glimmer of pale blue barely visible under his lashes.
“Hey.” I undress quickly, and his gaze never leaves me, a hot laser point moving over my legs, my tummy, my breasts, my arms, my face. “You’re quiet tonight.”
He shrugs his big shoulders, his dragon tattoo rippling with the movement, and I realize I’ve paused, my nightie in one hand, still in my bra, practically drooling over him.
Over my husband.
