Free Along Came a Spider by Kate Serine

proclaim his tentative optimism about his relationship with his wife. I’d never in my life wished more vehemently that I could unknow what I’d seen in a dying person’s thoughts than I did at that moment.
“I’m sure they were,” I managed to force out.
He cocked his head to one side. “Did you see her thoughts that night?” he asked. “Did you—what do you call it in your reports?—read her that night?”
I felt my skin prickle with panic at being put on the spot. “Of course,” I told him. “I read the dead at every crime scene.”
“What was she thinking?” he asked. “You never put anything about her thoughts in your report from that night.”
God, this was my worst-case scenario. Part of me wanted to tell him what I’d seen, what I’d discovered, but part of me didn’t feel that dropping that bombshell was really my place. “She knew you loved her,” I said, forcing a sympathetic smile. It was about all I could manage.
He nodded, then leaned his head against the back of the couch and closed his eyes. He sat there for so long I thought he’d fallen asleep. My own eyelids were finally beginning to grow heavy again when he suddenly said, “Thanks, Trish. For everything you did to help Juliet. To help me.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” I told him sincerely. “Juliet died when her head hit the floor. You know that, right? She didn’t suffer at all.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I know. But . . .” He heaved a heavy sigh and his voice was strained with emotion when he continued. “I should’ve done more. I wasn’t quick enough. I wasn’t strong enough. I couldn’t protect Jules. I couldn’t protect Red. Hell, I couldn’t even protect myself. It was just sheer dumb luck that Sebille didn’t kill me, too.”
I shook my head. “No, Nicky—”
“That’s what keeps me up at night,” he interrupted. “Hating myself for my helplessness. Sometimes the dreams are just replaying what happened, reminding me how I totally fucked up. Other times they’re worse—Sebille tearing out my guts and eating them over me while I scream, or tearing Jules apart before my eyes and devouring her heart. Sometimes it’s Red that bitch is ripping open. And lately—” Here he paused and turned his head back to me, his eyes tortured. There was something there on the tip of his booze-loosened tongue, something more he wanted to say, but even in his inebriation he couldn’t bring himself to put it into words. He opened his mouth to speak again, but then his jaw snapped shut and he turned away, adding only, “Anyway, no matter who’s in the dream, I can’t do shit.”
There wasn’t anything I could say to help him. I knew that from experience. There were times when no words could negate the feelings of helplessness, complete lack of control over one’s own fate—or the fate of others. I felt it every single time I looked into the eyes of the dead and dying, witnessing their fear and pain and knowing there wasn’t a damn thing I could do. But I knew what had helped Nicky the night he’d been slipping away with his guts held in only by his dead wife’s cashmere shawl.
Without a word, I slid across the space between us. He didn’t even seem to notice I was beside him until I pried the bottle of Scotch from his fingers and leaned forward to set it down on the coffee table. His eyes followed my movements, and as I came back toward him, he took my hand and pulled me onto his lap, wrapping his arms loosely around my waist.
I swallowed hard, trying to keep my heart from racing. It meant nothing, I knew. He merely needed a warm body to hold, another person to share in his sorrow. And I was there. That was all it was. I knew that. And yet sitting there on his lap with his arms around me, looking into his eyes, I felt that little tug in the center of my chest and thought—just for a split second—that Nicky felt it, too.
“You know,” he said, his tone a little dazed as if surprised to find me on his lap,