Chapter 13: Nighttime Terrors
The numbers on the microwave glowed 2:17 AM. Teresa stared at them from her sofa, the same spot she’d been in for hours. Every time she closed her eyes, the world tilted. She saw the glint of the pistol in her hand, felt the jarring impact against bone, heard the wet thud of a body hitting pine needles. Then she’d see Cassadee’s frail smile in the hospital bed. The two images played on a loop, one triggering the other, a nauseating pendulum between violence and relief.
Sleep was a taunt. Her cottage was too quiet, the normal sounds—the hum of the fridge, a distant siren—amplified into threats. The four walls felt like they were pressing in, but the thought of going outside, of being in the dark alone, was worse.
She scrolled through her phone. A few texts from colleagues checking in, one from Cassadee’s brother saying she’d had a good night. Nothing from Callum. She hadn’t expected there to be.
Without letting herself think, she stood up, pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt over her sleep tank, shoved her feet into sneakers. She grabbed her keys and her pepper spray, a habitual gesture that now felt laughably inadequate.
She drove through the sleeping city, the streets glossy from a recent rain. She only realized where she was going when she turned onto his street, a tree-lined avenue of older brick apartment buildings. She’d memorized the address from the case file weeks ago, a reflexive act of her investigation. She parked a block down, her heart hammering a rhythm that had nothing to do with exertion.
What was she doing? This was insane. He’d told her to let it go. He was working. He’d be asleep.
She walked to the building anyway, her sneakers silent on the wet sidewalk. His unit was on the first floor, around the back. A single light was on, a soft yellow glow from a window partly obscured by a half-closed blind. An office light, maybe. Or a nightlight.
She stood there for a full minute, the damp chill seeping through her sweatshirt. Then she knocked, three firm raps. The sound was obscenely loud in the silent night.
She heard movement inside, a floorboard creak. The peephole darkened. A long pause.
The door opened.
Callum stood there, dressed in gray sweatpants and a worn black t-shirt, his hair genuinely messed from sleep. He looked older in the dim light from behind him, the lines around his eyes deeper. He wasn't holding a weapon, but his posture was alert, ready to shift from sleep to action in a blink. He blinked at her, processing.
"Teresa?"
"I can't sleep," she said. The words came out raw, stripped of any pretense. She wasn't here with a clue or a theory. She was just stating a fact.
He didn't ask why she was there, or how she knew where he lived. He just looked at her, at the tension in her shoulders, at the shadows under her bright blue eyes that the streetlight couldn't hide. His own face softened, the detective’s mask dissolving into something more simply human. He saw the same hollowed-out exhaustion he felt.
He reached out, not for a handshake, but to curl his fingers gently around her wrist. His grip was warm, grounding. He pulled her inside.
He closed the door behind her, the lock clicking with a solid, final sound. The apartment was warm and smelled of clean laundry and stale coffee. It was spare, almost austere. A sofa, a bookshelf stacked with law enforcement journals and a few crime novels, a small dining table that served as a desk, covered in files and a laptop. No pictures on the walls. It was a place for existing, not living.
"Okay," he said, his voice a low rumble, rough with sleep. He was still holding her wrist, his thumb resting on her pulse point.
"I tried," she said, the floodgates cracking open now that she was in the light and the warmth. "I lay down and all I could see was… the gun. The way it felt. And then I’d see her, and I’d feel guilty for thinking about the gun instead of just being glad she’s safe. It’s all just… stuck in my head on replay."
He nodded slowly, his green eyes holding hers. "The sound. I told you."
"You did." A shaky breath escaped her. "I didn’t believe it would be like this. The after."
"The after is always worse than the during," he murmured. "During, you have a goal. After, you just have the memory. And the quiet."
He finally let go of her wrist, but only to move past her into the small kitchenette. He filled a kettle from the sink, set it on the stove. The mundane action was anchoring. "Tea? Not coffee. You don't need more caffeine."
"Tea is good."
She hovered in the space between the door and the living area, feeling suddenly intrusive. "I shouldn't have come. You were sleeping."
"I wasn't," he said, leaning against the counter as the kettle began to hum. "I was reading the preliminary forensics from the Whaler. Fiber matches. Trying to see if he used it for anyone else." He ran a hand through his hair. "Sleep isn't really cooperating with me tonight either."
The confession made her feel less alone. She drifted further in, stopping by his desk. A case file was open. She saw Thorne’s mugshot, the date from five years ago. Next to it, a DMV photo of a smiling young woman with dark hair. Anya. The name hung in the air between them, unspoken.
The kettle whistled. He poured steaming water into two mugs, dropped in tea bags. He brought them over, handing her one. Their fingers brushed.
"Come sit," he said, nodding toward the sofa. "Before you fall over."
She did, sinking into the cushions. The tea was chamomile, faintly floral. She cradled the heat. He sat down not at the other end, but closer, angling his body toward her, one arm stretched along the back of the couch.
"Talk or not talk?" he asked.
"Not talk, I think," she said. "Talking just makes me circle back to it."
He nodded again. So they sat in silence, drinking their tea. The only sounds were the faint hiss of steam from their mugs, the hum of his laptop fan, the occasional car passing outside. It wasn't the tense silence from the car rides during the investigation. It was a shared, exhausted quiet. A mutual ceasefire.
When her mug was half empty, the shaking that had been a constant tremor in her hands since the dock finally, completely stopped. She let out a breath she felt like she’d been holding for days.
"Better?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"A little."
He took her empty mug from her, set it with his on the floor. "Lie down."
"What?"
"Here. Just for a minute. You’re swaying." He didn't make it a question. He guided her with a hand on her shoulder, a firm but gentle pressure. She let herself be moved, stretching out on the sofa, her head coming to rest on a throw pillow that smelled like him—soap and that faint, clean scent of his skin.
He stood up. For a second she thought he was going to his room, to leave her there. Instead, he clicked off the main light, leaving only the dim glow from the kitchen and the streetlight filtering through the blinds. The room softened into shadows. He came back, sitting on the floor beside the sofa, his back against it, his shoulder near her head.
He didn't touch her. He just sat there, a solid, warm presence in the dark.
"Close your eyes," he said. "Don't try to sleep. Just let the room be dark."
She did. The replay didn't start immediately. Instead, she was hyper-aware of him beside her: the sound of his breathing, the texture of his t-shirt against the couch fabric, the heat radiating from his body. It was a different focus, a tangible anchor in the present.
"My sister’s boyfriend’s older sister," he said quietly, after a long while. "That’s how I categorized Cassadee. For the file. To make it seem less personal."
"But it was personal."
"From the second I saw her name. Because of Anya. This time… this time I couldn't get it wrong." He paused. "You weren't part of the protocol. You were a variable. A major pain in my ass. And you’re probably the reason we got him alive, and she’s alive."
She opened her eyes, looking at the profile of his face in the near-dark. "I wasn't trying to be a hero. I was just trying to get my friend back."
"I know. That’s what made it work." He tilted his head back until it rested against the cushion, close to hers. "Now close your eyes again."
She did. This time, the quiet felt deeper. The images in her mind began to blur at the edges, losing their sharp, terrifying clarity. The weight of her own body on the couch felt heavy, real. The scent of chamomile and him filled her senses.
She didn't remember drifting off. One moment she was listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, the next, she was swimming up from a deep, dreamless void.
The light in the room had changed. It was the soft gray of pre-dawn. She was still on the couch, but a blanket had been draped over her. Callum was no longer on the floor.
She heard the soft click of a keyboard. He was at his desk, silhouetted against the glowing screen, already dressed in a fresh t-shirt and jeans. The detective was back, working while the city slept.
She watched him for a minute, the focused set of his shoulders, the way he occasionally dragged a hand through his hair. She felt a profound sense of safety, a quiet that was no longer terrifying. It was borrowed, maybe. Temporary. But it was real.
She stirred, sitting up. The blanket slid to her waist.
He turned. "Hey. You got a couple hours."
"I did." Her voice was thick with sleep. "You didn't."
"I caught a few on the floor before I got up." He gave her a faint, tired smile. "More than I usually get."
She stood, folding the blanket neatly. The world outside the windows was beginning to define itself—black shapes of rooftops against a lighter sky. The crisis of the night had passed. The day’s questions were waiting.
"I should go. Let you work."
He stood up too, circling the desk. He stopped in front of her, searching her face. The professional distance was gone again, leaving something more complicated. "You’ll be okay today?"
"I’ll see Cassadee. I’ll try to eat. I might even open my laptop and look at some essays about the American Dream." She managed a small smile. "One step at a time, right?"
"Right." He reached out, his hand coming up to cradle the side of her face. His palm was warm, his touch deliberate but not demanding. His thumb stroked her cheekbone once, a slow, gentle pass. It was an intimacy that had nothing to do with the night's fear and everything to do with its aftermath.
He didn't kiss her. He just held her gaze, his green eyes serious in the dim light. "If it gets stuck again. The replay. You know where I am."
The permission, the simple offer, was more profound than any grand gesture. She leaned into his hand for a second, then nodded.
He walked her to the door, unlocked it. The cool morning air rushed in.
"Callum," she said, turning on the threshold. "The drive. The trophies. You’ll look for it?"
His expression tightened, the weight of the job settling back onto his shoulders. "It's all I'm going to look for today. Go home, Teresa."
She stepped out into the dawn. The door closed behind her, but the memory of the quiet, the tea, the weight of the blanket, and the anchor of his hand on her face stayed with her, a small, solid warmth against the coming day.