moving the ice cubes around and around.
“I’ll get you another drink.”
He didn’t argue.
“I was born in Arkansas,” she said as she came back into the room and handed him the full glass. She took her bottle of water to the other end of the sofa. Opened it. Played with the lid. “I was third youngest of four kids.”
“You have siblings?”
She couldn’t blame him for sounding so shocked. Yet the reaction cut her to the core.
And that was why she was speaking up. People couldn’t know what she didn’t tell them.
“A brother and two sisters.”
He threw up a hand. “Why haven’t I ever met them? You know all my brothers and sisters. Hell, you know their kids better than I do.”
She’d spent a lot of holidays with his family.
And she’d hurt him. She hadn’t expected that.
They’re dead, Joe. The words said themselves in her head.
“You’re welcome to meet my family right now if you’d like to take a five-minute drive with me to the cemetery.”
“They’re dead?”
She tried to nod. Meant to nod. She stared at him. Not even blinking.
“All of them?”
Now she blinked, opened her mouth, but it was trembling too badly to wrap around words.
His face stiffened, and paled. “How?”
“A fire. The electrical system in our house shorted.”
JOE’S SKIN WAS CLAMMY. Chilled. He needed to walk. Do something. But he couldn’t move.
Surely the horror he was beginning to picture wasn’t as bad as he was seeing it. Elise was his friend—probably the best friend he’d ever had. She was strong and steady. Nothing bad ever happened to her.
How could he have been so blind? So damned self-interested that he hadn’t known she was hiding?
“They didn’t have time to get out?” he asked now, aghast at the thought of her siblings trapped in a burning home.
“It was the middle of the night.”
The story she’d had to tell him was simple enough. But it contained images he was never going to forget. His beautiful, self-sufficient partner sitting on her sofa, hunched over, consumed by inner visions. And a fear so real she was shaking with it.
“What about your parents?”
“Them, too.”
She’d lost her entire family in one tragic night. He couldn’t even fathom such a thing. Not when his siblings, his parents, were still very much alive and in his life, an intrinsic part of who he was.
He stared at his friend, seeing someone completely different, someone his heart bled for. Someone he was in awe of.
“How old were you?”
She didn’t seem to see him. “Eleven.”
A child. An innocent. Six years before he met her. Six years of growing up…where? With whom?
“Where were you at the time?” How had she been told? Did she see the house?
“There. I was there.”
Joe fought the images. He thought about holding her until it all went away.
And then the end of the story became terrifyingly clear. She’d referred to herself as the award-winning work of a talented craftsman. She wasn’t who he saw.
“You were burned.”
She cringed, hugged her knees. And nodded.
He watched. Waited for her to look up at him. Could he pull her into his arms and make it better? Should he touch her?
Elise’s eyes, when she finally raised her head, revealed the child she’d been. She seemed unsure of his reaction—as though she’d been expecting a negative one.
He swallowed. Fought the urge to run his fingers over her face, through her hair, to kiss away the tears glistening in her lashes. To take her into his lap and rock her.
“How badly?”
“Forty percent.”
Of her body? Trying to imagine the reality made him sick to his stomach. The pain would have been excruciating. Enough to send an adult over the edge, let alone an eleven-year-old child.
“Hair ignites quickly,” she said now, her voice more that of a young girl than the indomitable woman he’d known. “It’s highly flammable.”
Joe had nothing to say. His eyes stung. He took her hand.
“Mine was long.”
ELISE HAD NO IDEA HOW much time had passed. Caught in a warp between past and present, long-ago pain and current fear, she pushed words past the constriction in her throat as best she could. Spoke, for the first time to a nonmedical person, about the night a large part of her died, leaving behind the intelligent automaton who assessed life, made wise decisions, lived up to societal expectations, was kind to others—and had no sense of personal identity whatsoever.
Holding Joe’s hand—another first—she answered his questions as best as she could, telling him about the years of reconstructive surgeries.
“Dr. Fuller was an angel sent from God,” she told him. “I met him at the burn unit when I was first brought in, although I don’t remember that.” She smiled, despite the tears in her eyes. “From what I’ve been told, he took one look at me, heard that my family had all died in the fire, and declared himself my provider and protector. He worked with Social Services and I was placed in the home of his parents’ dearest friends—when I wasn’t in the hospital. I was the culmination of his life’s work, and he performed operations that normally cost exorbitant amounts, at the fee covered by my insurance.”
Elise, withstanding Joe’s perusal with difficulty, could feel her skin tightening where she still had surface sensation. Even after all those years in and out of hospitals, she’d never gotten used to the stares—and the accompanying horror on the faces of the strangers who’d seen her.
“It’s amazing there aren’t any scars.”
“There are.” She closed her eyes, reached with her free hand to trace her hair line. “Here—” her finger moved down the outside of her jawbone to beneath her chin “—to here.”
There were other scars he couldn’t see. That no one saw. Both inside and out. But she was lucky. Thanks to Thomas Fuller, the only external signs left from that hateful night were skillfully hidden, mere thin, silky lines.
“And
