Slowly, she turned from the window and down the hallway. She was halfway to the bathroom when her legs gave out and she lowered herself to the floor and buried her face in her hands.

Sadness and fear. Dear God, Deidre was dead. Stabbed.

She groped at the scarf now constricting her neck and jerked it free. She unzipped her jogging jacket so that she could draw in a deep breath.

Leah traced the scar slashed across her palm. It had been a defensive wound, just as Alex had said.

She never remembered grabbing the knife. Even now, the attack only came to her in flashes. A knife slashing, whooshing through the air. The prick of a blade against her throat. The softness of Philip’s final words. I’m sorry.

What really lingered with her were the emotions of that night. Bone-crushing fear. Pain. Weakness.

She dug her fingers in her hair, limp and stringy from running, crying, and vomiting. She wanted to sleep. Needed to sleep.

Leah rose from the floor and with shaky legs made her way to the bedroom, where the rumpled comforter of her unmade bed waited. She crawled between the cool sheets and curled on her side, pulling the blankets over her head. Was she ever going to feel safe?

She closed her eyes, wanting only to sleep for a few hours to escape the horror of what she’d seen today. Breathe in. Breathe out. She reached for the bottle of sleeping pills she hadn’t used in months. Taking one now felt akin to failure. She shouldn’t need it. But she did. Cutting one in half, she popped it in her mouth. Eventually, her heartbeat slowed, and sleep grabbed hold of her.

She wasn’t sure how long she drifted just above the waves of deep sleep. It felt good to drift. Weightless. Light. Not afraid, if only just for a moment.

The whispered song tugged on her and brought her deeper to a sleeping no-man’s-land where she couldn’t separate reality from the past and the unreal.

The gentlest touch of a finger skimmed across her brow. So soft most would have ignored it. But not her.

Even with her system on overload, alarm bells sounded a warning in her head. The only person who had ever sung to her had been Philip.

A rush of adrenaline surged through her body. Her eyes popped open, and for a moment her eyes couldn’t focus. Groggy, she blinked against the day’s dimming light and focused her gaze. Silence. Her eyes adjusted as her heart pounded against her ribs and she restrained her panic. She glanced at the clock on the nightstand: 5:21.

“Damn.” She moved to the bathroom, where she stripped off her clothes. She turned on the shower and brushed her teeth as she waited for the spray to heat up before she stepped in and allowed the warmth to wash over her very chilled bones.

Tipping her head back, she allowed the water to slush over her naked breasts, which still bore the scars of the attack. She traced the thin pinkish scar that slid across the top of her left breast. The doctors had said the scars on her chest would be the worst. Thin tissue had been the reason.

“Philip is dead,” she muttered. “He can’t hurt you.”

Shutting off the water, she grabbed a towel. She dried her hair, arms, legs. She swiped the fogged mirror clean and did what she rarely did anymore . . . she stared at the scars, tracking each of the twenty-three with her fingertip. No longer pink and raised, they had whitened over time and faded. Just like her memories should have done, but would not.

Finally, she slipped on a robe before padding into her room. The blinds were closed, just as she always left them. Some sunny days tempted her to let in the bright sunshine, but she never dared, remembering how Philip used to sit outside her apartment and watch her.

Hair dripping, she moved to the small desk in the corner of her room and pulled out a calendar. The days had all been marked off except for today, so she took her red pen and put an X through it. They signified all the days since Philip had died: 1,430 days.

Leah dressed and carefully applied a silicone-based concealer that filled in the indented slash across her cheek. It was a five-minute process that had been a part of her regimen for almost four years. Once the filler had set, she applied a base makeup. As she stared into the mirror, she traced her finger along her cheek, wishing memories could be erased as easily.

According to the emergency room doctors, she’d been lucky. After the surgeon had operated and she was stabilized, a very talented plastic surgeon had been on-site, and he’d carefully stitched up her face. He’d minimized the damage, which could have been disfiguring.

For a long time, she hated the scars. Resented them. But now in an odd sort of way she saw them as a gift. Deidre would never have to worry about scars, fillers or makeup. These scars were now a reminder of how lucky she was to be alive.

God, Deidre, who would do this to you?

If anyone could find the truth, it was Alex Morgan. He had the eyes of a predator, a hunter. The way he’d stared at her had reminded her a little of Philip. Cold, direct, and assessing.

Though Philip’s gaze had never been so steady. There’d always been an edge, a fear he was missing out, when he looked at the world. They’d met in a bar on Broadway just as she was finishing up college. He’d been with a group of friends and they’d been laughing. Her father had just died and she’d been feeling lost. She’d needed to feel connected to life and strength.

The instant he’d seen her, he’d picked up his drink and moved toward her. He’d told her she was beautiful, and if she wanted to dance, he’d be waiting for her at the bar.

Her friends had called him cheesy, but she’d been charmed. He appeared to be a man who knew what he wanted. And so a half hour later, she’d gathered the courage and asked him to dance. To this day, she’d remembered the song: “Every Breath You Take” by The Police. How many times had she looked back on that moment and wondered if the universe had been sending her a warning.

Their courtship had been a whirlwind, giving her no time to think or take a step back to see the warning signs.

Leah filled her cup with coffee. Deidre would never have taken that kind of guff from Philip. She’d have tossed away a guy like that in seconds. Philip never would have gotten close enough to Deidre to undermine her as he had Leah.

She sipped slowly. She wanted to keep her past locked away. No good came of anyone knowing, though she feared Alex sensed it. Today, in the squad car, his gaze had been peeling back the layers of her defenses. He knew there was more to her. He sensed a problem. A past. Odds were that he would get to the bottom of it.

What happened to her four years ago had nothing to do with Deidre. Nothing. Philip was dead.

Philip. So smart. So clever. So able to win over anyone.

The muscle at the base of her skull tightened as Leah set down her coffee and moved to the dining table, where she kept her purse. She fished out her wallet and from a deep pocket pulled out an old business card she’d carried with her for years. The edges were dog-eared, the card stock thinned with wear.

The name in the center of the card read ROSEANNE JEFFERS, DETECTIVE, SOUTH CAROLINA STATE POLICE. She flicked the edges of the card. In the early days after Philip’s disappearance, she’d called Roseanne often. She’d been too afraid to sleep or eat for fear that Philip might return to kill her. Roseanne had been kind, understanding, at first, but after Leah had made a half-dozen calls to her, her answers had grown more terse. Their last contact had been Leah talking apologetically to Roseanne’s voice mail. Leah knew she had to get on with her life. Otherwise, Philip won.

“Philip is dead,” she muttered.

She hadn’t called Roseanne in three years.

Leah closed her eyes, trying to push an old worry back into the shadows. When the threats had been real, she’d had to beg the police to intervene. But when the threat had been destroyed, she couldn’t break the cycle of fear.