“I saw the way things could be, but it wasn’t true. Just an ordinary day that was so perfect it was like a jewel in the palm of my hand. He made me see it and feel it. And want it.”

He eased back, turning her to face him. “The dream?”

She nodded. “It hurt more than anything I’ve ever known to let it go. It’s a hard price, Flynn.”

“Can you tell me?”

“I think I have to. I was tired. I felt like I’d been through this emotional wringer. I just wanted to lie down, have it go away for a while.”

She took him through it, the waking with that sensation of absolute well-being, of moving through a house that was full of love, finding him in the kitchen making her breakfast.

“That should’ve clued you in. Me, cooking? An obvious delusion.”

“You were making me French toast. It’s my favorite lazy-morning treat. We talked about going on vacation, and I remembered all the other places we’d gone, what we’d done. Those memories were inside me. Then the baby woke up.”

“Baby?” He went icy pale. “We had—there was . . . a baby?”

“I went up to get him out of the crib.”

“Him?”

“Yes, him. Along the walls on the way were paintings I’d done. They were wonderful, and I could remember painting them. Just as I could remember painting the ones in the nursery. I picked the baby up, out of the crib, and this love, this terrible love for him. I was full of it. And then . . . and then I didn’t know his name. I had no name for him. I could feel the shape of him in my arms, and how soft and warm his skin was, but I didn’t know his name. You came to the door, and I could see through you. I knew it wasn’t real. None of it was real.”

She had to stand up, to move. She walked over to open the curtains again. “Even as I started to hurt, I was in a studio. My studio, surrounded by my work. I could smell the paint and the turpentine. I had a brush in my hand, and I knew how to use it. I knew all the things I’d always wanted to know. It was powerful, like having the child who had come from me in my arms. And just as false. And he was there.”

“Who was there?”

She drew in a sharp breath, turned back. “His name is Kane. The stealer of souls. He spoke to me. I could have it all—the life, the love, the talent. It could be real. If I just stayed inside it, I’d never have to give it up. We would love each other. We’d have a son. I’d paint. It would all be perfect. Just live inside the dream, and the dream’s real.”

“Did he touch you?” He rushed to her to run his hands over her as if to check for wounds. “Did he hurt you?”