This had to be a nightmare. A terrible dream.

Yet oxygen scrabbled into her lungs when she spotted the nail-polish-red gleaming under his head. That red was real, no dream, and the look of it propelled her into action. She hurtled over all the debris on the floor and crouched down to press on the pulse in his neck-just in case all that glossy red color was misleading. Just in case there was a chance he was still alive.

No.

His skin was cold. Blank eyes stared up at her.

Wake up, Sophie. Wake up, and for God’s sake, don’t hurl.

She pushed back, landing on her rump, her fingertips suddenly icy and her stomach clenching with horror.

Suddenly Sophie was five years old again-and of course, she knew that was stupid. This shock had no remote connection to her past. The new trauma just seemed to trigger the old one. It was the same old flash flood of a mental slide show, the images darting through her brain, her in a long yellow nightgown, her cold feet stinging in the wet grass, the darkness, the stinky smoke and sharp flames, her mom screaming, screaming, her clutching her sisters, the three of them wailing, then the firemen carrying both those stretchers out…

Sophie sucked in a lungful of air, then another. Letting those train-wreck memories out was always a mistake. Obviously, she’d never forgotten the fire. The grief and trauma still flavored every nightmare and always would. No one could just forget anything that devastating. But that old loss and grief and terror weren’t the problem right now.

Get a grip, Sophie.

She struggled to. Obviously, this wasn’t about her, but about Jon. This was no time to be thinking about herself. She swallowed the swell of nausea and whipped around for her purse. Naturally, it was chock-full of everything she’d need to survive living in Europe for six months. She rummaged, rummaged, until she finally located her cell phone. It took three tries for her fumbling fingers to accurately dial 911.