Deeper Than the Grave Read Free Page A

assessing my vital signs. I stretched my legs in front of me, fighting an itchy restlessness. Gradually the cramping pain in my chest subsided, and my vision cleared, and when I inhaled, the air went all the way in.
    Trey rocked back on his heels and watched me, fingers at my pulse point. Part of me wanted to yell at him some more, but another part held onto the sensation of his hand against my skin like a drowning person clutching a life preserver. It was physical, grounding, real.
    Trey assessed my progress. “How are you feeling?”
    I glared at him. “Don’t you ever shut me up in this room again, you hear me?”
    He glared right back. “I heard footsteps. In the alley. Where no one should have been.”
    â€œFor which there are a dozen possible explanations.”
    â€œYes, including the fact that someone could have been in the alley.”
    â€œChecking is one thing. Pulling your weapon and stomping out there is something else entirely!”
    â€œAre you saying I overreacted?”
    â€œHypervigilance is the official term.”
    His head snapped back a quarter inch, but he showed no other reaction. I knew he recognized the word, though. It referred to an enhanced state of sensory sensitivity accompanied by exaggerated threat-detecting behaviors, and his psych profile was littered with it.
    He kept his expression neutral. “We’re discussing your reaction—”
    â€œAnd now we’re discussing yours. It happened to you after the accident, this same thing.”
    â€œNot the same.”
    â€œI saw the symptom list.”
    â€œThen you also saw the diagnosis. Post-concussive syndrome. It was resolved within six months.”
    â€œI know. But I also know that anniversaries can trigger relapses. And Sunday is three years to the day you went head to head with that concrete embankment.”
    He dropped his eyes to the floor, but he stayed calm. I was getting back to calm too.
    â€œTrey?”
    â€œI heard you. But the anniversary of the accident isn’t a trigger for me. It never has been.”
    â€œSomething is, though.” I kept my voice steady. “I may be the one on the floor, but I’m not the only one cracking up.”
    He looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”
    â€œI mean the nightmares.”
    â€œWhat nightmares?”
    â€œThe ones you’ve been having almost every single night.”
    He looked astounded. “I have?”
    â€œTossing, turning, mumbling nonsense. I tried to wake you up once, but you got a little…” I pantomimed a right hook. “Punchy.”
    All the color drained from his face. “Did I—”
    â€œOf course not. I got back on my side of the bed fast, and you went back to sleep.”
    He exhaled slowly, shakily. “I am so sorry. I would never…Why haven’t you told me?”
    â€œBecause I thought you knew. Why wouldn’t you know?”
    â€œBecause this kind of nightmare is very different from normal dream states. There’s no recall, just a feeling of…I don’t know. Mental exhaustion.” He dropped his eyes again. “You’re right, however. Combined with the rest of the symptoms, they’re a clear PTSD indicator.”
    â€œThe rest of what symptoms?”
    He kept his eyes down. “The headaches. Backaches. Tiredness. I know you’ve noticed.”
    I had. The migraines that floored him for hours at the time. Muscle spasms in his lower back. A lack of interest and energy bordering on depression. Things he’d explained as a hard afternoon at the gym, an extra-long day at work, the shorter days and longer nights of winter. Suddenly I realized what a great job the two of us had been doing at playing denial.
    I tried to meet his eyes. “Trey? If it’s not the anniversary, what is it?”
    He didn’t answer. I pulled his face up so that I could look at him straight on. I saw a muscle in his jaw tic. I got