In honor of Kristin's birthday today . . . .

Chapter 11

Tori Windsor heard a thud then a splash as the small item sent her way landed not too far from her position. By the time she looked up, Vincent was gone. What had he thrown, and why? It hadn't sounded like a rock. Curiosity getting the better of her, she tracked to the location of his toss. Sure enough, the object hadn't gone into the water as he'd probably intended. Instead, it had hit a bulkhead support and bounced back into a puddle of thawing snow. Just as bad—whatever it was, it was surely ruined. She made her way to the spot and plucked the soaked and damaged object out of the water. A book. A small journal, to be precise.

She shook it off and tried to bend it back into shape, then shoved it into her jacket pocket soaking wet and headed for one of her parents' apartments. There, she carefully separated the pages from each other and took a diffuser hairdryer to it. When it was mostly dry hours later, it lay upon the table in front of her. She knew right from wrong enough to know it wasn't cool to read someone else's journal, but what if there was something important in it? Something she needed to know—about Vincent. It might help her understand him, reach him.

Finally making her decision, she picked it up. Sometime later she found herself at Catherine's door.


Catherine had just curled up on her couch with a book when the doorbell rang. She'd finally finished taking down all of the Christmas decorations and put the boxes away. Doing so always left her a little sad. That, coupled with her roller coaster of emotions over the men in her life, had her feeling exhausted but unable to sleep, even though she'd made her decision hours ago, and knew in her heart it was the right one.

Strange, though, that someone would be at her door at this hour. Not the time of night for visitors. Vincent didn't ring or knock, so it wasn't him. Could it be Jason? She planned to take him to the airport in the morning, but maybe an emergency had come up.

She tied the robe around her waist and peered through the peep hole at the door. Tori Windsor. She shrank back.

"Catherine, I know you're there. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. Please let me in." Tori's high-pitched voice carried easily through the door.

Catherine hesitated then reached for her holster and the gun they'd just reinstated to her that morning, along with her badge. She tucked the weapon into the back of her pants. She needed something, just in case. She slowly opened the door.

"Tori? What . . . a surprise. What brings you here so late?"

"Please invite me in, Catherine. It's freezing in this hallway."

Good manners had Catherine stepping aside and letting the young woman in.

"What brings me here? Actually, this." She held out a dirty, mangled book.

Catherine frowned. "What is that? I've never seen it before."

"Of course you haven't," Tori said, walking all the way into the front room before turning. "But it's yours, nonetheless," she said, still holding it out.

Catherine carefully accepted the item and looked at it suspiciously. It had an unmarked cover. "Pretty damaged. Did it go through a storm or something?"

"Or something," Tori replied. The storm of a man's heart.

When Catherine continued to frown, Tori sighed and scanned the unfamiliar apartment before explaining. "I know you don't trust me and probably don't like me very much, but there's something you need to know, and I may be the only one who's willing and able to tell it to you. There isn't anything between Vincent and me. As much as I would like that, he has eyes only for you. And despite what he's done, he's changed. You shook him up. I don't know if it was the bullet you put in him," she said sharply, still aggravated at that, "or what Reynolds did to him, but everything is different. He's different. It isn't something he can prove, even though he singlehandedly caught your father without harming a hair on his head and turned him over to the police—despite everything that evil man put him through!"

Tori took a deep breath and paced the short length of the room, grasping for clam and the right words. Everything depended on it. This is all she could do for him. He held out her hands. "He has no way to show it to you, okay? I might not be beyond begging, but he is. And he won't. He'll walk away instead; you know he will. But before he does that, I think that book might help put things into perspective. He threw it away; I rescued it. It's important. Just . . . open it. Trust me—it belongs to you."

She crossed her arms until Catherine cracked open the first page. Tori waited for the moment of recognition. It didn't take long. Catherine immediately dropped to the arm of the couch.

"I just . . . thought you should know." Even as she spoke, Tori doubted Catherine heard anything else she said. "I'll see myself out."


The first pages were descriptions of dreams—of a woman in white. Catherine recognized the handwriting immediately—Vincent's—and the careful, methodical train of thought that led him to describe them in such detail. They took her back to the first interactions she had with him after they'd found him again. Surprising as it was to know he'd dreamt of her, then came the letters. The writing had turned to script on those pages, and one even had the edge torn back and if he'd intended to rip it out and give it to her at some point. Obviously, that never happened. She covered her trembling lips as she read each one.

It was several long minutes later when she looked up and realized Tori had left the apartment. Her only reason for coming by had apparently been to give her the journal. Had she said something about it having been thrown away? She teared up at the thought. What a terrible, terrible waste that would have been.

Catherine fought to read the text as her eyes blurred the pages.

"I have memories of us," he wrote. "Just scraps, but they are there and they are real. Please don't turn away from me."

"I told you about the 'pull.' It's still there, stronger than ever. So much so that I can't walk away from you, even if I tried . . . ." Oh, God!

"Please wait for me. Give me time . . . and then we'll dance again."

She was crying so hard at that point, she had to run for her bedroom where the tissue box was kept. He'd doubted himself from the very beginning, and repeatedly begged for her patience. He wanted to remember! And then he asked, "Why did you fall in love with me?" and she crumbled.

"Oh, Vincent," she said aloud to the empty room. "Don't you know by now?"

She fell asleep on the couch with the book in her hand. The doorbell rang again. Who could it possibly be this time?

"JT?" She raked a hand through her tousled hair and opened the door, stuffing the book into a pocket. "What is it? Come in." Still dressed in her robe, she let him into her apartment, a place he'd strangely never actually visited before. He looked around, nervous.

"Thanks." He looked at her clothing. "Sorry it's so late."

"No—no problem. I wasn't actually in bed. Uh, Gabe says you've been working diligently on interpreting those reports I received," she said, trying to clear her thoughts and the turmoil in her heart. "I just want you to know I appreciate all your efforts, no matter what you find." She hoped that was all he was there to discuss.

"Be careful what you wish for."

That sounded strangely ominous. "What do you mean?"

"Maybe we should sit down."

"Okay." She moved aside a cooking magazine she had left on the table, her heart racing, and offered him a seat, then waited for him to get to the point. He took out the envelope of papers.

"These aren't all about Vincent."

"You mean, my father also gave us reports on the other beasts? I suppose that could still be of some value—"

"No. I don't mean other beasts. There are several pages here . . . on you."

She frowned. "Me? Why would my father have lab reports on me? And where did he get them?"

"I don't know, but they're not recent. They're from your birth, or-or shortly thereafter."

"What?"

"And that's not the interesting part."

She closed her eyes. Sometimes it took awhile for JT to get to the point. "Okay, start from the beginning." Her head was starting to pound.

"I don't know the hows or whys, but these reports—they show that you were encoded into Vincent's DNA from the start. You're . . . a part of his physiology. He never knew why he was so drawn to you, only that he was. It's like . . . like tides to the moon. But now we know that was by design. Vincent sought you out because he couldn't help himself."

"Wait. What? All those years he was following me—"

"It's sort-of as if he has a built-in radar which only points to you. You're his True North. No matter what other relationships he tries to have with other women, he's going to keep returning to you. Because you are written into his DNA. You're in every cell." He leaned back and crossed his arms, waiting for her response. "I just thought you should know before . . . you know, before deciding anything."

Meaning between Vincent and Jason. Catherine closed her eyes, trying to digest such incredible news. She didn't normally understand all of the technical jargon JT routinely spouted, but she got the gist of this: Vincent couldn't walk away from her even if he tried. Bless his heart. And he tried—over and over and over again. But there was still something that didn't make sense. "But it was dormant for ten years. Other than when he saved me the first time, he kept his distance."

"I don't know. Maybe, once he had a taste, you might say—"

"You mean, once I found him in the warehouse and we came into contact?"

"Right. Things really kicked into gear then. Remember the fugues that started soon after?"

"But I thought those were just a random side-effect caused by the experiments—"

"—which may have been triggered by the closer contact with you in his life."

Catherine rubbed her head. This was beyond anything she could have dreamed up. "Still doesn't explain why. Why me?"

"Well, you are your mother's daughter. Maybe, after he saved her life she added you into the injections. I don't know. She saw the hand-writing on the wall with Muirfield? She wanted to protect you."

"Protect us. She had two daughters."

"But . . . only you are your father's child."

She stared at him. It sounded more plausible that this was Reynolds' doing, not Vanessa's. Oh, God. "He did it to protect me—from Vincent."

JT frowned, considering. "You think—"

"He knew what he was creating and wanted to protect his only child."

"Or have Vincent protect his only child. But this goes beyond a simple protective instinct."

Yes, it did. Way beyond. She rubbed her neck. "Does he know? Did you tell Vincent any of this?"

"No, I—I couldn't bring myself to do it yet."

She gathered up the reports. "And you can't. Promise me."

JT blustered. "B-but he should know. Everything. Shouldn't he?"

"Not this. Please, JT. It would kill him to think he didn't have a choice, or control, even over his own heart."

In the end, JT reluctantly agreed.


The next morning, Catherine pulled into the airport garage and parked.

"You really don't have to come in with me. Save yourself the parking fee, Catherine."

"No. I want to. It's nothing. Besides, we're a little early and I . . . I had a few things I needed to say."

Although she'd already made up her mind long before Tori's or JT's visit last night, they'd both confirmed her decision.

Jason sighed and drew a hand through her silky hair. "You know, you don't have to say anything. Neither one of us is really invested here, or truly ready for anything more. But I'm not going to say I regret a moment. You gave me something I'll cherish for a long time to come."

Catherine felt a wave of relief. She hadn't looked forward to this moment, although she knew she had to do what she came to do. But this was a new twist. She looked up at him, curious.

"You gave me hope." He smiled, only one side of his face tilting up. "I always thought of myself as a one-woman man, you know? It was a real blow to my ego to have my 'one woman' walk away from me. After Kendra did that, I figured it was me. I thought I was damaged, somehow, and that I was going to have to face the rest of my life alone. But then I met you and started to see . . . possibilities. The future didn't look so grim. You made me realize that there were other women out there—like you—who could still make me feel; who could look at me as whole, and make me hope for a life with someone again. That didn't mean it was going to be you—just that there would be someone. I can't thank you enough.

"Oh, Jason. I'm so sorry. I guess . . . I guess I wasn't ready for another relationship yet."

"Because there's still one you're hanging onto."

She hung her head. It was the truth. "Yes."

"Lucky man—Vincent. Don't apologize, Catherine. Ever. Just live and don't regret. You are amazing and beautiful and know your own mind and heart. I wouldn't have you any other way. But," he put a hand to her cheek. "If things don't end up working out, and by some crazy chance we both find ourselves truly alone again sometime in the future, I hope you will look me up. You never know. Miracles can still happen."

She smiled. "They really can." And her miracle was waiting at home, probably terribly anxious. She drew Jason in for a last hug. "Thank you for understanding. And I'll remember that."

"That's all I can ask." He picked up his bag and waved good-bye with a salute and a big grin. She smiled back with eyes starting to tear up. And now to put the love of her life finally out of his misery . . . .


JT, dressed for class, came into the front room to find Vincent sitting, idly staring into space.

"Where's Catherine? I thought you said she was stopping by today."

"She's seeing Jason off at the airport."

At the sound of his best friend's voice, JT sat down opposite him at the chess table. "That's a good thing."

"Maybe. Maybe not." Vincent spoke without looking up. He picked up the queen piece on the board and studied it.

"You'll see when she gets here," JT assured him.

"You mean, when she makes her choice."

"Is that what she's doing?"

"This is it, JT. This is my life."

JT put a hand on his friend's arm. "She'll choose you."

"I wish I was as certain of that as you, but I'm not. And truth is, I don't know if it would even be the right thing—"

Before JT could argue with that, there was a brief rap at the door and Catherine walked in. The guys looked up from the board, then to each other, before turning to look at her. Catherine's eyes were only for Vincent.

JT stood suddenly. "And . . . I'm late for class—again. I'll—I'll see you later, okay?" He patted Vincent's shoulder encouragingly before scrambling out the door.

Vincent couldn't tell from the expression on her face what she was thinking as Catherine slowly walked into the room and came to stand in front of him. He tried to head off the conversation before it began. "Don't feel you have to protect me—"

"—yet you'll always protect me," she finished for him.

He looked up. "Always. But that doesn't mean—. Catherine, truth is, Jason's a good guy. And with him you can have a clean start—no complications, no history. I'll never hurt him. Never. He's what you need—what any woman would want—"

"Then you don't know me very well." She wanted to put her fingers through his hair, soothe that frown line on his forehead. "Vincent, you put up my Christmas tree. Didn't you see?"

He lifted his eyes. The Christmas tree? What did that have to do with anything? "See . . . what?"

She took another step forward and placed her hands on either side of his face, forcing him to look at her. The agony in his eyes made her own tear up. "That shiny and new was never my preference. I love history. And . . . I want the one with all the broken pieces."

For a moment Vincent thought he hadn't heard her right. But her face—. He stood, amazement and fear that he misunderstood warring within him.

Seeing his confusion, she made it very clear. "Vincent, I choose you."

His knees buckled and he sank to the floor. A sharp clench in his gut forced the breath right out of him and a sound from somewhere deep inside bubbled up and refused to be squelched.

And then the powerful man who feared nothing and no one else . . . broke down and cried like a child. Through his tears he reached for her and she went willingly into his arms, kneeling with him. When he could breathe, he lifted his eyes to her face to be certain it was true.

She was smiling.

He pressed his face to hers, their tears mingling. "I was afraid to dream . . . ."