Little Girl Lost

by Adrianne Lee

  “Don’t know—? He was your brother-in-law for four years. For—” Chad broke off, abject confusion in his frown, his tawny brows dipping like twin blades over his gray-blue eyes. “What am I missing? What’s going on?”

  Jane drew another breath, this one wobbly, self-conscious. She glanced across the restaurant, not seeing the roomful of diners, not hearing the murmur of colliding conversations, the clank of silver against china. Slowly, she returned her gaze to his. Could she trust this man? That remained to be seen, but right now, she felt oddly compelled to tell him everything. “I don’t know my own name, either. Not my real name. Jane Dolan is the name the doctor at the hospital gave me.”

  Chad’s eyes opened wider. For the length of five heartbeats, he studied her, then leaned forward, planted his elbows on the table and tugged at the pinkie finger of his left hand, the gesture absent, nervous. “Amnesia?”

  “Yes,” Jane spoke softly. She told him she’d been involved in the Interstate 90 crash, and was relieved that he recalled it, that she didn’t have to elaborate. “I took a pretty good bump to the head. It stunned me. Wiped out all my memory of anything beyond five years back.”

  Chad felt his jackpot dwindling, slipping away altogether in his unexpected compassion for his star news source. For Kayleen’s sister. “If you don’t know who you are, then how do you know about Kayleen?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know about her. Very little, that is. Every time I try to remember, my head feels as if an anvil landed on it.”

  Chad frowned again, sympathy and confusion clouding his reasoning powers. “I don’t understand. Then what brought you to the cabin?”

  Jane rolled her neck and sighed. “I saw Betty’s and Kayleen’s pictures in the paper and my reaction nearly sent me to a hospital emergency room. I knew I knew them, but I didn’t know how or why. I told Diggins I was family and asked to view the bodies. He let me.” She shuddered uncontrollably. “It didn’t knock loose any real memory or recognition, only raised more questions. More confusion. So, I went to the cabin hoping I’d find something out about them.”

  “Did you?”

  She hesitated, wondering if sharing her first solid memory with this virtual stranger would somehow strip the preciousness of it, render it something less. She glanced out the window at her side, and realized the thought was as fanciful and light as the flakes of snow drifting from the dark sky.

  She glanced back at Chad. What was she really frightened of? She’d already told him all the hard stuff. What was the point of concealing the one memento she’d found? She opened her jacket to reveal the gold locket that she wore hanging around her neck. “This…with Kayleen’s and my pictures in it. It belonged to our mother. Betty.” She trailed off sadly, the last name still eluding her.

  “Dawson,” Chad said softly. “Her name was Betty Dawson.”

  Jane blinked at him. “Betty Dawson.”

  Yes. It was right. Pain, black and searing, rammed through her skull with blinding ferocity. She released the locket and grasped her head in both hands, her elbows propped on the table. As though from a great distance, she heard Chad Ryker’s voice. She tried to lift her head, tried to assure him that she was okay, but couldn’t seem to move or talk.

  Her vision blurred, and she felt something wet and hot on her cheeks. Tears, she realized with a jolt. Horrified that she was creating a scene, she ducked her face lower. She couldn’t bear to draw unwanted attention, couldn’t stand seeing pity in strangers’ eyes. It brought back all the emotional pain of the emergency room five years ago. She’d had to endure it then. Not now. Please, God, not now.

  “Jane, Jane.” Chad leaned across the table, speaking softly, alarm shooting through him. She shrugged him off. At a loss, he pulled back. His first instinct was to sweep her out of here, as quickly and as inconspicuously as possible. But something about the way she’d huddled into herself told him it was important to her to get through, in her own way, whatever it was that had her in its grip.

  He resisted the impulse to scoot around the booth and pull her into his arms. Yet, he couldn’t help asking, “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No.” The word was a whisper.

  It curled around Chad’s heart like a banner, denying her neediness, attesting to her strength. But he needed more than strength from her. He needed her memories. He was sure she held the key to nailing Marshall Emerson. Disappointment and frustration assailed him. He’d made provisions for all kinds of setbacks, from plan A to plan Z. None of his contingencies covered amnesia. Where did that leave his story? His investigation?

  Deliberately keeping his gaze from her, knowing instinctively that too much attention would add to her distress, he poured himself another cup of coffee and added a large dollop of cream. He could come forward, identify Kayleen and Betty, write a few stories on their living under assumed names, living in hiding. He could blow Emerson’s claims that Kayleen had left him for another man, could get the good doctor some court hassles over committing bigamy, but in the end, the slimy bastard would come out unscathed.

  Kayleen and Betty would still be dead.

  Maybe he was barking up the wrong tree. Maybe Dean Ray Staples actually had murdered them. He dragged his spoon through his cup until the liquid was a soft camel color. Would Vic even run a story on Emerson based only on supposition and innuendo? Highly unlikely. He did look at Jane now. Saw she was starting to rouse.

  The pain in Jane’s head had subsided, lowered to a level where she could open her eyes without wincing. She scrubbed her damp cheeks with her napkin, embarrassed that her nose was probably red, that this man likely thought her on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

  Chad wondered if she would ever remember the past. He didn’t know much about amnesia. If a bump on the head had wiped out her memory, would another bump return it? He couldn’t bear the thought of such a thing happening to her ever. Not once. And certainly not twice.

  She shoved her hair up and lifted her gaze to him.

  Jane saw sympathy in Chad Ryker’s eyes and heat flushed through her. She didn’t want pity, but she didn’t want his sympathy, either. She hiked her chin high. He mustn’t think her vulnerable. Mustn’t think he had the upper hand.

  “Sorry. It’s just a lot to take in.” She couldn’t understand her mind’s resistance to remembering, wouldn’t even try to explain it to a stranger. She glanced behind him, her gaze falling on a portly man just exiting a neighboring booth. He seemed to be studying them. Jane stifled the urge to stare back at him, and the more habitual urge to ask herself if this was someone else who knew her.

  Chad touched her hand, and the warmth it conveyed was disconcerting and seemed to come straight from his heart. “I’m sure it’s tough.not remembering.”

  Maybe he was one of the good guys, after all. Jane gave him a weak smile. Then, knowing she was probably risking another blast of pain, she asked, “Do—do you know my name?”

  Before he could answer, the portly man who’d been staring at them stopped beside their table. He clapped a hand on Chad’s shoulder. Chad lurched around and looked up. Don Brickman, a reporter from a rival newspaper. Chad’s heart nose-dived.

  “Well, well. Small world, Ryker.” Brickman beamed. “Don’t tell me the Courier has you covering the Staples arraignment, too?”

  “Excuse me?” Jane reared back, her gaze darting from Chad to the fleshy-faced man standing above them. Staples. The Courier. Her heart tripped. Her throat tightened. She gaped at Chad. “You’re a reporter with the Northwest Courier?”

  Chad blanched. “I—”

  “Danged right, he is. Their star investigative reporter.” Brickman slapped Chad’s shoulder again. “Mark my word, if Ryker’s here, there’s more to this double homicide story than meets the eye.”

  As though someone had punctured a hole in her soul, the heat drained from Jane’s body. A reporter. Investigating the double homicide. Dear God. She’d told everything to a reporter. Been taken in by those damned gray-blue e
yes and a disarming grin. She wrenched two one-dollar bills from the bottom of her purse and tossed them on the table, gathered her belongings and slid from the booth.

  Chad was right behind her when she reached the entrance. “Jane, don’t go.”

  She spun around, more to stop him from making a scene than to listen to anything else he had to say. “Leave me alone.”

  He reached for her, thought better of it. “I’m not here for the newspaper.”

  It was a blatant lie, but Chad decided this was no time to split hairs.

  A pleading echoed from her eyes. “Please, pretend we never met.”

  He could see she was riding on jagged nerves, that she’d had enough for one morning. He nodded and let her walk away. He knew where to find her. And he would. Later.

  She hurried to the double doors and collided with a man coming through them, the impact so fierce, Jane landed on her bottom. Chad started toward them, but the man was apologizing, helping her to her feet, and Chad knew his interference would only embarrass her more.

  The man smiled at Jane, studying her face, apparently appreciating the fact that she was a beauty. She thanked him, then brushed past him and out the door.

  The man stood where he was for a full minute staring after Jane, then he turned as Chad started past him, giving Chad a clear look at his face. Cold flowed through Chad’s veins, clenched his muscles.

  The man was medium height, his body husky from daily hours at the gym, his hair long and brown, his eyes such a dull blue they appeared lifeless. But Chad knew a sharp intelligence lived behind those eyes. Elvis Emerson, Marshall’s kid brother.

  Had Jane recognized him?

  Chad hurried outside and into the parking lot. She was sitting in her pickup, the engine idling. Probably warming the heater.

  Had Elvis recognized Jane?

  His heart thudded against his chest, and he willed her to hurry and leave—before Elvis figured out why she looked familiar. She backed out of the parking space.

  Footsteps crunched on the snowy ground behind him. Alarm sent his pulse skipping as Chad glanced around. Elvis Emerson was also staring at Jane’s truck. The excited glint in his pale blue eyes confirmed Chad’s worst fear. He had recognized her.

  Chapter Four

  “On the board of the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Center.” Dr. Marshall J. Emerson paced the oak floor of his home office, scowling as though this appointment to the FHCC board weren’t something he’d striven for for the past ten years. “My big promotion and Kayleen has to pop up. Damn near spoiled it.”

  “Really, Marsh.” Joy Emerson, who looked a good eight years younger than she was, shook the letter opener at him. “Don’t let people hear you say that or they’ll think you killed those women.”

  Marshall rammed a hand through his short brown hair and glared at his pretty wife. His foul temper made controlling a fleeting guilty look impossible. “Are you suggesting.?

  “Certainly not.” She strode across to him and touched his cheek tenderly. “Don’t be angry, tiger.”

  “I’m sorry. There’s just so much at stake.”

  “Your new appointment? You said it wouldn’t be any big deal if someone found out about the bigamy. Has something happened to change your mind?”

  His gut clenched at the mention of that predicament. “No, I don’t think that’s going to happen. As far as the world is concerned, those two women were Mary and Louise Dickerson. No reason to think anyone will connect them with my long-dead wife and mother-in-law.”

  She nodded. “Even if they did, you can’t be held accountable. How were you supposed to know Kayleen hadn’t died in that fiery freeway crash? The authorities were the ones who found her wedding ring and declared hers one of the bodies whose ashes were retrieved from that carnage. You thought you were a widower.”

  That was true. If it came out that Kayleen had been alive at the time he’d married Joy, there would likely be a hassle, but he doubted it would affect his new position on the board of the FHCC—not after he’d donated a new wing to the center.

  “Marsh, does this mean we aren’t legally married?”

  “I’m not sure, but just in case, we’ll go to Idaho next weekend and have another ceremony. If it gets out, we’ll say we were just renewing our vows.”

  “Oh, that will be romantic. Guess I shouldn’t have been so worried Kayleen could come back and hurt us.”

  The old fear swept Marshall. What had his gut churning was something more devastating than bigamy. If Kayleen and her mother had survived that freeway pileup five years ago, had those incriminating papers she’d stolen also survived?

  Joy murmured, “We really ought to thank Dean Ray Staples.”

  “Who? Oh, yeah.” He recalled the name of the man arrested for the murders. “I’d like to shake the guy’s hand.”

  She pressed herself close to her husband in an obvious attempt to get his mind on other matters. “Marsh, about the next in vitro.”

  He reared back and glared down at her, shaking his head. “No, Joy. I’m not going through that hell again. Three tries is enough. If you want a baby so damned bad, we’ll adopt one.”

  She frowned. Her mouth puckered, giving her the look of a petulant child whose father had decided he’d spoiled her for the last time. “I don’t want just any baby, Marsh. I want to be a mother to your baby. I want your child.”

  The determination on her face left no doubt that she would move mountains, if necessary, to accomplish this.

  “Well, that doesn’t seem to be in the cards for us. I can’t stand another round of this, Joy. Two years is too much. Either we adopt, or we remain childless. You decide. But those are the only two options I’ll consider from here on.”

  Unshed tears glistened in her eyes. “Do you think it’s been a picnic for me?”

  “I know it hasn’t.” He kissed her forehead. “That’s why it must end.”

  She moved against him again. “But I just know this time will take.”

  Marshall wrapped his arms around her. It was what she’d said every time. He loved that she wanted his child, but the powers that be deemed otherwise. No sense denying facts. False hopes were for fools.

  “You’re so tense, tiger.” Joy ran her tiny hands up and down the small of his back, leaving hot spots everywhere she touched. Marshall felt the tension in his body giving way to desire. Joy ground her hips against his. He groaned and crushed her to him.

  He didn’t want her getting pregnant, had privately hoped none of the procedures would work. Stretch marks, weight problems forever afterward No thanks. Joy’s body was centerfold perfection. He wanted it to stay that way. He nuzzled her neck, drawing in the heavy fragrance she always wore. Joy. She joked that Jean Patou had created it and named it for her.

  She certainly inspired his creative side.

  He couldn’t say the same for Kayleen. She’d considered sex an obligation, not the adventure that it could be. She’d preferred evenings at home to going out. She’d called his friends snobs, his attempts to increase their social standing a joke. But the hellcat in his arms now was as ambitious as he was.

  The telephone interrupted the thought, immediately cooling his ardor. Was this the call he’d been expecting since yesterday?

  “Someone has really poor timing,” Joy cooed.

  “I have to get this.” Disregarding her protestation, he scooted her out of the room, closed the door, and grabbed the phone receiver before the third ring started. “Hello.”

  “Sound a little anxious, bro. Maybe you should prescribe yourself some of that Valium you’re always doling out to those rich Bellevue housewives.”

  Elvis. It was the call. He ignored his brother’s wiseass comment. “You find anything at the cabin?”

  Marshall held his breath.

  “Nothing of interest to us.”

  “Nothing?” The breath left his lungs with a huff. Relief sloughed through him. “Good. Then this business is done and behind us.”

  “Maybe not.”


  Marshall felt his pulse hitch. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, you aren’t going to believe this—hell, I hardly believe it myself—but I think I literally ran into BJ.”

  “B.J.” was Elvis’s nickname for Kayleen’s sister. Marshall’s heart plunged to his toes with the speed of a descending roller coaster. “Barbara Jo is alive, too?”

  “I can’t say for sure. She doesn’t look the same, but I got a real good look at her face and I think it’s her.”

  Marshall sank to the edge of the desk, overwhelmed by this news. Barbara had survived the crash? Did that mean.could it mean.? He was afraid to explore the possibility his mind had leaped at. “You have to find out for sure.”

  “A friend got me the woman’s name from her pickup plate. She’s calling herself Jane Dolan.”

  Marsh grabbed a pen and tablet from the drawer and wrote the name Jane Dolan in bold letters across the top sheet. “What’s the address?”

  Elvis told him and Marsh added it below the name. Elvis said, “I’m on my way to Ellensburg now.”

  “Call me back right after you talk to her.” His pulse skipped through his veins, his palms dampened and fear ripped along nerves already frayed. “Maybe she knows…maybe she has—”

  He broke off as Joy’s whisper penetrated his shock. “What is going on, tiger? You’re as white as my old uniforms.”

  Joy had stolen back into the room as quiet as a ghost and was staring at the name and address he’d written on the tablet. He flipped the tablet over and covered the receiver with his hand. “I’ll explain in a minute.”

  But he didn’t want to tell her this latest development. Not until, and if, he had to.

  “Don’t worry, bro,” Elvis said. “I know what to do. If she has what we’re after, I’ll get it back.”

  “Good. I’ll be waiting for your call.” Marsh hung up the telephone.

  “Marsh, what did he say? What’s the matter?”