Rebecca’s skin went clammy beneath her business suit, and she gripped the podium harder, her knuckles bulging and bloodless. Not him. He wasn’t here. He was dead.
Coward. Coward. Coward, the boy mouthed, the taunt loud in her ears.
Not! Real! She silently screamed the words in her head and blinked rapidly, her vision going liquid. Finally, the tormenting face morphed into one she didn’t recognize. One with a different haircut and heavier brows. One with bored eyes instead of accusing ones. Just a teenager attending an event with his parents.
Her ribs loosened a little, allowing her to catch a breath.
“Sorry.” She grabbed a glass of water to sip and then picked up her notecards again. Her hands shook. “My notes were a little out of order. Who knew lawyers could ever be at a loss for words?”
A few polite laughs filtered through the audience, and she tried to focus on what was on the cards in front of her.
“Thank you for the kind welcome.” She took another breath in an attempt to force the ugly images from her head and chase the tremble out of her voice.
She could do this.
“In May 2005, I walked into my prom expecting to have a fun night with my date. I had no idea it was the night that would change my entire life…and take so many others.”
That was all it took. Any attempt at regaining her composure slipped through her fingers. Pictures pushed at her brain like an angry crowd trying to get in the door, invading and stealing her words. Yearbook images of her classmates, the ones they always used on TV after the shooting, flashed at a rapid pace. Frozen smiling faces of people who would never grow old. Then the sounds joined in. Gunshots. Screaming. Looping scenes of people bleeding on the floor, people who were too still. Trevor’s face above her, the chilling sneer, the death sentence in his eyes. Joseph and his gun.
She swayed on her feet, her fingers glued to the podium and her skin rapidly cycling from hot to cold. She closed her eyes, lost for a moment, dizzy, the sounds of the past blending with the present. “I’m sorry, I…”
But right before her knees gave out, a warm hand cupped her elbow with a firm grip, steadying her. Quiet words murmured against her ear. “Easy, lawyer girl. I’ve got you.”
Her brain spun at the familiar voice, trying to put pieces together and not finding any that fit. Was she dreaming? She leaned into the voice as if it were a lifeline that would pull her out of the abyss of memories or nightmares or whatever the hell this was. “Wes?”
“Yes. It’s me. Let’s get you off this stage and to a chair.” He put his arm around her and she opened her eyes, catching a view of Wes in all black, a stiff chef’s hat on his head. He leaned close to the microphone while keeping hold of her. “I’m sorry, folks. Ms. Lindt is recovering from the flu and isn’t feeling well this morning. Please enjoy your breakfast. The next speaker will be out shortly.”
The crowd rumbled with restless noises—low voices, scraping chairs, clinking silverware—but Rebecca was still fighting the fog in her head and the fact that Wes was somehow here and leading her offstage.
He guided her down a few steps at the side of the stage, and she managed to look over at him, finding his pretty hazel eyes heavy with concern. “What are you doing here?”
“Making omelets for a catering gig.”
She frowned, the words not making any sense. “Did I pass out? Am I dreaming?”
He smirked. “So I show up in your dreams? Good to know. But this can’t be a dream. Look, I’m fully clothed.”
His teasing pushed through the haze in her brain like a strong beam of light, clearing her head a little. “I think I forgot to eat.”
“On it. I will feed you whatever you want. Just don’t faint on me, okay?”
“Okay.” She leaned in to him, letting him take some of her weight as the tremors that had been going through her body softened. He brought her into a hallway that seemed to lead to the kitchen, based on the passing waitstaff, and barked for someone to grab him a chair, a cold towel, and some orange juice.
A waiter hurried to bring a chair over, and Wes eased her down into it. Her thoughts were coming back online, but her stomach rolled and her heart felt like it’d permanently wedged itself in her throat. When another of the waitstaff brought what Wes had requested, he handed Rebecca a glass of juice and draped the cool rag around her neck. He crouched down in front of her, tugging off his chef’s hat and putting his hand on her good knee. “Drink, Bec. Your blood sugar might be low. You’re white as a sheet.”
She took a sip of the juice, the tart liquid cool on her dry throat, and tried to wash away the remnants of the anxiety attack. “I’m always white as a sheet. It’s called being a redhead.”
He smiled and reached out to tuck a damp lock of her hair behind her ear. “And she jokes. Does that mean you’re not going to pass out on me?”
“I think—”
“What in God’s name?” a booming voice said, echoing off the walls in the narrow space.
Rebecca winced, and Wesley’s hand dropped away from her face.
“Excuse me, get away from my daughter,” her father said as he strode down the hallway.