Crossfire by Niki Savage Page A

room was where she felt closest to him, sitting in the leather chair where he had sat so often.
    The many pictures Marcelle kept of her late husband lined the walls of the study. Some showed the two of them in happier days, but she didn’t always like to look at them. On the photos, she could see the love of life she had lost, and the sparkle in her eyes that had now grown dull. Though she could feel life ebbing from her with every passing day, she couldn’t help herself. Healing could never begin while those terrible dreams plagued her, when she lost Jean-Michel again every night.
    She tilted back in the leather chair, and swung her feet up on the desk. She took the photo of Jean-Michel and propped it against her bare thighs. Her husband’s handsome face laughed back at her, his warm brown eyes dancing mischievously. She gazed at the picture, the hunger to feel his warm flesh under her fingertips threatening to consume her. Her fingers brushed over the cold glass of the portrait, tracing the line of Jean-Michel’s strong jaw, touching the firm outline of his lips. His even white teeth contrasted with his tanned complexion, with the usual five o’clock shadow on his cheeks and chin. Rebellious black hair fell onto his forehead, and she longed to push the glossy locks back, as she so often did.
    Jean-Michel had been a fun-loving, generous person who had viewed the world with childlike innocence. The champion driver had believed he could do anything with his powerful Formula One car, and walk away from an accident.
    No doubt, his fearlessness had led to his death. He had pushed the car further and further, until the laws of physics ceased to support him. But Marcelle knew her husband hadn’t been ready to die. Watching him trying to fight the inevitable remained a major source of her pain. She hugged the portrait to her chest, her thoughts straying back to a time when they were happy, and together. Minutes later, she was lost in her world of memories as she detached herself from the present. Eventually she fell asleep, resting snugly in the big chair.
    She often slept in the study when she felt too uneasy to go to bed, fearful of the nightmares waiting in her subconscious. When she slept in the chair, her sleep was never deep enough for dreams.
    ~ . ~
     
    Marcelle woke four hours later, feeling terrible. While she had slept, the ice had taken hold again, and she shivered from the chill in her chest. She sat up, and replaced the picture on the desk. Her heart fluttered like a trapped little bird, and she found it hard to breathe. She stumbled to the door of the study. The apartment was dark and quiet, adding to her panic. She put a hand to her chest, trying to still her breathing, but it only made things worse. For a second she wondered if she should try another session in the gym, but instinctively knew she had passed the point of no return. The ice would have to run its course, but she didn’t want to face it alone. Even sitting with a sleeping Stefan would provide some comfort.
    The moon shone through the open curtains, lighting the room in a silvery glow as she entered. Stefan was asleep. She felt guilty about disturbing his rest, and considered leaving, but the ice had already penetrated her entire body. She collapsed onto the carpet next to the bed, crushed to the ground by the weight of the ice. Frantic with fear, she reached up for Stefan’s hand, desperate for a link to carry her back to sanity.
    ~ . ~
     
    Stefan wasn’t sure if he had woken because of the cold hand that gripped his hand, or because of the labored breathing coming from the carpet next to his bed. It took him a moment to orientate himself and see Marcelle lying on the carpet. She seemed to be in some kind of distress, and he could hear her breathing coming in shallow gasps. He reversed the grip of the icy hand clutching his, and tried to pull her towards him. She was on his good side, but he didn’t have the strength to lift her inert