“Yes.” She closed her eyes. “I see it when I’m asleep. See them all.”

“I’m sorry.” He stroked her hair, pushing it off her face. “So sorry.”

She nodded, new tears welling against her closed eyelids. “I miss him. Fritz.” It was true. She hadn’t loved him like he’d loved her, but she had loved him. For a long time, Fritz had been a dear friend. Kind of like Tom sees me now. Maybe this was karma, coming to exact its due.

I deserve it. I’m sorry, Fritz. More tears welled in her throat and she harshly cleared it, carefully disengaging herself from the only place she’d ever wanted to be. Tom Hunter’s arms.

She slid from the bed, going to stand at the window. She’d barely peeked through the blinds at the darkened street below when Tom pulled her back, his hands gentle but insistent.

“Not in front of the window,” he murmured. “It’s too dangerous.”

She stared at him, not understanding. Until her mind clicked. The rooftop gunman who’d been aiming for Mercy the morning before. “Right. Sorry.”

He led her back to the bed and urged her to sit, then retrieved the small stool from under her makeup vanity. Completely dwarfing it, he sat next to the bed.

But then he took both of her hands in his and all she could focus on were his eyes, blue as a summer sky. “Tell me about the dream,” he murmured.

“I . . .” She had to look away, because he was being her friend. Just her friend. I’m the one wishing this were more than it really is. “I don’t talk about it.”

“Don’t?” His tone was careful and he didn’t release her hands. “Or don’t want to?”

She laughed and it sounded bitter. “Both.”

“You haven’t talked to anyone about these nightmares? This isn’t the first one you’ve had.”

She knew this. She didn’t scream every time. Usually she woke in a cold sweat, sobbing. But tonight’s nightmare had been especially vivid. Probably because she’d been remembering each of the souls they’d lost that day. “It isn’t something I discuss with just anyone.”

He lightly gripped her chin. “I’m not just anyone. I’m your friend.”

The word was like an ax to the chest. “I know,” she managed. “And I appreciate it.”

His sigh was barely audible. “Please talk to me, Liza. Tell me about them. There are seven names on those angel wings. Tell me about them. Please. It might help.” His smile was a little lopsided and a lot sad. “Can it hurt?”

God, yes. It could hurt. It did hurt.

But she owed it to Fritz. The others deserved to be remembered as well. Behind her, the bed dipped and a moment later, a big doggy head rested on her shoulder as Pebbles pressed her muzzle to Liza’s cheek.

Tugging one of her hands free from Tom’s grip, she wrapped her arm around the big dog’s neck. This kind of unadulterated love was addictive.