He felt like he’d swallowed a mouthful of cement. His tongue wouldn’t work. Miguel clenched his hands. His nails dug into the torn flesh of his palms. He couldn’t remember. He had woken up with dirt on his clothes.

His eyes found the spot on the floor where his muddy footprints had been. He swayed.

“She was a nice girl. You liked her.” Annika touched his shoulder and he flinched. “You didn’t mean to kill her.”

“No, I didn’t kill her,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper as he brought his fists to his head. He began hitting his skull, trying to fight through the blackness and remember. What had he done?

“Stop! Miguel, stop!”

Annika’s hands wrestled his fists away from his head, stopping the blows he was inflicting on himself. Her strength surprised him. Fresh blood was smeared over his hands. But there was no pain. Only numbness.

“You have to calm down. I can help you. But you need to trust me.” Her voice soothed the throbbing in his head. “I’m going to let go of your hands. Promise me you won’t start hitting yourself again.”

“I didn’t . . .” He groaned as his eyes filled with tears. “She was young. Innocent. She didn’t deserve to die.”

“Listen to me.” Annika released his wrists. “My father spent his whole life helping people like you. Gave away all his money so veterans could have a fair chance. But no one is going to give you a fair chance, Miguel. The people in this town already believe you’re crazy. They’ll kill you if they find out the truth.” She began to pace. “They won’t understand you couldn’t help yourself.”

“I’m sick.” That’s what they had told him when he had come back from war. He was sick. Needed help. But he had been afraid. They’d kept talking about what had happened and all he’d wanted to do was forget it. Now, the nightmare had come back to haunt him in real life. “I deserve to die.”

“Maybe, but not right now.” Annika stopped in front of him. “Now, tell me about the painting.”

Like a projector with missing slides, Miguel couldn’t put the pieces of his memory together. His eyes darted around the room. Frantic. The painting . . . Sydney . . . blood . . . “Miss Lane.”

“What was that?” Annika snapped. “Is that the name of your friend at the café? Is that who you gave the painting to?”

Miguel’s mouth went dry. He swallowed against a new fear rising within him. “She’s j-just a friend.”

“A friend you trust?”

Pity. That’s what he saw in Annika’s eyes. A look half the town gave him while the other half avoided looking at him altogether. Except her. Miss Lane. Bile climbed up his throat. He shuddered and pressed his hands to his temples.