Tessa Simmons had just poured the hot water over her tea bag to steep when someone rapped on the door. She turned that way, a wave of PTSD engulfing her, leaving her panting and feeling like she really had just been washed under.
She had no idea how long she stood there, but it was long enough for the visitor to knock again, louder this time. Her natural instinct had her hurrying across the kitchen and living room to open the door. Instead of throwing it wide the way she would’ve in her suburban Pennsylvanian home, she cracked it and peered out onto the porch.
A dark-haired woman stood there, wearing a pale pink blouse that the wind kept grabbing at with its relentless fingers. She’d cinched her arms across her midsection as if trying to stop it, and her dark eyes found Tessa’s easily.
