Remember When

down his face, dripped on her hand as she pushed his jacket aside, reached into the inside pocket for her phone.
    The sudden blare of a car alarm ripped a short scream out of her throat. She jolted, looked toward the door. Someone was out there. Someone could help.
    "Help." The word came out in a whisper, and she pushed herself to her feet. As she sprang forward, a hand grabbed her ankle and sent her slamming facedown onto the floor.
    She didn't scream. The sounds she made were feral growls as she kicked back, crawled forward.
    He yanked, hooking an arm around her legs so she was forced to swivel, shoving herself up from the waist to use her fists, her nails.
    The horn continued to sound, like a two-tone scream, over and over while she tore at him, while he pulled her closer. Blood matted his hair, streaked his face, gushed out of fresh wounds where her nails ripped.
    She heard a crash, and one of her flailing arms landed on broken glass. The new jolt of pain had her rolling over, digging in with elbows to gain a few precious inches. Once again her hand closed over the wine bottle.
    This time when her body jerked around she had it gripped in both hands like a batter at the plate.
    And she swung hard for the fences.
    There was a pounding-in her head? In the room? Outside? Somewhere a pounding. But his grip on her released, his eyes rolled back and his body went still.
    Whimpering, she scuttled back like a crab.
    That's how Max saw her when he rushed into the room. Crouched on the floor, blood on her hands, her pants and shirt torn and splotched with red.
    "Laine. Jesus God almighty." He lunged to her, the cold control he'd snapped on to get inside, to get to her, shattered like glass. He was on his knees beside her, running his hands over her face, her hair, her body. "How bad are you hurt? Where are you hurt? Are you shot?"
    "What? Shot?" Her vision skipped, like a scratched film. "No. I'm... it's wine." A giddy bubble exploded in her throat and came out as a crazed laugh. "Red wine, and, oh, some of this is blood.
    His. Mostly his. Is he dead?" She said it almost conversationally. "Did I kill him?"
    He brushed the hair back from her face, skimmed his thumb gently over her bruised cheekbone.
    "Can you hold on?"
    "Sure. No problem. I just want to sit here."
    Max walked over, crouched by Crew. "Alive," he said after he checked for a pulse. Then he studied the torn, battered and bloodied face. "Did a number on him, didn't you?"
    "I hit him with the wine bottle." The room was moving, she realized, ever so slightly. And there seemed to be little waves in the air, like water. "Twice. You came. You got my message."
    "Yeah. I got your message." He patted Crew down for weapons, then went back to Laine. "You sure you're not hurt?"
    "I just feel numb right now."
    "Okay then." He set his gun on the floor beside them and wrapped his arms around her. All the fear, the fury, the desperation he'd fought off for the last hour rolled into him, rolled out again. "I gotta hold on," he murmured against her throat. "I don't want to hurt you, but I've gotta hold on."
    "Me too." She burrowed into him. "Me too. I knew you'd come. I knew you'd be here. Doesn't mean I can't take care of myself." She eased back a little. "I told you I can take care of myself."
    "Hard to argue with that. Let's see if we can stand up."
    When they gained their feet, she leaned into him, looked down at Crew. "I really laid him out. I feel... empowered and satisfied and..." She swallowed, pressed a hand to her stomach. "And a little bit sick."
    "Let's get you outside, get you some air. I'll take care of things in here. Cops are on their way."
    "Okay. Am I shaking or is that you?"
    "Little of both. You've got a little shock going on, Laine. We'll get you out, and I want you to just sit down on the ground, lie down if it makes you feel better. We'll call for an ambulance."
    "I don't need an ambulance."
    "That's debatable, but he sure as hell does. Here we go."
    He led her out. Jack sprang from the corner of the house, the knife in one hand, a rock in the other. Laine's first muddled thought was how silly he looked.
    Then he lowered both arms, and the knife and rock fell from his limp fingers to the ground. He stumbled forward, swept her in.
    "Lainie. Lainie." Pressing his face to her shoulder, he burst into tears.
    "It's all right. I'm all right. Shh." She cupped his face, drawing back to kiss his cheeks. "We're all right, Dad."
    "I couldn't've lived. I