How the hell was she supposed to think about nothing? Every time she tried to make her mind some kind of blank space, it crept in. When she tried to make her inner vision blank, she could smell the coppery aroma of blood. When she got that scent out of her head, she could hear the way a lung sounded when it had been split by a bullet. When the sound was gone, she could taste bile in the back of her throat.

She sat back up.

She could move five hundred miles away but it meant nothing at all if she’d brought her ghosts with her. She’d dumped most of her life, an enormous amount of the things she’d bought and collected because she’d thought things made up a life. She’d managed to fit everything she now owned in her medium-sized overpriced trendy crossover, but she’d forgotten to dump her memories.

She tried to settle back down in the surprisingly comfy bed and listened to the fan spinning over her head, trying to let the sound lull her back to sleep.

She’d hoped tonight would be different than all the others she’d been through since that terrible moment. She’d hoped she would close her eyes satisfied with the knowledge that she’d begun something.

All she could think about was that young woman with the fractured arm and the big doe eyes. No one would listen to her. No one would believe her until there was a body to deal with, and then they would all shake their heads and talk about how Maryanne should have spoken up sooner, should have done something.

Carrie. Maryanne was dead. Carrie was alive. Carrie was lying about how she’d gotten hurt and Lila had no idea what to do about it. She knew she’d been a bitch to the sheriff and he was right about his hands being tied, but she hadn’t been able to help herself. It was happening again and she felt as helpless as she had in the dream. Things were moving to a terrible place and the world kept spinning like there wasn’t anything anyone could do to stop it. Like she would be forced to watch the scenario play out again and again.

Damn it. She wasn’t getting back to sleep.

She threw off the covers and rolled out of bed. Along with her guilt and rage at a system that failed women over and over again, she’d brought chamomile tea and her trusty tea kettle. The wine hadn’t worked. She was willing to give tea a try.

The floorboards creaked under her feet as she made her way from the bedroom toward the small galley kitchen.