And he stared at her picture realizing that over the years, she’d become a part of the décor. He hadn’t paid much attention to the fact, in one pad or the other, she’d been on the chest he now had at the wall between his bedroom and the workout room for years.

She was a memory.

She’d died and he’d vowed to himself she’d never be reduced to that.

But she was a memory.

A happy one.

The wound of the shock of her brutal death fading, the rest, the good times, had floated to the surface.

Hettie smiling. Laughing. Joking around. One of the guys but in a way that was all girl. Giving great head. Fucking up the eggs. Acting like she was having an orgasm the first bite she took every time he cooked for her.

Hettie. A happy memory.

But a memory.

And he stood there looking at her and her freckles and he did it for once not missing her fucked-up eggs.

He did it wishing he’d taken a fucking photo of Olivia.

“I’m an asshole,” he whispered to the picture.

You’re not an asshole, sweetheart. We both know oh-so-fucking-well you can’t control who you fall in love with, Hettie whispered into his brain, and his back went straight.

Fall in love?

“Jesus, shit, now I’m a lunatic,” he muttered.

With determination, he turned his attention to his whisky.

He downed it.

After he did that, he thought maybe he wasn’t a lunatic.

Maybe he needed to stop fucking drinking.

On that thought, he walked the picture to the chest but he didn’t put it on top where it used to be.

He slid it in the drawer where he’d hidden her when he’d had Olivia.

And he forced Hettie out of his mind as he moved to his bedroom.

The problem was, he tried to force Olivia out of his mind too.

He succeeded with Hettie.

But as she’d been doing since that night he decided to save her from him, Olivia kept him awake all night.

* * * * *

6:23 – Sunday Evening

“Okay, you want to tell me why it looks like you haven’t slept in a year and you’re all broody?”

Nick turned from his contemplation of the lights of Denver that he could see from his place staring out the floor to ceiling windows of Anya and Knight’s condo.

He saw Anya had sidled close.

He hadn’t felt her approach.

Fuck, he had to get his head together. Turner, Hettie and Deacon had taught him better than that.