as she could, but she was already up against the wall.
“No!” she cried. “No, no. Get away.”
“Sandy, listen to me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She felt his hand and the soft whisper of his breath against her cheek. Water dripped down his pale, drawn face, just as it had in her dream.
She understood now that on the night of his funeral what she’d seen had been a dream. He’d hovered by the same window where Patrick Cho had peeped in on her. But unlike Patrick, Tristan had been insubstantial, a shimmering awful specter that had dissolved into nothing as she’d watched.
Tonight he was not dissolving. She touched his face. “Tristan?” she whispered. “You’re real.” It wasn’t a question.
The water dripping off his hair and clothes was wet on her skin. The face she was touching was sickly white, yes, but it was warm and fleshy and, most important, it was not fading before her eyes. She grabbed a handful of his hair and squeezed it. Her hand came away soaking wet. She looked at it and laughed, but the laugh turned into a sob.
His brown eyes turned darker. “I’m real,” he said, his mouth stretching into a wry smile as a dampness glistened in his eyes.
She sobbed again and put her hand over her mouth, hoping to stop the hiccuping sobs before they stole what little oxygen she had left in her lungs.
“It’s okay, San. It’s okay.”
“How—” She reached out to touch him, hesitated, then gingerly touched his shoulder. It was firm, strong, alive. Oh, dear God.
She met his gaze and found him watching her intently. He didn’t try to pull her close or hug her, and she was fine with that.
He was here, and his hair was dripping with real water and his face was damp. But there was a part of her that was afraid to trust her own eyes and ears and fingers. She looked at her hand, then back at him.
“San? It’s okay,” he said again. “It’s me.”
The voice. The eyes. “It is you,” she said. “How? Shouldn’t you be dead?”
“Almost was,” he muttered. “How’re you doing? How’s—”
“But where?” she broke in. “Where have you been? Where did you go? It’s been two months!”
“Boudreau found me. He’s been taking care of me.”
“Boudreau? You mean you’ve been right over there all this time?” She dug her heels into the hardwood floor to push away from him.
“We. Buried. You. We had a funeral. We cried. We mourned you. I thought I was going to die because I would never see you again. And you were less than a mile away the whole time?” She pushed at his chest and he almost toppled over. He caught himself with a hand to the floor just in time.
“Sandy, it’s okay.”
“Okay?” She laughed hollowly. “You think so? I wake up in the middle of the night and find my dead husband sneaking into my home and looking cornered when I run into him. What the hell are you doing here?”
Suddenly, the floodgates opened in her mind. Thoughts and questions whirled around in her head so fast that she could barely speak. As soon as she started to demand one answer, another question pushed its way to the forefront, insisting on being asked. A still shot of memory flashed across her inner vision.
The casket at the open door of the DuChaud vault as Father Duffy deliberately turned her away from the sight and asked her a distracting question.
She stared at him in horror, her mouth turning dry with trepidation. “Who was in there?” She pressed a hand to her lips. “Who’s in the vault? Who’s...buried in—” she giggled a bit hysterically “—in Tristan’s tomb?” She hiccuped.
Tristan stared at her for a brief moment. “My...tomb?” he echoed, as if the fact that a casket was placed in the DuChaud family tomb had never occurred to him. “I don’t know,” he said, his eyes burning like dark fire.
Then he sat back, put his hands on the floor and maneuvered his left foot under him. She could barely see his face, which was in profile to her, but his jaw tensed and he bared his teeth as he used just his left foot and his hands to push himself to his feet.
She watched and realized why he’d almost toppled over when she’d pushed him.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered.
He finally got himself upright. He stood with his head bowed, his breaths sawing loudly in his throat. He flattened a palm against the wall to steady himself. In the dark, his pale face floated above his dark clothes like a disembodied head.
“What happened to you?” She was still sitting with her back to the wall. She pushed herself to her feet, murmuring to her little bean encouragingly as she stood.
“It’s okay, bean. You’re fine. I’m fine.” She looked up, realizing that her fear and panic had drained away and the only thing left inside her was anger, rising to the surface like a bubble in a lake.
“Tristan? Talk to me,” she said through gritted teeth.
He glanced at her sidelong. “Sorry, San. It’s a long story.” He huffed. It could have been a chuckle, except that his expression didn’t change. “A very long story,” he mumbled.
The bubble burst and fury washed over her like a red tide. This was Tristan, standing in front of her. He was real. And he’d been alive. All this time, he’d been alive. “A long story? That’s your answer?”
She realized that the anger felt good. It didn’t weigh on her like grief and sorrow. It invigorated her. She clenched her fingers into fists. Her husband was alive and she was pissed off.
He glanced at her for an instant, then looked away. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. I should have been in and out of here in, like, two minutes.”
“In and out?” she echoed.
He spread his hands. “I don’t know where to start. It’s—”
“A long story. Yeah. I got that,” she said. “Not a problem, sweetheart. I’ve got all night.”
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