Inspiration for this chapter: "Let Me Go" by 3 Doors Down. "You love me but you don't know who I am. I'm torn between this life I lead and where I stand…" Great song with major Audrey identity crisis vibes.

That being said, enjoy! And thanks so much for all the feedback love last chapter.

After they let everyone else into the Gull and Audrey told them about her harrowing day, Duke pulled a bottle of whiskey from under the bar and poured a round of shots.

"To Audrey's nerves of steel. May they protect us from tattooed men," he declared before they all tossed them back.

The toast felt too flippant, but Nathan wasn't going to refuse the alcohol when his nerves were still shot after two hours of picturing every revolting way the Guard could have hurt Audrey while she was missing. But she was safe and whole beside him, with her arm casually draped over his own to remind him of that fact, and the longer they sat there, the more that seemed to sink in.

"I can put some burgers on the grill," Duke offered as it got late, but Audrey shook her head and stood before anyone else could respond. "We've got something to do."

Duke leered and James blushed, but Nathan had spent nearly a week learning Audrey's signals and she didn't seem to have anything sexy on her mind.

She barely reacted to Duke's innuendo, obviously distracted. As Nathan followed her out of the restaurant he worried there was something she'd been afraid to tell him in front of the others.

"What's going on?" He tried not to sound as panicked as he felt.

"Do you know how the Troubles started?" Audrey asked, unusually shy.

"No."

"So this isn't something else that everyone in town knows but conveniently forgot to mention to me?" It sounded like an accusation, and he wasn't used to hearing her so bitter.

"Everyone in town's too busy denying the Troubles exist to talk about why they started. What's this about?"

"Bernie expected me to know how the Troubles started – like it was common knowledge. He said it was my fault. Not just the Barn going wrong this time. The whole thing."

The notion was so absurd he chuckled. "Shouldn't we know better than to believe anything the Guard says? I've never heard any story. But I'm sure there're two people who have a few theories."

She pushed her hair behind her ear and offered him a shaky smile. "Do you think they're still at the Herald?"

"Working on the evening edition, I'm sure."

In a town this size it was unnecessary for newspaper men to work this late, but Nathan couldn't remember a time Vince and Dave hadn't. He supposed it gave them the freedom to roam the town and butt into everyone's business during normal office hours.

The brothers were arguing when Audrey and Nathan arrived, but they stopped with the ringing of the doorbell.

"Audrey," Dave said warmly.

There was something cold in Vince's voice when he said Nathan's name.

"What brings you both here so late this evening?" Dave asked.

"I've got another question for you," Audrey said.

"We'll be glad to help as long as you have an answer for us. Though hopefully it will be longer than one word this time." For some reason Vince glared at Nathan as he said it, leaving Nathan puzzled. He certainly wasn't the one who'd decided to barter information about his son's parentage to the town gossips.

"A huh," Audrey said noncommittally. She'd stayed distracted the whole ride over, and Nathan was beginning to realize how much Bernie must have gotten to her. He wished he could punch the bastard, but it was probably not worth risking their fragile truce. "How did the Troubles start?"

"Now there's a good question. Probably would have answered that one for free," Dave crowed.

"Still can," Audrey countered.

"That's not how this works, missy."

Nathan had little patience for these petty games of give and take. He'd been amused at first by Audrey's exasperation at the close mouthed residents of Haven – but they were on a deadline now and he'd be damned if she couldn't be saved because no one in town was willing to share information. "Just answer the question."

Vince straightened, his voice taking on a strange gravity, as if he found his own story fascinating. "The Troubles go back nearly to Haven's founding in the early sixteen hundreds. The historical record's a bit spotty that far back. But there is a story. An English girl was sold as an indentured servant to the colonies to pay off her father's debts. She became a maid in the mayor's household, and she fell in love with the town blacksmith. But the blacksmith was betrothed to the mayor's daughter, so he rejected her advances. She was so heartbroken she cursed him and the entire town."

"How?" Audrey demanded.

Vince leaned toward her. "She was a witch, of course."

"A witch?" Nathan echoed skeptically.

"Indeed. This is New England. There was quite a lot of that back then."

"There was a lot of hysteria," Nathan replied.

"Told you witches were real," Audrey teased, and Nathan thought of Jess Minion and taxidermy come to life and how he really didn't mind being wrong when she was grinning at him like that.

"They are," Vince continued. "It was a terrible curse, crafted to choose the specific punishment for each individual that would cause them the most pain. The town nearly destroyed itself before the mayor's daughter found a way to stop it."

"How?"

"Turning to witchcraft herself, she lured the servant into her father's barn and cast a spell to trap her there. While she was confined her magic no longer worked, and everyone she cursed returned to normal. But the mayor's daughter was only strong enough to hold her for twenty-seven years. After that she emerged from the barn, not having aged a day, and the curses returned. Children born since her imprisonment found they had the same affliction as one of their parents. It was months until the mayor's daughter could trap her again. This time she set an extra spell on the Barn, that even though it would release the witch every twenty-seven years, it would draw her back after its powers had recharged."

"What happened to the mayor's daughter?" Nathan asked.

"That was almost four hundred years ago," Vince said. "She died."

"So I'm the witch," Audrey said. "I'm not the one who saves the town. I'm the one who cursed it."

"No," Nathan answered, responding more to the devastation in Audrey's voice than the logic in her argument. Because surely she was the solution here, not the problem. That was the only option that made sense.

"Well, yes," Dave admitted, not meeting her eyes. "If the story is to be believed."

"What about the memory loss? The different identities? Officer Howard? How do all those fit in?" Nathan demanded.

"We don't know. None of that is mentioned. It may be part of the enchantment to draw her back into the Barn."

He waited for Audrey to punch more holes in their logic, but he kept waiting. When he turned to her she was frozen, her features a statue of shock or grief or maybe both at once.

He'd told her about her memory blackouts, and there was something about the glassiness of her eyes that terrified him. He didn't want her to remember this. "Parker," he called, crossing to her and grabbing her hands, which trembled at her sides. They felt like ice and he yelped; he hadn't felt anything that cold in years.

She didn't react, even when he tried to rub some warmth back in them. "Come on Parker, come back to me." He dropped one of her hands to snap his fingers in front of her face. She blinked and seemed to rouse herself.

"I'm right here," she slurred, but he was hardly convinced she was fine. He grabbed her other hand again, and she stared down at their pile of fingers.

"Let's get you home."

"She owes us an answer," Vince demanded. All the warmth that had been in his voice while telling the story was gone. He was no longer a grandfather figure, but a man capable of leading a bloodthirsty underground organization. "That's the deal. We each get a question."

"Can't you see she's in no state to answer you?" He had to get her away from here and find out what was going on in that head of hers, because surely this was a lie and he couldn't bear the thought that she believed it.

"But you can, can't you?" Dave interjected.

He'd rather have carried her out of there, bargain be damned, but he knew she'd be angry with him when she came back to her senses. And with the way Vince was glaring, perhaps getting through him wouldn't be as easy as it seemed.

"What's the question?" he growled.

"How are you the father of Sarah's child?"

There had been a day, just a few years ago, when the Teague brothers had come into his office and chided him for waiting too long to tell Audrey how he felt. He didn't understand why the thought of him and Sarah together made them so venomous now.

"A little help?" he whispered to Audrey but she just looked at him like she wanted to cry and he knew he was on his own for this one.

"Duke got sent back to 1955 by Stuart Mosley. He sent me and Audrey a letter. I went to investigate. Got sent back too. I met Sarah the day she came to town." He wanted to rub a hand across the back of his neck but he wasn't willing to let go of Audrey.

"And," Vince demanded.

Nathan wanted to squirm like a scolded child under his glare. This would have been uncomfortable even if Audrey was doing the talking, but damn. "I think you can figure out the rest."

"You took advantage of a girl just because she looked like someone you knew, and then you left her pregnant and alone to deal with your irresponsibility."

"I didn't take advantage of her!" It had almost been like she'd taken advantage of him, not that he'd minded one bit or put up much of a fight. But he'd tried to keep his distance and she'd kept reeling him in, as if this stranger was familiar even though she had none of the memories they shared.

He certainly couldn't tell the Teagues that.

"Did you have any intention of staying with her?"

Truth was he had considered it when he was buried inside her, his name on her lips, because for one glorious moment his life had been simple. He had wanted to stay there in the past, and love her, and forget all the mistakes they'd make in another fifty years. But that had been cowardly and shameful and even if it wouldn't have collapsed history he loved Audrey too much to abandon her, even to another version of herself.

He couldn't tell the Teagues that either.

"Duke and I had to go back. We were changing history." A memory sparked, and he thought he found a way out of the situation. "Before I was sent back Duke changed something, and the two of you killed each other. Care to explain that?"

"You only get one question today," Vince snapped, but Dave was shaken, and Nathan had had about enough of this.

"It's not Nathan's fault." All eyes turned to Audrey, who seemed to have roused a little. "She always loved him. Couldn't resist."

He didn't know how she knew that. Maybe she didn't know it at all, and was only trying to protect him.

"We need to get you home."

She nodded, and that was all the permission he needed. He linked their hands and pulled her out of the Herald without even a goodbye.

She didn't talk on the ride back to his house, and he didn't push it. She still seemed slightly catatonic, and his only relief was she hadn't started bleeding.

"I'm not sure how I'm going to look at Vince and Dave again after that," he joked as he flicked on the lights in his living room, wishing she would smile and they'd both laugh at his awkwardness and move on to lighter topics.

"How can you even look at me? I did this to you." She grabbed a book from a nearby table, but he was so distracted by her anguish he didn't realized she'd thrown it at him until he heard it hit the floor after reflecting off his chest.

"No." He grabbed her hand and pressed it to his cheek. It was still cold and clammy, but as the feel of it seeped into his skin he settled her other hand over his heart. He could feel it beating wildly under her palm. "This is what you do to me."

She froze like he'd caught her in a floodlight, and he could see the tears reflected in her eyes that she wouldn't let fall. He stared back, trying to will her to believe him, but he had no such power. He dropped his hands and hers soon followed. She stepped back and wrapped her arms around herself.

"Maybe you can only feel me because I'm the one who cursed you," she whispered, staring at the floor.

"Where did you get that logic, Harry Potter?"

His quip got her to look at him, but she didn't smile. "Mechanics don't just fix cars they broke themselves. Doctors don't only heal injuries they caused. There's no correlation."

"Dave and Vince think there is."

"That's a story from hundreds of years ago. We seek to explain the unexplainable. That doesn't make it true."

"But the Troubles are real. And every twenty-seven years I go into that barn. I told Howard it felt like I was being punished, and he didn't deny it. It fits."

"It doesn't fit! You wouldn't do that."

"Wouldn't I? How would we know that? We don't know who I was ninety years ago, let alone four-hundred."

She looked so miserable he couldn't stand it. He'd watched her mope around for weeks without doing anything about it when he was with Jordan and he'd sworn to himself that if he ever got her back he'd never let her suffer alone again.

"I know you. Audrey Parker."

"Audrey Parker's a brunette that lives in Boston. I have her memories but that's not who I am. Just because she wouldn't doesn't mean that I—"

Her voice cracked and she stopped, and as she deliberately looked away from him he understood.

"There were differences between you. You had similar mannerisms, could finish each other's sentences, but you weren't the same. You have more compassion. You're nicer to Duke. You like the crazy, and you want to help the Troubled, no matter what. She was scared off because she thought she saw a clown. Even if you had been affected by Jackie you wouldn't have let that stop you." He reached out and laid a hand on her cheek; God knew it helped to steady him when she did it. "I didn't love her."

She didn't shrug him off, but it didn't seem to convince her. "It's guilt. That's why I care so much. Because I caused this."

"If you really caused this you wouldn't feel guilty. You'd be bitter that you're still paying for it."

"That's a stunning endorsement of the prison system from a Chief of Police."

"It's the truth." He slid his hand down her neck and rested it on her shoulder. "If you were selfish enough to curse a whole town because one man rejected you, then you wouldn't feel guilty afterwards."

She shook her head and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath before she opened them. "I keep asking myself if I could do it if it were you."

"That's a ridiculous example. I wouldn't have rejected you."

She rolled her eyes, and he'd never been so glad to see her annoyed. Anything was better than defeated.

"I think about how I felt when you were with Jordan – and I was so angry. So jealous. If I had the power to curse people – I could have snapped. Maybe it was an accident. So many of the Troubled we help don't even know what they're doing at first. Their rage or their fear just manifests. If it was something like that I could have done it without really meaning to … but it would still be my fault."

But Jordan was his fault, and he hated himself for letting that go as far as it had. And as much as Audrey's argument was rational it still felt vehemently wrong. "The story's a lie. I'm holding to that unless we find proof otherwise. In the meantime, I'm making dinner."

"I'm not hungry."

He swallowed his reflex to tell her she needed to eat. Audrey never took well to being told she had to do anything, so he changed tactics and banked on the fact that as much as she was trying to isolate herself she didn't seem to actually want to be alone.

"Well I am, so I'm making something. You don't have to eat if you don't want." With great reluctance he let go of her shoulder and made his way to the kitchen. He did not let himself look back to see if she was following, but as he began pulling ingredients from his refrigerator he could hear her shuffle into the room. He had the strange sense that he could feel her watching as he sliced the chicken and vegetables and set the broth to boiling.

"Chicken noodle soup? Are you for real?"

He looked back. She stood in the doorway, arms still around herself, voice alight with weary disbelief.

He narrowed his eyes. "Yes?"

"You really are almost perfect."

"I'm not. It's just soup."

"Stop it!" Her voice was so fierce it did make him pause. She strode forward and settled gracelessly on one of his island chairs, fixing him with a scowl that did funny things to his heart. He wasn't sure if he was intimidated or aroused. "You're always putting yourself down. I wish you'd knock it off. I know you're not actually perfect. Jordan and the Guard and the Troubles and all that. Heaven knows we both made a lot of mistakes last time. But you're a good man, and I wish you could see that."

He wanted to kiss her, pull her to him, and never let go, because when she was saying such things to him the last thirty years fell away and he felt like the man she thought he was. And she was yelling at him, which meant she was coming back to herself, and God how he loved her.

Instead he smiled at her and drawled, "Suppose I can try."

She heaved a long, labored sigh. "You're certainly good at taking care of me, mess that I am."

"I do it for the perks," he quipped, and he let her consider the more scandalous implications of that before he turned back to the stove with a smirk. "Testing my coffee, telling me when I need a band-aid."

"That all I'm good for, Wuornos?"

"Certainly not all." None of that scratched the surface, not even the sex, but there was life in her voice and color in her cheeks again. He'd keep talking nonsense until the end of time if it raised her spirits.

He ladled out two bowls of soup and set one in front of her. She narrowed her eyes but he shrugged his shoulders and picked up his spoon.

"That's hot!" she scolded, grabbing his wrist to stop him from taking his first taste.

He could see the steam rising, but he'd honestly forgotten. It was one of the benefits of his affliction that when he did cook for himself he didn't have to wait for anything to cool. But he didn't suppose she'd want to hear that, so he held his tongue.

She continued to hold his wrist, and it was all he could do not to tilt the spoon and spill soup all over the table. She traced her fingers across his veins as if she found them fascinating, and the soft caress sent sparks running up his arm. His breath caught in his throat, and he couldn't have said anything if he'd wanted to.

After a few minutes she seemed to come back to herself and realize the way he was staring at her. She dropped his wrist, blushing furiously, and he dropped the spoon, sending soup splattering everywhere.

"Geez, sorry."

"No, I'm sorry," she said with a quiet laugh, and she stood to grab a napkin and mop up the mess. "I think the soup is cool now."

He retrieved his spoon. Instead of grabbing her own Audrey wrapped her hands around the bowl as if she wanted to soak up its warmth. It worried him that she was still so cold, but he supposed some things went deeper than the skin.

But after verifying he hadn't made any grievous mistakes and the soup was edible he nudged her spoon in her direction. "You're supposed to eat that, not use it as a heater."

"I don't even want any, remember?" she protested, but she picked up the spoon anyway and took a small mouthful.

He watched her carefully, wanting to compare her body's reaction to whatever she might tell him to spare his feelings. He was delighted to find both seemed to be in agreement. A moment after swallowing she grinned and reached for another spoonful. "My God, Nathan, this is fantastic. I was going to sulk and keep pretending I wasn't hungry – but this is really delicious."

He smiled, glad to get something warm and nutritious inside her when sometimes it seemed like she lived on caffeine and cupcakes, with an occasional side of whatever she could beg off of Duke.

"There's more where that came from."

"I may take you up on that."

They ate in silence for awhile. He was thrilled when she did ask for a second bowl.

"Is this your mother's recipe too?" she asked while she waited for it to cool.

He wasn't entirely sure what loosened his tongue. Today had left him raw, and he'd do anything to keep her distracted from what they'd learned. "Yeah. It was her special cure for a bad day. I could always tell when things were rough at the station. Even if she'd been making a roast there'd be soup on the table."

Audrey swirled her spoon around the bowl with a forced nonchalance. "You don't talk about her much."

"Never found much use in dredging up the past." The irony of that wasn't lost on him.

"What was she like?" She seemed to be waiting for him to shut her down.

He didn't. "She taught music at Haven Elementary. That could have been mortifying– but she was the cool mom. All my classmates were jealous."

He stared down into his own soup, trying to pick a few happy memories to share with her. Thinking of his mother was painful, but it was a dull ache, because he'd spent so long deliberately avoiding the issue he'd forgotten all the reasons the loss had hurt.

"She and the Chief were happy. Sometimes I'd catch them dancing in the kitchen without any music. She could even get him to sing a few bars. I used to think that was gross."

He chuckled. Now he yearned for such moments with Audrey. His parents had had a quiet intimacy he hadn't understood as a child, but as he looked at the woman beside him, hanging on to his every word with that curiosity he found so mesmerizing, he figured he got it now.

He shared a few other stories: her annual ritual of extravagant Christmas preparations, their family fishing trips, the way she'd let him help her cook, even though it took twice as long when he asked questions at every stage of the process.

When the stories petered out she asked the question he somehow knew was coming. The one anyone with more tact would have shied away from.

"How did she die?"

He remembered how cold the church had seemed. Not Good Shepherd but First Presbyterian, which his mother had attended faithfully every Sunday. There had been a line of people offering him condolence just like with his father but they'd been even more useless then. The sadness had been so smothering he was sure he couldn't breathe, but somehow he kept living. He remembered her asking him about his day with a kiss and a smile, just a few days earlier it seemed – and nothing between that. "I don't remember."

Her eyes narrowed. Her spoon stilled. "How old were you?"

"Nine." It bothered him how this had never bothered him before. He probed at the blankness, but it didn't give.

"So the Troubles were involved, then?"

It was easy to guess the dark paths her mind was traveling down. "It wasn't your fault."

"You don't know that."

"You don't know that it was." He didn't know what happened, but he knew what happened after. "After she died the Chief and I just fell apart. Nothing I could do was ever good enough for him. My batting average was never high enough. My grades were never perfect. I was never as popular or successful as he wanted me to be."

"Your father was a damn fool." He wished he could have seen her say that to his face. "But he was also a liar, since he worked with Lucy and still looked me in the eye and said he didn't know anything about the woman in the photo. I don't think he meant to be as hard on you as he was."

He trusted Audrey implicitly, but she wasn't an impartial judge. "Guess we'll never know."

There was something else, and it was a secret he'd carried on his own for so long that he found himself needing to share it with her. "I don't remember Max Hanson." It was another empty vacuum, and this one panicked him even more because it wasn't a few days that were missing. It was years. And he wasn't sure if it was the reason for the loss or the content of those stolen memories that was more frightening. "If I really think about it I remember a different house, and the Chief wasn't there – but Max wasn't either. I looked up his file after he died." Maybe she had too, because she grabbed his hand as if she knew what was coming. He took a deep, shaky breath and forged ahead. "He beat her – and me. She didn't leave him until I was five. But I don't remember any of that."

"I'm glad," she said, squeezing his hand, and the panic receded a little. "Maybe it's better that we forget some things."

Just as long as he never forgot this moment – two damaged souls finding refuge in each other. Was the Barn's memory wipe supposed to be a kindness, to make her forget everything that she'd lost?

"You said the Guard has a family that can make people forget things, right? But they weren't on your list of Troubled people."

"We don't know who they are."

"I guess that would be a pretty easy Trouble to hide, since you could just make everyone forget that they noticed. Maybe they were involved."

"Could be worth looking into. But it's been a long day. We should get some rest."

She nodded and rose to start clearing the table. He wanted to tell her to leave it but something stopped him. Maybe they needed the normalcy. It only took a few minutes to load the dishwasher and put everything away, and it might have taken a few less if he didn't spend so much time watching her whenever she wasn't looking, completely in awe of the fact that she was moving around his kitchen doing chores like she belonged there.

It was also strange to get ready for bed together without falling into it. Since she'd returned his nighttime routine had been sacrificed to their urgent need for each other. Now it was odd to change into clothes instead of pulling them off. To shuffle around each other as they brushed their teeth and she washed the makeup off her face and brushed the tangles from her hair. She retrieved a t-shirt from his dresser without asking and he watched wordlessly as she put it on in front of him. He was struck by the fact that this is what they did now. There was no need for modesty when they'd spent so much time exploring each other's bodies. No need to ask for permission when she already knew he'd give her absolutely anything she asked for. This was no casual thing – there was no need for any of that "how do we define our relationship" garbage. Their lives were so serious they'd skipped all the baby steps in their physical relationship without even realizing. He was absolutely fine with that. He'd known, from the first time he'd realized his feelings for Audrey, that if he ever acted on them he'd never be able to stop.

Nathan waited until she'd crawled into her side of the bed to turn off the light. A nearly full moon streamed through the window, casting her pale skin in silvery shadow. She laid on her side, facing him, but there were a few feet between them and she made no move to broach the distance.

"James and I went on a picnic this morning," she said, almost wistful, but he could hear the edge of pain in her voice. "He called me Mom, and I thought: if I can just get through this meeting then it will have been a good day. But I was wrong."

He wanted to pull her into his arms and never let go, but he was pretty sure she'd said something about space earlier at the Gull. It felt like now might be one of those times she needed some. He knew how she hated to seem weak. But she looked so small and forlorn, curled in on herself, that he couldn't not do anything. He reached out one hand, intending to settle it on her shirt, but the need to feel her skin was too strong. He slipped his fingers under the hem and ran them softly up her back. Her skin was soft as silk and so incredibly warm, but he fought his instinct to close his eyes to savor it so he could watch her reaction, needing to know if he affected her even a fraction of the way she affected him. Her eyes widened as he continued his ministrations, stroking a gentle pattern up and down her back, and then she was scooting into him and buried her face in his neck.

"Don't stop," she commanded, and he tightened his arm around her and obeyed.

"Yes ma'am."

"Bossy," he added as an afterthought. He felt the amused hitch of her breath against his neck. It wasn't the laugh he was going for, but it was a start.

For the first time he let himself really contemplate what she had done today. Six months wasn't nearly long enough with this woman – but just this morning he'd had no idea how he was going to keep her alive six weeks, let alone six months. The thought of six months together, as partners and lovers and friends, seemed like an incredible gift. He'd discover ways to make her smile and laugh. He wouldn't let her dwell on what could not be changed. And he'd find her the answers she needed, so she could put this all behind her and start living. He imagined what it would be like, growing old with her, and his heart almost couldn't contain the joy of it.

But as thrilled as he was to have her pressed against him, so magnificent under his fingers it set his body humming with bliss, her sadness was just as overwhelming. He heard it when her breath began growing shallow, and her warm tears burned his skin. She'd tried so hard not to cry in front of him that he didn't dare draw attention to it, but he tightened his hold and felt her shudder.

"I don't care who you were or what you did hundreds of years ago," he swore. "I fell in love with the woman I pulled from that cliff, and nothing can change that."

He would not let her succumb to this, he resolved. He kept rubbing her back until her breathing leveled and deepened. It wasn't until long after he was certain she'd drifted off that he stilled his hand and let himself sleep.

A little less angst in the next go round, I promise!