“Dear, may I inquire?” Mike said. “Is there a history of mental illness or other disorders in your family?”
“Mental illness?” Jarret stopped whisking and shot Mike a horrid glare. “She ain’t crazy. There ain’t no crazy people in her family.”
Mike withstood Jarret’s glare, expressionless for a moment, then he exhaled and lifted his hands in frustration. “Well, it need not be that extreme. Are her parents still living?”
Jarret’s mouth fell open and he glanced at me. “What does that matter?”
“Yes, my parents are still living.” Done cleaning my wounds, I secured the lid on the peroxide bottle and pushed it aside.
“What about a thyroid disorder? An untreated thyroid—”
“No. Something happened to her.”
“As a doc-tor...” Mike emphasized the word and paused. “I must consider all possibilities.”
Jarret bristled at the word doctor, as if Mike had challenged him for leadership of their little duo. What was their arrangement?
With a father as rich as his, Jarret could pay his accomplices well, but his youthfulness and lack of education could be a source of insecurity. Maybe the two of them would get into it and I could silently depart. Yes, I could help generate friction between them.
Jarret mumbled something and returned to whisking the eggs. They had to be getting to the soft peak level. When would he stop? Of course, with that secret ingredient...
I craned my neck to glimpse inside the bowl, but Jarret tilted it toward himself as he worked.
“Caitlyn, if you would simply allow a check-up...” His fake Southern accent grated on my nerves. People didn’t really talk like that. Except sometimes on TV. When they were acting. “... we might get some answers.” Mike tapped the shiny black doctor bag on the table.
“No, thank you. How do I know you really are a doctor? And besides, I have my own family doctor. Why don’t you let me see her? I’m sure she’s not far. Where are we, anyway?”
Jarret chucked the whisk over his shoulder to the sink and dumped the frothy egg mixture into a skillet. It immediately hissed. He muttered something—probably a swear word—then yanked the skillet off the stove and lowered the flame. He glanced at Mike. “Don’t you have an ID badge or something to show her?”
“Oh, sure.” Mike stood and swung a hand to his back pocket as he approached. “You can have this.” He pulled a business card from his wallet, tossed it to the table, and got his phone.
Stopping near me—too close for comfort—he tapped his cell phone then twisted toward Jarret. “What did you put in the eggs? My stomach is beginning to take note. I hope you’re fixing to give me some.”
My attention zeroed in on the image on his phone, a portrait of a teenage girl with sleek brown hair and a slight smile. She sat poised with her head tilted, looking like a teen model. She’d probably had her picture done professionally by a glamour studio with make-up artists. “Is that your daughter?”
Mike turned his cell phone to himself and tapped the screen. “Is what my daughter?”
“The picture. The girl.” I pointed to his phone as he continued tapping it.
He set his phone nearby. He’d pulled up an on-line listing that showed his professional portrait, name—Michael A. Caragine, MD—bio, and the address and phone number of the medical facility where he worked. The business card had the same information.
“The ‘girl’? Why, she’s a young woman. Besides, how old do you think I am? Since you obviously do not recall me, I get a second chance at your first impression.” He peered down at me through pale eyes and grinned. His eyes... were they green or gray? He continued staring, waiting for my opinion, no doubt hoping for a favorable answer.
“Hmm.” I hated to look him over.
His wide chest and slight paunch strained the cotton fabric of his designer gray polo shirt. The upright and relaxed way he carried himself gave him an assertive, professional air that countered the thug-like impression created by the thick scar under his right eye. His hair—shiny, dark brown, and smoothed back in a man-bun?—could have come from Just for Men hair color, but he did have all his hair. Fairly handsome, he had a strong, clean-shaven jaw and few wrinkles, not counting the bags under his eyes. Overall, he struck me as a clean, vain, gentlemanly, and professional man with a few quirks. Probably pushing forty.
“Well? Your guess?”
I shrugged and decided to go with the lower number in my estimate range so as not to offend his pride. “Thirty-five.”
“Thirty-five?” He laughed, snatched his phone, and returned to his seat at the table. “Not yet, sweetheart. I’m only thirty.”
I glanced at the business card and flicked it away. “I could have one of those made up and put anything I wanted on it. Caitlyn Summer, hmm...” What title would I use? “Caitlyn Summer, Private Investigator.” Liking the sound of it, I folded my arms and gave a satisfied grin.
Jarret laughed. “Yeah, you could use that title, all right. Only you got the last name wrong.”
“Back to the matter at hand. I’ve given you proof. So, how about it? You have a bathrobe, don’t you? You could put that there on...”
Jarret jerked his head toward Mike.
“... and I could examine you right quick in the bathroom or in your bedroom if you prefer. I’m worried that you—”
“What, do you think,” Jarret snapped, “she has cuts or bruises she don’t know about? I’m sure she’d feel it. Besides, she can check herself in the mirror.”
Mike shook his head. “Try to help me out here, Jarret. Y’all want answers or not? Caitlyn, I—”
“No.” I folded my arms. “The only cuts I have came from Jarret hunting me like a lion after its prey. But I do have a headache. Probably from the poison you gave me. Maybe it’s wearing off.”
Jarret and Mike exchanged glances.
“What can you tell me about yestuh-day?” Mike said.
“Ask Jarret. I don’t remember yestuh-day. I don’t remember how I got here at all. What kind of drug did you use on me anyway?”
“What’s the last thing you do recall?”
I made a face. What difference did that make? The last thing I remembered was... was... Memories and images tumbled in my mind. Was I still attending high school? Was I a senior? No.
An image came into focus: my graduating class all in caps and gowns, huddled for a group picture. Roland came up to me afterward, a look of humble pride in his gorgeous steel-gray eyes. A few strands of his dark hair had fallen out of place and hung over his forehead. He looked so handsome in black. Of course, he always wore black...
Realizing I was smiling, I forced a frown. “What difference does it make? Can I use the phone?”
“The phone?” Jarret slid a plate of scrambled eggs and buttered toast in front of me, his gaze traveling up and down me.
My skin crawled. I turned my eyes to the plate. All that work for plain old scrambled eggs?
“What’s with the camouflage outfit?” His eyes held a glint of humor.
I flashed a curt grin.
Smirking, he stepped back behind the counter. “What d’ya want to drink?”
“Poison.”
His cocky look and the arch of his brow showed he had tired of my attitude.
I pushed the eggs around with a fork. They didn’t look strange.
Jarret returned with a tall glass of milk.
I dropped my fork onto the table. I wouldn’t take my chances.
He took a swig of the milk, set the glass in front of me, snatched the fork and took a bite of my scrambled eggs. “See? No poison.” He set the fork down, leaned back against the counter island, and gawked at me.
“Can you recall the day before yestuh-day?” Mike wasn’t going to let up until I gave him something.
“Umm.” The eggs did look good. Should I try them? I said the Prayer Before Meals in my mind and tasted the eggs. Light, fluffy, melt-in-the-mouth delicious. What did he put in them? “Sure, I remember the
day before. I umm...” I was sitting on my bed, the papers I’d received from South Dakota University spread out around me, trying to decide how to spend the summer. Happy butterflies danced in my stomach as I thought about college. I couldn’t wait. All through high school, I’d looked forward to college even more than summer vacation. This summer would be a long one. I’d reached for the phone to call Roland when Mom shouted, “Caitlyn, I need you to watch the kids while I run to the—”
I snapped from the memory. Why was I thinking about that? That wasn’t yesterday. When was that? I finished the eggs—with no ill effect—and grabbed the toast. “I don’t see what difference it makes. May I please use the phone? Mom’s probably wondering—”
“How old are you, Caitlyn?” Mike said.
Jarret should know. I was the same age as Roland. I gave Jarret a look to say “as if you didn’t know” and answered, “Eighteen.”
Jarret’s eyes snapped wide and his mouth fell open. He turned away and leaned over the counter, looking like he might vomit.
“So, are you still in high school?” Mike continued to pry. What was his game?
I shook my head. “Jarret, why don’t you tell your little Southern friend all about me? It’s not like you don’t know.”
Moving in slow motion, Jarret turned and sat in the chair nearest me. Trembling? “You’re not eighteen, Caitlyn. You’re twenty-two.”
I laughed. “Oh, I’m twenty-two. That makes me older than you.”
He shook his head. “I’m twenty-five. After high school, I went to college for four years. I have a bachelor’s degree in anthropology. I wanted to get my...” His eyes flickered and he shut his mouth.
Could it be true? No. And if it were— “I still don’t see why I’m here. With you. What do you want with me?” Heart quaking, I struggled to keep the emotion from my voice. “Why are you doing this?”
He gave me a blank stare then raised his hand. I jerked back though he didn’t look angry. With his other hand, he tapped the gold band on his ring finger.
“So?”
He grabbed my left hand. I pulled away but then looked at my hand. There on my ring finger, where I expected to see my chastity ring, was a gold band and another ring with an opal set between two diamonds.
I gazed at the rings in disbelief then looked at him. “We’re... married?”
He frowned. “Don’t sound so excited.”
The blood drained from my face, my neck, my chest. I forced myself to breathe. “This isn’t real. I don’t see how...”
He huffed and got up from the table, the chair legs scraping the floor. “Are you done with that?” He grabbed my empty plate.
Mike dug through his little black bag and pulled out a stethoscope and something else, maybe a pen or one of those “doctor” flashlights. After hanging the stethoscope around his neck and stuffing the flashlight into his pocket, he scooted his chair out and stared at me. Then he stood and approached slowly, as if he thought I might attack.
“Now, if you’ll oblige, I’ll simply take a peek at your eyes and head. That there shouldn’t be a problem, should it?”
“Well, um...” I leaned away from him.
He had his fingers in my hair before I could voice an objection. Oh well, what would it hurt? He could look, but only at my head.
“Mmm.” He moved my head to one side and the other as he inspected me with all the gentleness one might expect from a doctor. “Mmm-hmm.”
“What?” Jarret propped his hands on his hips and stepped closer. I shot him a warning look, and he stepped back.
Mike stooped, lined his face up with mine, and held his little flashlight-thingy up. I tried to hold still and focus on his seriously pale irises, while he tried to blind me by shooting a beam of light into each eye. He did it a second time then straightened and snatched my wrist.
I blinked to get rid of the green spots the light had caused.
After a minute of staring at his watch, he dropped my wrist and shoved the earpieces of the stethoscope into his ears.
“Don’t,” I said, but he did.
He placed the chest piece here and there on my back, over my shirt, and then on my chest. He seemed like a doctor.
Yanking the stethoscope from his ears, he spoke. “How’s your vision, Caitlyn?”
“My eyes are fine. I just have a terrible headache.”
He held his hands out in front of me. “See if you can squeeze my fingers.”
I made a disgusted face and did not comply.
“She’s got her strength and reflexes,” Jarret said. “Believe me.” Glaring at me, he rubbed his chin where I’d hit him earlier.
Mike returned to his end of the table and dropped the instruments into his doctor bag. Sitting, he rested his clasped hands on the table and leaned forward, his pale eyes fixed on me. “Caitlyn, there’s a right good-sized lump and bruise on one side of your head.”
I touched my head, my finger going right to the sore spot. Oh! A bump!
“I do believe you’ve got a concussion, and you’ve obviously got amnesia.” His eyes narrowed with a thoughtful look. “My dear, do you have any idea what on earth happened to your head?”
“Amnesia? I have amnesia?”
Mike turned to Jarret. “I suggest you take your wife in for a CT scan and...” He lowered his voice. “Well, you’ll want to check...”
Jarret had been standing as still as a stone statue ever since Mike had said amnesia, but now he blinked and made a quick nod. “Yeah, yeah, okay. Your clinic?”
“The clinic? Why, no, it’s Saturday. We’re closed.” Mike cast a long look out the sliding glass doors.
“Oh yeah?” Jarret gave an annoyed smirk. “You got the key, don’t you? And that place has the equipment, right? Can’t you do a CT scan?”
“Well, sure, I suppose.”
“Amnesia?” I whispered to myself. Could I really have amnesia?
CHAPTER 4
MY EYELIDS HUNG at half-mast. The second we’d returned from the clinic, my body had been drawn to the couch. Its soft cushions and plush throw pillows beckoned me to curl up and fall into a deep slumber. Unfortunately, my parched throat had diverted me from the couch to the kitchen, where I now stood searching for a cup.
I opened another kitchen cupboard: dinner plates, dessert plates, and a tissue box filled with... batteries? Interesting.
Maybe I should’ve put up more of a fight when Mike insisted I take a sedative before the CT scan. Jarret hadn’t wanted me to have a sedative, at first. That was the main reason I did. I’d fallen asleep to the buzzing, clicking, and whirring of the CT scanner, and I woke to Mike’s grinning face hanging over mine.
“That’s a girl,” he’d said. “Time to get up.”
Having no clue what had happened to my head, I’d been relieved when Mike had given me a clean bill of health. Whatever that was worth.
I cracked open another cupboard and found spices, olive oil, cooking spray, and a carton of dog treats. Dog treats? My gaze swept the kitchen floor, the sun-drenched breakfast nook, and the part of the living room I could see over the kitchen island. No fur, scratches, dog toys, or food dishes.
Jarret and Mike carried on a whispered discussion behind the half-closed door of a room off the empty dining room. If only they would close the door completely and I could sneak out or take the phone. Every minute or so, Jarret glanced, his eyes narrow and glum. They must’ve been working out the next part of their plan. Maybe they were waiting to see if I bought the amnesia and marriage lines. Maybe I did have amnesia. It would explain a lot. But that I had willingly married Jarret West? That mountain was too hard to climb.
As I opened another cupboard, a Ziploc bag stuffed with packets of hot sauce from a Mexican restaurant fell out. I tried to shove it back but couldn’t find room in the crowded cupboard. Plastic containers filled the top shelf. On the lower shelf, bottles of vitamins and medicine surrounded a stack of bowls, leaving little room for much else. The kitchen had seemed so clean and new, wit
h shiny marble countertops, natural maple cabinets, and sparkling black appliances, but I felt more at home with every packed cupboard I checked. I’d always had too many things and not enough room.
Opening another cupboard over the island, I finally found them. Glasses. I wrapped my fingers around a pretty, blue-tinted glass and went to the sink.
As I turned on the water, the phone rang. My heart skipped a beat. The phone sat at the end of the counter. Would he let me get it? I was much closer to it than he was. I lunged and snatched it up on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Caitlyn?” His voice—I recognized his voice!
“Roland! Is it really you?” My heart danced in my chest. “You found me!”
“What?”
“I need your help,” I said, my voice high and hurried. “It’s urgent. I don’t know where I—” A hand snatched the phone from me. I spun around.
Jarret hung up the phone and shook his head. “No phone calls yet.”
My bottom lip trembled. Was he the jail warden and I the prisoner? “But it was Roland.”
“Was it?” Jarret said with indifference. Did he expect Roland to find me? Did Roland already know where I was? He wouldn’t be in on it, on this evil, twisted scheme. He didn’t have a devious bone in his body. Maybe I shouldn’t have said it was him. Maybe now Roland would be in trouble.
“Why can’t I talk to him? He already knows I’m here.”
He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and stepped past the dinner table. “I don’t know.” He faced the sliding glass door. “Maybe you can. I need to think.”
Clinging to hope, I stared at his back. Then a shadow shifted and a voice sounded in my ear—
“So, take my advice,” Mike said.
I jumped. I hadn’t heard him approach, but now he stood right behind me.
Jarret turned. “I will.”
“Good.” Mike’s tone held authority, his expression concern. “Call if you need me. Or, uh, if her memories return. Remember, I would like you to call right away, should that occur. She may have some confusion about her memories.” He gave me a strange pasty-eyed look as if he refrained from saying more. Then he grinned at Jarret. “Well, I’m going to go chase the little white ball. Take care.”
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