Chapter 25 Hannah
Hannah
I stand in front of the security camera that’s now on the inside of my house, pointing directly toward the hallway that leads to my mom’s bedroom.
With a little wave of my hand in the air, I look down at the screen of my phone, which shows my movements on a slight delay, and silently congratulate myself on setting up yet another security camera correctly.
After Dom dropped us off earlier this evening, I couldn’t stop thinking about how my mom had woken up before me this morning and walked out of the house without me knowing.
Or the fact that if Dom hadn’t been in my driveway, installing a new battery in my Civic, I have no idea what could’ve happened to her.
I warred with myself over whether I should use the extra security camera I still had unopened in the box—a leftover from my order a few weeks ago.
I couldn’t decide if it violated my mom’s privacy in some way, but eventually, keeping her safe became my top priority.
Luckily, Sherry thinks Gibbs and Tony instructed me—Ziva—to install this new camera and is none the wiser.
When I realize the clock is nearing eleven, I coax her into turning off NCIS, just as the credits start to play on one of her favorite episodes.
In “Requiem,” from season 5, Gibbs doesn’t hesitate to help a childhood friend of his daughter, Kelly.
You find out that both Gibbs’s daughter and wife were murdered, and the episode ends with a wild underwater rescue from Sherry’s favorite character, Tony DiNozzo.
It’s her favorite part—she claps and cheers every time she watches it, and tonight was no different. Though, while she was giving Tony a standing ovation, I kept thinking about how ironic it is that she’s attached Tony to Dom.
Of all the people on her favorite show, she sees Dom as Tony and me as Ziva. The two characters she loves to see get together.
“One more?” she asks, and I shake my head, reaching out to hold both of her hands and pull her up from the couch. I can tell by the uncertain look on her face that the dark night is bringing confusion and uncertainty.
After a long but fun day at Dom’s parents’ house, I shouldn’t be surprised that this is her current state.
Even looking into my eyes, the eyes of her very own daughter, doesn’t bring the comfort it should. If anything, it spurs feelings of familiarity, but when you can’t pinpoint why there’s a familiarity, it creates chaos. And confusion. And fear.
“Can I brush your hair, Sherry?” I ask her, gently guiding her toward her bedroom.
“You want to brush my hair?”
“Of course I do. It’s one of my favorite things.” Her smile is soft as I ease her down into her favorite chair beside the window of her room. “How about I help you get ready for bed, and I’ll brush your hair once you’re under the covers?”
“Okay, Ziva.” She nods. And I slide her slippers and socks off her feet.
Physically, my mom is still capable of dressing and undressing herself, still fully mobile and able to do things for herself.
It’s her mind that causes the roadblock.
Mornings are always her best times, the sun turning the darkness to light.
But sometimes, nighttime is hard for her.
The fatigue that has already set in from a long day combined with her Alzheimer’s can make it difficult for her to think through even the simplest things.
When she’s anxious and nervous like this, I focus all my energy on keeping everything around her calm. Including me. My voice, my touch, my movements. Everything I do is with tenderness and care.
I help her remove her pants and shirt and slide her nightgown over her head.
And as I’m guiding her toward her bed, a deep-seated sadness, one I often try to compartmentalize, takes root in my belly.
Both of my parents taught me well, taught me to never hold hate in my heart, but by God, I hate this disease that’s stealing my mother from me.
I’ve watched her progress from a woman who occasionally forgot to put on deodorant or take her medication—early signs we didn’t fully understand at the time—to someone who rarely remembers her own daughter.
I’ve seen her go from a woman who once cared for an entire coop of chickens and her goat Gary, to someone who’s completely forgotten how she likes her coffee.
Her life, her memories—they’ve all been stolen, and I have to swallow against the emotion in my throat as I gently run the brush through her hair.
She’s lying on her side, her back toward me, and her body is curled beneath her comforter and the weighted anxiety blanket that I’ve added to her bed for the night.
“That feels nice, Ziva,” she says, her voice just barely above a whisper. “How many cameras did Gibbs want you to install?”
“Just the one.”
“Is Tony monitoring it?”
“Mm-hmm,” I answer while my hand guides the bristles through the locks of her hair.
“Have you realized you’re in love with Tony yet?” she asks mid-yawn.
Her question should be innocent, but man, it threatens to send my mind soaring straight toward Dom.
So much has happened between us. So many unspoken things.
And my brain wants to fixate on all of them, especially the kiss we shared in the kitchen this morning and how amazing he and his family were this afternoon.
Am I falling in love with him?
Sheesh. That question feels so loaded that I’m afraid to put my finger anywhere near the trigger.
Even though I never give her a response, her eyes grow heavier with each soft brush until she can no longer hold them open at all.
But I keep brushing. And brushing. And instead of thinking about Dom or the way I feel about him, I just savor this quiet moment with my mother. Savor the peace I get from seeing her relaxed and asleep in her bed when I know that tonight could’ve gone a very different way.
Today was a busy day for her. Leaving the house and going to a stranger’s home is a big obstacle for someone like her. And when you combine that with meeting new people—all of Dom’s family, to be exact—it creates a risk for uncontrollable behavior that stems from stress.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy we went. I’m happy for the moments I got to see her laughing with Dom’s grandfather Louie. And I’m happy with the way his entire family embraced my mother with open arms.
But it also makes me remember that most people wouldn’t have. And not because they’re mean, but because they simply don’t understand.
Once I’m sure she’s asleep, I set the brush down on her nightstand, press a soft kiss to her forehead, and whisper, “I love you,” into her ear before I turn on the small night-light beside her en suite bathroom and leave her bedroom, clicking the door closed shut behind me.
But when I walk out into the living room of the big farmhouse, my ears are graced with the kind of silence that makes my mind race and my thoughts run wild—one hundred miles per hour toward Dom.
After he dropped us off at the house, he headed to the station.
And even though he didn’t give me the details of why Shane wanted him to come down there, I overheard enough of his conversation in the car—when Shane was a calling a second time to see how far out he was—to know there’s something going on with the case.
The same case that brought Dom into my life in the first place.
The same case that’s resulted in two different girls—who just so happened to work the same CMA line as me—ending up dead.
When I check the time on my phone and see it’s a little after midnight now, I can’t stop myself from calling him.
“Hey,” he greets me on the second ring, but his voice sounds tired and a little off. It carries a quiet rasp, a heaviness that makes me wonder how much he’s been carrying on his shoulders tonight. “Everything all right?”
“Yeah, everything is fine,” I answer. “How are you? Are you doing okay?”
There’s a long pause, and I almost think he’s not going to answer, but then he exhales deeply into the phone.
“Better now that I’m talking to you.”
Ditto. My heart flips inside my chest at his words.
I dig my teeth into my bottom lip as I mull over whether I should ask him what I want to know, but eventually, I decide to just do it. “What happened tonight? With the case?”
“Ohhh, I see how it is,” he replies, and his voice lightens with a teasing lilt that makes me smile. “You’re just calling me to talk shop.”
“Were you hoping I was calling you for something else?”
“I don’t know, it would’ve been nice if you were calling to say hello or to tell me you missed me or something.”
I snort. “I just saw you, like, four hours ago.”
“And your point?”
His words are lighthearted, but there’s a warmth beneath them that settles deep in my bones. He doesn’t just make me laugh—he makes me feel seen. Wanted.
“Dom,” I say through a laugh, my cheeks flushing as a smile tugs at my lips. “What happened? Did you find anything out?”
“You know I’m not supposed to tell you or anyone details about an ongoing investigation,” he responds, but there’s humor in his words. “I took a blood oath at my badge-pinning ceremony.”
“A blood oath? Do they stick the badges in your actual chest?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, Hannah. But just know it’s all very serious, very blood-oathy kind of shit at those ceremonies.”
I swear, if I smile any bigger, it might crack my lips. “Why do I get the sense that you’re lying through your teeth?”
“Probably because I am.” He chuckles. “And the only thing we found out tonight was that Waylon is no longer a suspect.”
Outright shock sends my stomach on a quick bid to my feet.
Waylon is no longer a suspect.
Wait . . . what? How could they cross him off the list so easily? My thoughts spin, a messy swirl of fear and frustration.
Of all the callers who made me suspicious, that man was at the very top of my list. My conversations with him have always made me uncomfortable. His fixation with inflicting pain is downright disturbing.
“You there?” Dom asks, and I nod several times, swallowing hard against the dryness in my throat.
I only stop nodding when I realize he can’t actually see me. “Y-yeah,” I say through a tight throat. “Just surprised.”
“Me too,” he answers. “But don’t worry, Hannah. We’re going to solve this case. And more than that, I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
The way he says it—no hesitation—makes me feel like I can exhale. Bottom line, I trust Dom. Wholeheartedly.
When I hear the sounds of crunching gravel coming from the driveway, I move to the front door and peek through the sidelight as Dom’s unmarked black Camaro pulls to a stop in front of my house.
My smile is fixed as I head outside. And just as I’m stepping up to his car, I hit end on the call.
He rolls the window down and I rest my elbows on the ledge of the door.
“Another long night of keeping the May women safe?” I ask, and he grins up at me. That grin—it’s disarming. And it makes me feel like it’s meant just for me, like he’s letting me see a part of himself that he doesn’t show everyone else.
“Yep.”
“You staying all night?”
He nods and I look back toward the house briefly before meeting his eyes again.
“Maybe you should keep an eye on things from inside?”
“Inside?” he questions.
“Yeah.” I reach out to gently squeeze his thick shoulder. “Inside.”
He doesn’t say a word, but his eyes lock on mine, searching, as if he’s trying to decipher exactly what I’m asking for. Maybe I don’t fully know the answer myself. But what I do know is this—I don’t want him out here alone all night. I want him closer. I want him with me.