What Dreams May Come by Kay Hooper

answer, he knew that he had to hear it. He saw her flinch, saw her face go taut and her eyes widen as she stared blindly into the fire. Though she didn't move a muscle, he had the vivid impression that she had withdrawn into herself, as if some protective barrier had shattered at his blunt question and now she was trying frantically to hide herself away.
    "Leave it alone, Mitch," she whispered.
    "I can't." He leaned toward her, taking both her cold hands in his and feeling the tremor that wasn't visible. "And neither can you." He knew his voice was too harsh, but he couldn't do anything about it.
    "I don't want to talk about it." Her voice was thready.
    "Kelly, you have to." And he had to push this time, had to make her tell him. He didn't want to hear, God, no; just the thought of what must have been done to her made raw and murderous emotions knot inside him until he could hardly breathe. But it was all trapped inside her, memories he could only guess at, and until she let them out there could never be any healing.
    "Please, I—"
    "He beat you, didn't he?"
    She flinched again, at his harsh voice or the bleakness of a small, hard word that meant pain and terror. Then, slowly, her wide eyes reflecting the leaping fires of a private hell, she nodded.
    Mitch wanted to hold her, to wrap his arms around her tense, quivering body and take away her pain. But some new instinct told him that she wouldn't be able to tell him about this if he was too close, that if he touched more than her hands she'd break into thousands of pieces.
    Somehow, he managed to cage his own emotions and soften the rasp of his voice. "Tell me, honey."
    She shivered violently. "Don't. He called me that."
    Mitch felt his teeth clamp together so hard that his jaw ached. The bastard. That he could have so defiled a simple endearment to make it unbearable to her. Holding her trembling hands gently but firmly, he repeated, "Tell me."
    Still not looking at him, her voice soft and faraway, she murmured, "I used to see reports on television about women who were abused. And I would wonder how they could stay with men who hurt them. Then I found out. It's all too dreadfully easy. To believe the apologies and the promises. To look in the mirror and tell yourself the bruises and cuts will heal—because they have before. To be more afraid of being alone than of being hurt again."
    "Kelly—"
    She didn't seem to hear his low voice. "It wasn't so bad at first. He was very possessive, but he had a lot of charm and in those first weeks his demands were almost casual. Then one day he lost his temper and slapped me. I don't even remember what it was about. He was so sorry. Sent meflowers and a little gold bracelet. I thought he'd just lost control, and I wasn't afraid of him. Not then."
    Mitch was silent, gazing at her white face and feeling so cold inside at the images her soft voice was painting for him. He had never in his life been so conscious of the implacable desire to choke the life out of another human being; if the bastard had been standing in front of him, Mitch would have watched him die and never felt a moment's regret.
    Kelly was still staring at the fire, and her voice remained toneless. "The next time, he knocked me down. There were more apologies and flowers. I think I started to get scared then. He's a big man. Powerful. So I tried not to make him mad. I tried to be a good wife. But I was always doing something wrong. Saying the wrong thing, or—" "Kelly, no. It wasn't your fault. You were the victim; you weren't to blame for what happened to you."
    A faint frown disturbed the stillness of her face."Wasn't I? I stayed with him. For almost a year. Even after I knew it wasn't going to stop. Evenwhen it kept getting worse, I stayed with him.And I kept trying to be good. I'd see his facechange, and I'd say I was sorry even though Ididn't know what I'd done. He told me it was myfault, that I made him do it, and I believed him.And when he—the two times he had to