He looked into his backseat with a smile. Christy Lewis’s worst fear was safely contained in a metal box with holes poked in the top. One couldn’t be too careful. He himself wasn’t terrified, but he wasn’t foolish either. He’d put the box in the house where it and its occupant could grow warm. The occupant of the box didn’t like the cold, hibernating this time of year. By the time he returned with Christy, the occupant of the box should be quite warm and quite… mobile.

He grabbed the box by its handle, gratified at the soft stirring that came from within. Excellent. Christy’s worst fear was waking. It would be hungry. Of course he’d planned for that. He grabbed a small cage from the floor, ignoring the high-pitched chatter.

He shivered deliciously, anticipating. This would be one to remember for a long time.

Monday, February 22, 2:40 a.m.

Brock dragged his forearm across his brow, clumsily wiping the sweat. “You good?”

Noah leaned against the ropes, panting. He was very nearly hollowed out. They’d set up the boxing ring in Brock’s basement years ago, along with free weights, punching bags, everything they needed for their own gym. Everything Noah needed to battle his way out of the bottle, away from the prying eyes of other cops at the department gym.

Noah had thrown more punches here than he wanted to count. It was a way to get through the gnawing need for a drink before it became a craving. Sometimes he used a punching bag, but when it got really bad, he needed something that punched back.

Brock had absorbed more of Noah’s punches than either of them wanted to count.

Noah exhaled slowly, considering. The gnawing need was still there. It was always there. But the worst of the craving had passed. “I think so.”

“Thank God,” Brock muttered. Spitting out his mouth guard, he straightened his back with a quiet groan and waggled his jaw. “You got me with that last one.”

Normally he and Brock were evenly matched, but tonight the craving had been especially vicious, its claws razor sharp. The dream woke him, left him shuddering in his bed like a frightened child. Then the craving had barreled out of the darkness like a freight train. It had been a long time since he’d come so close to giving in.

“I’m sorry.” Noah pulled at his gloves with his teeth, wincing when he got a good look at his cousin’s face. “I got your eye, too. God, Brock, I’m sorry. Dammit.”

“S’okay.” Brock tried to rip at his own gloves with his teeth, but stopped, grimacing from the pain in his jaw. “I’ve had worse. Not in a while, but I have had worse.”

“Shoulda’ kept your hands up.” Brock’s wife, Trina, rose from the basement stairs where she’d been sitting, hidden from their view. She reached over the ropes to pull off her husband’s gloves. “One of these days, you’re gonna really get creamed.”

Brock frowned down at her. “Don’t I get any sympathy?” he grumbled.

She lifted her chin to meet his eyes, unmoved. “I made you an ice pack.”

Noah almost smiled. Trina was one of his all-time favorite people. They’d gone through the academy together and he’d introduced her to Brock, toasted them at their wedding. He was godfather to two of their sons. A decorated cop, Trina was as close as any sister could ever have been. She knew all his faults and loved him anyway.

Trina turned, assessing Noah with eyes that missed very little. “Not that I mind watching two ripped guys without shirts duking it out in my basement, but what gives?”

Noah rubbed a towel over his face. “Bad dream,” he said shortly.

“Hm,” she said. She pulled a cold bottle of water from each of the deep pockets of her robe, tossing one to Noah. The other she pressed to Brock’s eye, which was already turning purple. “Ice pack for your jaw is upstairs. I put on a pot of coffee. Come.”

They followed her up to the kitchen table where Trina filled their cups and pressed an ice pack to Brock’s jaw. “Must have been one hell of a bad dream,” she said quietly.

“Yeah.” Noah dragged his palms down his face. “I caught a hanger tonight, but it was staged.” He knew he could tell these two anything and it would never leave the room. They were more than family, they were cops. “And it was the second one.”

“Not good,” Trina murmured. “You’re thinking serial?”

“Maybe. Jack and I went back to the station, combing the suicide reports to see if there were any more. Luckily there weren’t.”

Trina sipped at her coffee. “So what did you dream?”

Noah drew a breath. It was still so real. So disturbing. “That I was the hanger.”

“Upsetting,” she said matter-of-factly. “But you’ve had suicide dreams before and you’ve never messed up Brock’s face this bad.”

“It’s not that bad,” Brock mumbled and she patted his hand.

“Not from where I’m sitting, baby,” she said. She turned back to Noah. “So?”

“The victims had their eyes glued open. Grisly.” He shrugged. “In the dream I saw these dark eyes staring up at me.” Dark brown doe eyes, filled with pain.

“The victim’s?” she asked.

Noah shook his head, not wanting to say. “No. Just somebody I know.”

Brock’s eyes grew sharp. “Eve, then.”

Noah looked down at the cup in his hands. “Yeah.”

Trina sighed heavily. “So you did go to Sal’s tonight. You had me confused there for a minute. You normally only come over to punch on Brock on Monday nights.”

Noah barely fought the urge to fidget in his seat. “Well, I won’t be going back.”

“Glad to hear it,” Trina said cautiously. “What about Eve?”

“Not meant to be,” Noah said, ignoring the disappointment. “I’m moving on.”

“Really, now?” she asked, her tone deceptively mild. “Then I have a friend you’d like. She’s Joey’s kindergarten teacher. Really pretty and she likes those dark philosophers you like to read. Y’know, the ones that make you want to drown your head in a bucket.”

Brock looked away, but failed to hide his smirk.

Trina leaned forward, all charm and smiles. “I think I’ll invite her to dinner for you. You can bring a pie or something. How does tomorrow night look?”

Noah hated when Trina read him like a book. “Busy.”

“Tuesday? Wednesday? Busy?” She made a scoffing noise. “You’re a lousy liar.”

He frowned darkly. “I won’t go back to Sal’s. You have my word.”

“Good. But don’t lie to me about Eve. You don’t move on. You linger and wallow.”

“I do not,” he said, offended. “Brock?”

Brock shook his head. “I already got beat up once tonight.”

Trina threw a sympathetic glance at Brock before turning serious eyes on Noah. “You don’t have to go to a bar to see a bartender. She has a life outside of Sal’s.” She brightened, wryly. “I bet she even eats. I know. Why not invite Eve to dinner, instead?”

Noah clenched his teeth. “It isn’t meant to be, Tree. Just leave it. Promise me.”

Trina pushed away from the table, annoyed. “Fine. I promise. Satisfied?”

Not really. Part of him hadn’t wanted her to give up so easily. But Noah stood, kissed her cheek, and said what he needed to. “Yes. Go back to bed. I’m going home.”

“I’ll walk you to the door,” she said and Noah swallowed his sigh. This meant she had more to say. Dutifully Noah followed her to the door where she buttoned his coat as if he was one of her sons. She looked up, troubled. “You know I love you, right?”

“Yes,” he said, without hesitation, and she smiled, but sadly.

“Tonight… you scared me, Noah. If you two hadn’t stopped when you did, I would have stopped you. You were so angry.”

He closed his eyes, shame washing through him. “I know.”

“You will always be welcome here, no matter what time of the day or night. But you can’t go after Brock like that again. He won’t say so because he’s too proud, but you could seriously hurt him. You were rocked tonight by that dream. But there was more to it than that.” She tugged on his coat. “Dammit, you look at me.”