Free Bone Cold by Debra Webb

hide it. For now, there was no way to know what happened.
    As she and Tom exited the hospital silence hung between them. She climbed into the passenger side of his SUV. Like hers, Tom’s vehicle had that lived in look. She imagined he spent as much time away from home as she did.
    Why go home when there was nothing there to go home to?
    “Why don’t I take you to dinner?” he offered. “We both have to eat.”
    Since she hadn’t eaten since grabbing a cup of yogurt on her way out the door this morning she could definitely eat. The trouble was she knew where spending time with him would lead. The same place it always took them—a screaming match.
    “That’s probably not a good idea. We should keep this about the case.”
    He hesitated before starting the engine. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Sarah. When will you see that?”
    Agony lashed through her. “Just take me to my car, Tom.”
    He pounded the steering wheel with his fist, startling her. “When will you stop blaming yourself? It’s been five years!” He glared at her. “Our daughter is gone, but it’s not your fault.”
    “I’ll get a cab.”
    He grabbed her arm when she would have reached for the door. “I would have done the same thing if I’d been in your position. We both know it wasn’t your fault.”
    His words were like scalding water pouring over her body. Emotion blurred her vision, had her heart swelling in her throat. “If I’d gone home on time, Sophie would have been with me. It
was
my fault.” She shrugged off his touch.
    “We, better than anyone, know how evil works. How the hell can you blame yourself for what some sick bastard did?”
    “How the hell can you not hate me for not being home on time?” She shook with the agony charging through her now. “I waited and waited for you to show me what you really felt and you just kept holding it back. Instead, we walked around pretending. But I knew.” She pounded her chest. “
I knew
! You hated me for what happened. Why can’t you say it? Dammit! Just say it!”
    He faced forward again. “I don’t hate you, Sarah. I’ve never hated you. I hate the son of a bitch who did this to our family.”
    Sarah closed her eyes and fought to hold back the tears. He could pretend all he wanted to, but she knew the truth. Whether he ever said the words out loud or not, she knew he hated her.
    She couldn’t blame him.
    She hated herself.
     
    105 7th Street, Washington, D.C., 10:30 p.m.
    Sarah stood in the entry hall of her home. She’d been standing here for twenty minutes or so. Her purse had slid down her shoulder and collapsed to the floor. She’d told herself repeatedly to move and somehow she couldn’t.
    This had been her home her entire life. As an only child she’d inherited the townhome when her father died while she was in college. Her mother had died when she was seven. Later, when she and Tom had gotten engaged, then married, they had decided to keep this place instead of selling and buying something new. The townhouse was huge, plenty large enough for raising a family. There was even a postage stamp sized backyard.
    She could sell it now. Downsize and stash a nice chunk in savings. Homes in this area went for top dollar. The townhouse would easily go for a million and a half. She wouldn’t have to walk past Sophie’s bedroom anymore. She wouldn’t have to block the memories of making love with Tom in her own bedroom.
    There were advantages to starting fresh with a clean slate.
    Except this was Sophie’s home. If she was still alive, she might come back here one day. It happened. Abducted children, if they escaped or survived to adulthood, sometimes sought out their real parents once more—unless they’d been totally brainwashed into believing they were someone else.
    Sophie
could
come back.
    That was the sole reason Sarah endured the haunting memories. She had learned to walk through the house without seeing or hearing or feeling anything.
    Spending the better