“NO.”
“None at all? I had hoped that your visits to the crash site might have triggered something.”
Dr. O. looked disappointed. She drummed her fingers on her ever-present yellow legal pad. Her frustration didn’t bolster my theory that she was the bad guy. Still too chicken to ask the simple question, I started down another line of inquiry.
“HOW WAS PRAGUE?”
Maybe she would let something slip. Was my sudden interest in her life outside the office enough to set off any warning bells? Would it occur to her that I had figured it out? Or, more likely, would she believe that I had finally grown up and now had the maturity to show interest in someone other than myself?
“One of my favorite cities, although I love every place I’ve traveled. Vienna is extraordinary—Freud and Sacher torte, what a combination. And of course Florence, Rome, and Venice. Istanbul is incredible. Someday you must do some traveling. Maybe Ben will take you. He would be an enchanting guide, don’t you think? So sophisticated.”
“HE’S A CATCH. WHERE ELSE HAVE YOU TRAVELED?”
Dr. O. seemed pleased to be taking this trip down memory lane, and for the rest of our session she told me all about her incredible adventures. It was more interesting than looking at photos from someone’s summer vacation … slightly. Suppressing an almost uncontrollable desire to yawn while trying to memorize the dozens of places she’d visited, I made it through the hour.
In a minute, Dr. O. would say, “I’m afraid our time is up,” and I would have squandered my opportunity until next month. Should I do it? Should I man up and just ask her about the perfume? If it was a completely innocuous question, as Ben insisted, it shouldn’t matter. Like he said, he didn’t pick up on any guilty thoughts when he met her that night, and wouldn’t she think about the accident every time she laid eyes on me? I couldn’t argue with that logic, but I was sure there had to be some explanation. Maybe she was able to compartmentalize her thoughts so completely that she didn’t think about that night unless she wanted to. That made sense. How else could she survive her guilty conscience—it would have smothered her by now, unless she was some kind of sociopath. Here goes nothing.
“THAT PERFUME YOU WERE WEARING THE OTHER NIGHT WAS SO PRETTY. I’D LIKE TO BUY SOME FOR CHARLOTTE FOR HER BIRTHDAY. WHAT’S IT CALLED?”
Was that a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth, did her blink rate increase, did she suddenly look pale, paler than usual? I had been reading a book on the subtle visual cues a person displays when telling a lie. Her voice remained perfectly relaxed.
“You liked it? It doesn’t actually have a name. When I was on my honeymoon, my husband—my ex-husband—took me to a place that blended custom scents. It’s my own private label French perfume. He was so romantic then.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “I stopped wearing it when we got divorced. It reminded me of him, of everything that had happened, and I hated it. But the other day, I found it at the bottom of a drawer, and I just felt ready to wear it again.”
Oh … my … gosh. Before Dr. O. could dismiss me, I was on my feet and out the door. “See you next month, Sasha,” Dr. O. called after me as I ran to my car.
So much for not behaving suspiciously. I was a crap detective.
In the car, I texted Ben. I did it. Asked her about perfume. Custom blend. Now what? Going home to check postmark cities with her travel schedule.
Immediately he texted back. I’ll meet you at your house. Stay calm. Drive carefully.
I was hyperventilating, but I managed to make it home without incident—although when I pulled into the driveway I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten there. That was scary. Whatever happened, I needed to get a tighter rein on my emotions. If I was this distracted, I had no business driving.
So the perfume question had been answered. But what about the dozens of exotic destinations on Dr. O.’s passport? Plenty of people traveled all over the world, but when I took out the list that Mike Grant had given us that morning at Shakespeare’s Flowers, every city she had named was there. So Dr. O. definitely had the opportunity to mail those blue envelopes, as the police detectives—or Jules—would say. Another piece of the puzzle was in place, at least in my mind. In Ben’s, not so much.
“So she’s well traveled and she wears a perfume you vaguely remember. It could just be a similar scent. It has been more than four years since you smelled it, and flowers kind of smell like flowers. Have you considered that?”
Why did Ben feel the need to play devil’s advocate? He had picked me up at my house, and now we were walking along the beach. We were alone except for a few die-hard runners, as the wind was brisk, and it was cold even though the sun was shining brightly. Although it was spring on the calendar, Mother Nature hadn’t yet turned the page. But the chilly air sharpened my thoughts, and I needed to talk this out with someone.
“The perfume is the same. I know it. And she’s visited all those cities. That’s huge. And she’s a world-famous shrink who claims I can’t be hypnotized, but your mother put me under like it was nothing. She told me I was her only failure—maybe she failed on purpose.”
Everything I was saying made perfect sense. The evidence was piling up. Why didn’t he get it?
“Gather the villagers, grab a rope, and light the torches,” Ben shouted into the wind.
“Way to be supportive. I’m serious.” I punched his arm playfully and he rubbed the spot, pretending I had actually hurt him.
“No hitting. All I’m saying is that what you’re proposing is very serious business. Leaving the scene of an accident is a felony, isn’t it, Counselor?” Not a particularly romantic statement, but it didn’t take much. He bent down and kissed me, his body sheltering mine from the wind. After we came up for air, he said, “Why are we talking about this now? Your aunt and uncle won’t be home for hours, will they? We should go back to your house and warm up. Your nose feels like an ice cube. And I can think of way better things to do this afternoon than play Agatha Christie.”
“You can? Well, before I lose you completely, I looked it up, and the Statute of Limitations in Connecticut for leaving the scene of an accident is five years. In December, five years will have passed. We don’t have much time before the clock runs out. It’s already the middle of April.”
I ran down the beach, and he chased me, easily catching me after about five steps. Not that I really wanted to get away. But I did want him to take me more seriously.
“You’re not going anywhere, Sash, so just relax. On a completely different topic, and not to belittle your quest for justice, but don’t you think your time would be better spent studying for the SAT? You never want to talk about school.”
“I hate school.”
“Very mature. Look, even if you solve every cold case in Connecticut, you have to go to college. And no matter how much sleuthing you do, you can’t bring your family back.”
Ben was right. Even if I unraveled my mystery, I couldn’t retrieve all that I had lost. Mom and Dad and Liz would still be dead. Maybe it was time to start focusing on my future, especially if there was any possibility that Ben would be a part of it. Since the accident, I hadn’t thought about school as a means to an end. I did my work, got good grades … but perhaps it was time to take control of my own destiny, even if that meant letting go of the past.
“Took it back in October, smartass. One of the few benefits of having no social life was that I got lots of studying done. How about you? Aren’t I keeping you from that big blue book of practice questions?”
It was obvious that Ben was really smart, but I had no idea where he wanted to go to college or what he wanted to be when he grew up. That was bad. Note to self: be more interested in boyfriend’s hopes and dreams. Would it be weird if we went to the same school?
His smile was smug. “I already took it as well. At L’Istituto Americano in Florence. Now that we’ve established how disciplined and maybe a little bit obsessive we are, let’s get back to where we are right now. What are you an
d the other Hardy Boy going to do next? It’s clear you’re not ready to pack it in.”
“I don’t know. Obviously you have a suggestion.”
I waited politely for his mature, rational advice: let it go and move on with your life. Not that I was going to listen to him.
“First, stop. This is where I first kissed you that cold, windy day—I couldn’t resist you in that hat. Remember?”
His hands were on my neck, cradling my head, just as they had that afternoon. My heart beat double-time again—it seemed so long ago, but it was only a few months.
I shook my head. “Not really. I think you need to refresh my memory.”
“Just what I was hoping you’d say.”
He pulled me close and leaned over, studying my face. In that second before his lips touched mine, I could feel how much he loved me, wanted me, even in my imperfect, perhaps unbalanced, state.
After three elderly joggers had trotted by, and each of them had whistled lasciviously, we finally let go of each other. I jumped up and down and then bent over and touched my toes. “You were going to give me some wise words, I think.”
“What are you doing? You look possessed.” Trying valiantly to hold back a laugh, but failing, Ben covered his mouth with his hand.
“I’m trying to get the blood back to my brain. I can’t think straight.” I rubbed my eyes and shook my head. “That’s better. You don’t get at all lightheaded when we kiss?”
“No, but trust me, it’s all good. Maybe because I have a little more experience than you, I have better control over my body.” Was he teasing? “You just need more practice.”
“Exactly how much experience are we talking about?”
Until that moment, it had never occurred to me that Ben had done to other girls what he had done to me. Duh. As he’d just implied, you don’t get so good without lots of practice.
“Exactly what kind of experience are you talking about?” he asked.
We sat down on a bench in a copse of trees, out of the wind. Without the stiff breeze, the sun was warm on my face. I leaned back and closed my eyes, breathing in the clean, slightly briny air.
“Where to begin?” Opening one eye, I peered sideways. Here goes nothing. “How many girls have you had sex with?”
“Cut to the chase, why don’t you?”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”
“No, it’s not a big deal. I don’t mind telling you. Just one, but she wasn’t really a girl. She was twenty-six, and I was sixteen.”
Not at all what I’d expected to hear. My mouth fell open.
“Isn’t that illegal? What would a grown woman want with a boy?”
Not that Ben wasn’t totally edible, and more mature than most twenty-six-year-olds probably were, but still. Except for those middle-school teachers in Florida that I’d read about in the newspaper, I thought normal women in their twenties wanted full-fledged men, who shaved every day and had real jobs.
“She was a graduate student at the University of Florence. She was from Paris, and she was writing her dissertation on Italian Renaissance architecture. In Europe, things are different. That kind of age difference isn’t a big deal. But my parents don’t know, so please don’t ever tell them. They would probably be as shocked as you are, and not too happy. But what guy would turn down a beautiful woman who made it very clear that she wanted more than a jogging partner?”
He ran his hands through his curls. At least he had the decency to look mildly abashed.
“Sounds like every teenage boy’s fantasy.”
How could I ever compete with that? Gorgeous, uninhibited, and obviously brilliant to boot.
“It was,” he said matter-of-factly.
“So how beautiful was she?” It sounded like the almost-punch line of a bad joke, but I just kept going.
“Very. Something about you reminds me of her—tiny waist, great curves.” He mimed an hourglass shape with his hands.
“So what you’re saying is you have a type.” But I already knew that. He had told me that statuesque, Amazonian Aubrey was not his taste.
“I never much thought about it, but I guess I do.”
“So that makes me the less-exciting domestic version.”
I was beginning to regret that I’d instigated this little voyage into his sexual history. Ignorance was definitely more blissful than a head filled with images of Ben losing his virginity to some French Mrs. Robinson in a grotto behind an eighteenth-century Italian villa.
“Don’t be ridiculous. For one thing, except for your build, you don’t look anything like her. She was blonde, tan, and ten years older than you. Your hair is nearly black, your skin is milky white, and you’re still a sweet, innocent baby.” He pinched my cheeks, puckering his lips like a grandmother and cooing nonsense.
“Ouch. So what you’re saying is that I’m just a pale, unseasoned imitation of the real thing.”
Rubbing my cheeks, I closed my eyes and saw Ben strolling arm in arm along the banks of the Arno with a dazzling girl who was a much better version of me.
“That’s not at all what I mean. You’re not going to let me off the hook, are you?”
“Nope. You dug yourself in deep when you started comparing me to your sex goddess.” I was just teasing, but now that I knew a little bit, I had to know everything.
“Doesn’t everybody have a type—freckles, curly hair, broad shoulders—some little thing that just hits us a certain way? Don’t you prefer some physical traits over others?”
He had skillfully directed the conversation away from his delectable, sophisticated French pastry, but I wasn’t finished.
“Whatever. So you’re my type. But were you in love with her?”
He had told me more than once that he loved me. Was I the first recipient of those three precious words, or had my older, semi-doppelgänger, poacher of his innocence, gotten there first?
“Like I said before, it was pretty much all physical. We liked each other, had fun together, but it wasn’t love. You’re my first in that department. And that’s what matters.” Exactly what I wanted—needed—to hear.
“Good answer.” We held hands and watched the shadows grow longer as the late afternoon sun dipped lower in the sky.
Truthfully, I was relieved that Ben had some experience. Otherwise it would be the blind leading the blind, and that wouldn’t be nearly as much fun as what we had.
“But the most important thing Solange taught me was that if a man makes a woman happy—not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually—then he’ll be happy. Stop making that face. You should be grateful to her. You’re the beneficiary of her life lessons.” He cleared his throat meaningfully.
“I’m not making a face. Do you have her address? I’d like to send her a fruit basket. You’ve been well schooled, and I’m very grateful. Her name was really Solange? Are you sure she wasn’t a professional?” I asked, only half-joking.
“Catty much? A professional student, maybe, but nothing else. No money exchanged hands, although I spent a fortune on espresso. That woman never slept. It was exhausting.”
Was he blushing at the memory, or was it just the sun that made his cheeks look pink?
“You win. I’ve had enough. What was it you were going to tell me? What sage advice were you about to offer before we got distracted by Solange?”
Ben tilted his head and thought for a second. “I have no idea what I was going to say. It couldn’t have been that wise if I can’t remember.”
“I didn’t want to know anyway. You were probably just going to tell me to let sleeping dogs lie or stop jumping to conclusions or think of this as the first day of the rest of my life. Some fortune cookie crap.”
“That sounds about right. I just don’t want you to be disappointed. Even if Dr. O. turns out to be the person you’re looking for, unless she admits it, there’s really no way for you to prove it. Your memory of some perfume isn’t exactly hard evidence—definitely not enough to get a conv
iction. And then what? After reliving your nightmare in front of all kinds of strangers, you’re still you. All your problems will still be there.”
“Stop being so fucking rational. It’s not helpful.” I knew he was right, but I hated hearing it.
“Fine, if you don’t want to listen to the voice of reason, you’re going to have to find a way to shut me up,” Ben murmured in my ear.
“Duct tape?” I offered.
“Not what I had in mind.” He pulled me down into his lap and bent over me, his long eyelashes tickling my cheeks before he kissed me.
“I guess this is a little better than duct tape,” I whispered back. But I wasn’t quite ready to let go and move on.
Chapter 25
“Sasha, what are you doing here? I thought we agreed to meet next month. Did something happen since yesterday? Have you recovered a memory?” Dr. O. looked and sounded flustered to see me standing outside the door to her office.
I had already typed my question into my talk box, so I just pressed the play button. “I REMEMBERED A SMELL FROM THE ACCIDENT. PERFUME.”
Now I had crossed the Rubicon—there was no going back. Beads of sweat ran down the back of my neck, but I felt a chill.
“Why don’t you come in and sit down?” said the spider to the fly. I shivered. “My next appointment is not for another half hour. You’re clearly upset. Let’s talk.” She took my arm and led me into her office.
Perching on the edge of the sofa, I jabbed at the keys.
“ON THE NIGHT OF THE ACCIDENT I SMELLED THE SAME PERFUME YOU WERE WEARING IN THE RESTAURANT. WERE YOU AT THE CRASH SITE? DID YOU LOOK INTO THE CAR WITH A FLASHLIGHT? DID YOU WRITE ALL THOSE POEMS? DID YOU KILL MY FAMILY?”
The last five words hung in the air like dense, black smoke. I was either bat-ass crazy, and Dr. O. would talk me down in her clear, rational shrink voice … or my family’s killer was sitting three feet away from me, and now she knew that I knew. Uh-oh. It hadn’t occurred to me until that moment that I could be in some kind of danger. Ben had almost but not quite convinced me that my nose was confused, and therefore I hadn’t thought to tell anyone where I was going. If Dr. O. turned out to be a madwoman, I could be in big trouble.
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