Anyone but Him

by Theresa Linden

“Where are you?” Worry shot through me. Maybe he didn’t recognize the house from his point of view on the floor, between the couch and the bookshelf. Of course, I had brought the geode down hard. “You don’t know where you are?”

  Sitting up all the way, he touched his head again and raised an eyebrow at me. “What’re you doing here?”

  “You came home to save me. Don’t you remember?”

  He stared without blinking, his face unreadable.

  “Don’t you know who I am?” My voice came out high.

  He huffed and glanced at Roland with a crooked grin. “Uh, yeah. You think I don’t know you? You’re Caitlyn Summer.”

  I gasped. “Caitlyn Summer? No, Jarret, I’m your wife.”

  He smirked and looked me over. “Right.”

  “I am.” This could not be happening. We couldn’t both have amnesia. “Tell him, Roland.”

  Sitting comfortably with his back to the couch, Roland shrugged. “What can I say? I couldn’t convince you. You two as man and wife? It is a bit hard to believe.”

  Disbelief tangling my thoughts into an impossible knot, a strange grunt escaped me. I turned to Jarret.

  “Jarret, please believe me.” I squeezed his hand. “I’m your wife, and this is our home.”

  He gave me a sly grin. “Prove it.”

  “Prove it?”

  “If you’re my wife, kiss me.”

  “Oh, I can do that.” I leaned forward, my eyes on his mouth. My lips tingled and my heart raced.

  The corners of his lips trembled as if he was trying to suppress a grin. But when my mouth touched his, he made a little gasp as if he hadn’t expected me to do it. Then he leaned back.

  I continued to prove my status, sinking into him and kissing him, thankful he was mine and he was okay.

  Leaning back more, he bumped the bookshelf. A row of dark brown books—the entire Louis L’Amour series—slid off a shelf, landing directly behind his head, one after another.

  I pulled away, giggling.

  He smirked and sat up again, draping an arm over one raised knee. “Why don’t you finish proving it to me in there?” He tilted his chin, indicating the bedroom.

  I gasped and then narrowed my eyes. “You’re faking it. You don’t have amnesia. You know exactly who I am.” I whacked his arm with a book.

  “Yeah, you’re my wife.”

  Roland shook his head and stood. “Why don’t you lie on the couch? And keep the washcloth on your head. I’ll get some ice. Do you think you should go to the hospital?”

  No sooner had I assisted my aching husband to the couch, settled him into a mound of pillows, placed an icepack on the unfortunate part of his head that had received the brunt of my ill-aimed blow, and brought him a Coke, than a police siren erupted. The siren grew louder. I rushed to the door as the sirens ceased and two police cars with flashing lights pulled up in front of the house. Before the officers flung open their car doors, I stood waiting for them on the porch.

  “Wow! That was quick. I’m so glad you came,” I said to two officers, who approached with synchronized steps. “I didn’t know if we should call or just go up to the station, but I guess Roland decided...”

  “Ma’am, we’re looking for Jarret West.” The taller of the two officers had a thick blond mustache and spoke with a strong Southern drawl. Tan biceps bulged from under his tidy, black uniform as he removed his sunglasses and revealed his scrutinizing glare.

  “Oh. He’s inside.” I yanked open the screen door and stumbled out of the way. “He’s okay. I guess we should file a police report, huh? Don’t we have to go down to the station for that?”

  The officers brushed past me and met Jarret inside the door. He had gotten up from the couch but still held the icepack to his head. Roland came to his side.

  “I’m Jarret West.” He switched the icepack to his other hand so he could shake their hands, but they weren’t interested. “Did you call the police?” Jarret said to Roland. Roland shook his head.

  “Jarret West—” the shorter officer said.

  “Mike’s the one who did this to Jarret.” I pushed between Jarret and the shorter officer. He barely gave me a glance. “Michael Caragine. He’s a doctor, but, well, he attacked me two weeks ago, only we didn’t know until today. He was seeing an underage—”

  “Sir, we need to take you down to the station for questioning.”

  Jarret’s eyes and mouth twitched. “Questioning?”

  “Englehardt Cultural Resource Management believes you are in possession of stolen artifacts—”

  “What!” Jarret tossed the icepack and clenched his fists. “Me? Stolen artifacts?”

  I grabbed one of his fists to keep him from looking irate in front of the officers.

  “Relax, Jarret,” Roland said and then whispered in his ear. I caught bits and pieces. Roland was summarizing events, explaining what Mike had done.

  “If it’s all right with you, we’d like to search your home?” the taller officer said. “We don’t have a search warrant yet, so you have a right to refuse but—”

  “His doctor bag!” I gave Jarret a wide-eyed look.

  He responded with a clueless shrug and turned to Roland. Roland nodded as if what I said made perfect sense. Then he whispered more details to Jarret, whose expression grew increasingly perturbed.

  I dashed to the weight room. One of the officers followed me. The other officer said something to Jarret. Jarret gave an annoyed, whiny reply.

  “Mike came over to get pictures off our computer,” I said to the officer, “and he had me get him something to drink.” I yanked open the closet doors, catching a whiff of dry cardboard. “I left him alone in this room.” Empty boxes for the DVD player, CD player, computer, and television filled the closet. “And also, I sat on the couch for some time.” I searched between and behind the boxes. “He would’ve had plenty of uninterrupted time to hide— What are we looking for?” Finding nothing unusual, I turned my attention to the overhead shelf, but I would need a chair to—

  I glanced. The taller of the two officers stood behind me. He could search the top of the closet easily enough while I searched other places. “Officer, you’re quite tall. Would you mind?”

  “Oh, sure, ma’am.” He stepped up to the task.

  I scanned the room. Jarret’s weight set took up most of the room and had no hiding spots. The desk! I whipped open drawers one at a time and slammed each one shut when I found nothing suspicious.

  Hands on my hips, I blew out a breath. “I can’t imagine where he would’ve hidden it. I know he sat at the computer. Of course!” I shoved the swivel chair out of the way, dropped to my knees, and crawled under the desk.

  There among a tangle of cables and cords, lay an old clay pot, brown and grainy as dried dirt. It had a narrow opening at the top that probably had a cork stuffed in it back in its day and two rough spots where a handle might’ve been.

  “I think I found it.” I crept out from under the desk and sat back on my heels.

  The tall officer squatted beside me and peered, making a face that said he couldn’t believe anyone would’ve stolen it. “So, that’s it?”

  “I guess so.”

  “I’ll get an evidence bag.” He darted from the room.

  A moment later, the officers stood outside by one of the two police cars. The officer by the open driver door spoke on a radio. Roland watched from the front porch, arms folded, eyes squinted.

  Jarret paced in the dining room, from the den to the kitchen. “I can’t believe Mike did this. All this time I trusted him. Like a fool, I brought him over here the day after he hurt you.” Jarret cussed and kicked the backside of the kitchen island. “I brought the man who hurt my wife into my house to make sure she was okay.”

  When Jarret switched from talking to me to swearing and talking to himself, I tore myself from the front window and went up to him. “Jarret, stop.”

  He stopped pacing and looked at me.

  “I’m okay. You’re okay,” I s
aid. “Mike will soon be in jail.”

  “Will he? What if they believe him and not us? Roland told me what he was gonna say, that we made up the crap about the girl because I’m a thief.” He emphasized the word “thief” then turned to resume pacing.

  I grabbed his arm. “There’ll be evidence. They’ll get a search warrant. I’m sure they’ll find particles of the artifact in his doctor bag. I’m sure that’s how he brought the artifact in here. And maybe they’ll question Melinda. Maybe she’ll admit to their relationship.”

  He shook his head. “I’m going to jail. Jail! I never imagined I’d find myself in jail. I’ve made some mistakes, but I’m not a bad guy.”

  Suppressing a giggle, I tried to look compassionate. “You’re not going to jail. Maybe they’ll bring us to the station for questioning. They won’t put you in jail. You didn’t do anything.”

  “Jail,” he whispered, obviously still picturing it.

  “You know, Jarret, I thought my memory would return once I discovered my attacker. Why didn’t I recognize him that night?”

  “You’d only seen him once or twice before all this. I don’t think you ever spoke to each other.”

  “Really? He acted as if we knew each other well. He called me Catie.” I released his arm and returned to the front window. The officers still stood by the police car. “I was so sure I’d get my memory back.” My voice broke. I was thirsty, that was all. Everything would work out. Would I have time to make tea before our trip to the station? I ambled toward the kitchen.

  Jarret stared at me. As I neared, he grabbed my arm and swung me to face him.

  “Marry me.”

  The desperation in his eyes, the tone of his voice... He seemed to think it was the key to unlock the door that would make everything right. I’d get my memory back. He wouldn’t go to jail. Life would return to normal.

  Holding his gaze, I realized that the intense look in his deep brown eyes had a way of pulling me in, drawing me deeper into his world. I wanted to believe as he seemed to, that renewing our vows would be the answer. I wanted to throw my arms around him and rest in the safety and warmth of his embrace. I did want to marry him. “Jarret, I—”

  “Mr. and Mrs. West.” The taller officer stood by the front door. “We need to bring you in for questioning.”

  CHAPTER 43

  “RELAX, CAITLYN,” ROLAND said. “Stop pacing. It’ll be fine.” He sat in a row of chairs that lined one wall of the detective and administrative area of the police station.

  I unclenched my fists and wiped my sweaty palms on my gray knit skirt. “Oh, all right.” I flopped into the chair between Roland and an old, whiskery man. “I’ll try.”

  Officers worked at desks in the middle of the open area, a phone to one man’s ear, others gazing at computer monitors. Every few seconds, someone marched past us, going to or from halls on either side or stopping at one of the desks. A group of officers stood talking around the desk nearest me, making it impossible for me to hear anything else.

  I didn’t want to listen to them. My attention was glued to the far corner of the room, where an officer sat behind a desk, interviewing Jarret. Jarret jumped up for the third time, making an angry gesture and jerking his head from side to side with an attitude. The officer motioned for him to sit back down.

  My heart thumped against my ribs like a gorilla trying to bust free of a cage. “Oh, my, look at him.”

  Roland grabbed my hand. “Relax. It’ll work out.”

  “What do you think he’s saying?”

  “I don’t know. He doesn’t really know anything except the little bit I explained to him.” He sat there cool as a breeze, serenely undisturbed as if he were watching a movie and not his own frantic brother digging himself into a hole.

  I took a deep breath to calm myself. Ten minutes ago, I’d had no problem explaining things to Officer McDuffie, the officer questioning Jarret. I told Officer McDuffie about Wright Investigators’ work on the abortion case, Mike’s involvement with the underage girl, the pictures on Jarret’s camera, how Mike had attacked me, and about the threats he made against Jarret. I thought it explained perfectly why the stolen artifact was found in our house. I turned over the audio pen recorder as evidence and asked them to contact Candice for pictures and other case information.

  Jarret’s angry voice carried across the room, though I couldn’t make out what he said. Officer McDuffie raised his hands, palms out, in a take-no-offense gesture.

  I winced and turned away.

  Ever-steady Roland squeezed my hand. “Sean and I think we put it all together. Want to hear it?”

  “Hmm?” I faced him, locking my gaze onto cool gray eyes as placid as an undisturbed pond. The look in his eyes, his touch... they no longer set off sparks or butterflies in my stomach. Jarret alone stirred those feelings in me now. But Roland did comfort me in a way no one else ever could. “Sure.”

  Releasing my hand, he leaned forward. “The Thursday before Amnesia Friday, Mike’s underage girlfriend showed up at the dig site to talk. We suspect that’s when she told him a private investigator wanted to speak with her.” He glanced. “One of you guys.”

  “How do you know it was that Thursday?”

  “The properties of the picture files.”

  I nodded. “Oh. Do you think he knew I was the PI or that I was working on a case against the abortion provider?”

  “Maybe. But he definitely realized Jarret had accidentally caught him and Melinda in his pictures that day. Then Jarret took the camera home and unintentionally brought yours back on Friday. So Mike couldn’t delete the pictures yet. And instead of waiting to get the camera from Jarret the following Monday, he decided to get it from you that night.”

  I shivered, an unpleasant feeling weaseling its way into my tummy. “He didn’t realize we’d switched cameras back at lunchtime.”

  “Right. So he waited for you to leave work and... well, he got your camera, thinking it was Jarret’s, not realizing his mistake until days later. Jarret had stopped going to work by then.”

  “Keeping an eye on me.” I dragged in a deep breath and exhaled, my gaze traveling to Jarret. We’d come so far.

  A second later, Jarret jumped up and slid a hand into his back pocket. The officer shoved him back into his chair and shook a finger at him, as if scolding a child.

  “Jarret always makes himself look guilty,” I said by way of placid observation, determined not to let it get to me. As Jarret’s wife, I should probably learn to assess a situation with a bit of distance and prepare myself to help him, the way Roland did.

  “Yeaaah, I know.” Roland combed his fingers through his hair and sighed. “He always has, especially when someone wants him to explain himself.”

  We watched the spectacle for another moment, then Roland continued. “When Jarret finally brought the camera to work, Mike cleaned the pictures off but he figured they might also be copied to your home computer. So he came over today to erase them and for Plan B.”

  “Plan B?”

  “Right. In case either of you suspected him, he wanted to plant evidence to frame Jarret.”

  “Which he’s done with that old pot.”

  “Artifact.”

  “Right, that old pot. And that’s where we are now. Jarret’s accused of stealing and I’m only trying to smear Mike’s name in retaliation.”

  “Rascally young man,” said the whiskery old man beside me. He had a hound dog expression with long vertical folds in his cheeks that deepened as he spoke. “He yours?”

  “What?” I glanced from the man to Jarret, who sat gripping his hair and shouting. “Yup. He’s mine.” My heart sang at the thought.

  “Mine’s in there.” The old man pointed a big-knuckled finger toward one of the two doors marked “Interview Room.” He shook his head with the tired look of someone who had been there too many times. “Granddaughter. Takes after her mother.”

  “What did your granddaughter do?” Maybe I was being nosy, but he seemed to wa
nt to talk. And he had called my husband rascally.

  Before the man could answer, two figures entered from the foyer. They moved at a pace that stood apart from other passersby, not hurried like the officers and not haltingly like first-time visitors. It was more of a grand entrance.

  “I am certain we can clear this up in a matter of minutes.” Mike’s cordial Southern drawl carried over the chatter in the station. He wore his hair slicked back into a smooth ponytail and the same sport coat he had on earlier but with dress pants rather than jeans. “I will cooperate in whatever way I can. I full well expected Jarret West to find some way to retaliate.” He laughed. “I cannot wait to hear what he has accused me of.”

  Mike strode into the area alongside the arresting officer, taking no notice of me and Roland as he passed. The officer led him to an interview room.

  “I think Jarret’s done.” Roland popped up.

  Jarret stood—without being shoved back down—next to the officer, the two of them conversing casually. They shook hands. Then Jarret crossed the room, looking drained but regaining his cool with every step.

  A black female officer escorted Melinda and a woman with bleached-blond hair from the other interview room. Melinda wore a tight yellow-and-white shorts outfit and sauntered like a runway model, sparing no one a glance. Her mother wore an equally skimpy black outfit and heavier make-up.

  The old man and I stood up together.

  “Good luck with yours. Here’s mine,” he said to me, then to the blond woman, “How’d that go?”

  “These people here are all confused.” The woman gave an annoyed headshake. “They thought my Melinda here was seeing some doctor. I mean really. Can y’all imagine? That would be some catch, but I don’t know where they get their information. Come on, girl. You should be in school.”

  “Hey.” Jarret stepped into Melinda’s path. “That looks like the—” His gaze snapped from her neck to her eyes. “Where’d you get that?”

  Melinda’s hand shot to her neck, covering the necklace, the dull blue crystal she’d worn when Sean and I interviewed her. “My boyfriend gave it to me.”

  “Your boyfriend? Can I see it? It looks like—”