Mind Lies

by Harlow Stone

  God bless this understanding, straight-shooting woman.

  “Okay, Coop, what else have you found?”

  “I found a parking ticket near Whitman, which is also just off the highway from where you had your accident between Brockton and Plymouth. Closer to Brockton.”

  His information is sobering. “I’ve only put a few searches in, Jerri. This is the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. I’ve only had the past hour to run a few things. Who knows what else we’ll find.”

  Ain’t that the truth.

  I’ve learned a lot about my secretive past-self. It’s frightening to think that one person could be so reticent, and I’m still wondering why I was forced to be that way.

  Our talk moves to lighter topics as Cooper serves us an informal dinner of pasta, salad, and bread. It’s definitely the comfort food I needed, and the fact that I’m only running on a few hours of sleep, thanks to last night’s revelations, means the food hit heavy, and it hit hard. Add in the two glasses of wine I drank, and I’m ready for bed at seven on a Thursday night.

  Portia offers to walk me home, but Cooper tells her she’s on clean up duty and he’ll do the honor. “I offered to help clean up,” I repeat to him, but they both wave their hands at me, shooing me out the door.

  When we reach street-level, he asks again, “Are you sure you’re not pissed at me for digging into your past?”

  I arch a brow and reply, “Would you stop if I said yes?”

  He chuckles. “Probably not.”

  I nod. “That’s what I thought. For what it’s worth, I appreciate it. God, I feel so lost some days. Most days.”

  “For what it’s worth, Jerri, I almost hope this isn’t real. You’re my wife’s best friend, and regardless of how much she lets on she’s not hurt from your reticence I know once it all sets in, she’s going to take it hard.”

  I gasp. “I’m sorry, Cooper. You have no idea how sorry I—”

  He clasps my arm to guide me across the street, cutting me off. “No, Jerri, you don’t have anything to be sorry for. If you lied to protect her, which is what I believe you did, I get it. Hell, I even respect it. My point is I hope it’s not real because of the potential danger involved, for you and my wife. But mostly I hope it’s not real because I dread what might happen if it is, where you might go.”

  “I don’t understand,” I tell him.

  “Think about it, Jerri. If this guy is real, if your wish is to go to Ireland together, to run away, if it’s all true, what will happen if the danger is gone? What will happen if he does come back?” He pauses as he runs a hand down his face. “What if this is just a pit stop, Jerri? What if this ‘safe place’ is exactly that, just someplace safe you settle in until the shitstorm blows over and you go back to wherever it is you came from?”

  It all sinks in.

  He’s not just worried about the danger. He’s not only worried about me. He’s worried about what will happen if this is a pit stop, what will happen to my relationship with Portia when it’s all over.

  Stopping once we reach my side of the street, I set my hand on his arm and wait until his eyes reach mine before I speak. “When I woke up in that hospital bed, it could have been anyone there to greet me. But I didn’t get just anyone; I got the best damn friend a girl could ask for. She could have run out on me. She could have left me to fend for myself, but she didn’t.” I shake my head. “I have no family, no aunts, no uncles, husbands or babies. I don’t have a goddamn person in this world who gives a shit about me enough to come and stand by my bedside, except for her. I woke up with nothing, but so far, Cooper, she has given me everything.

  “I may not remember her, but I can’t imagine doing this without her. I can’t thank either of you enough for all you’ve done. But bottom line, Cooper, regardless of where this takes me, I will not throw away what she’s given me. She’s been completely selfless since she found me a few weeks ago, and if that’s the kind of person she is, I’d be a fool to not realize the past ten years with her haven’t been as important.”

  Mid-rant, Cooper’s eyes soften, but I continue, speaking from the heart, telling him all I feel for his lovely wife. Hooking my neck in his elbow, he pulls me close and kisses the top of my head before walking us toward the back of my building. “You’re a good friend, Jerri.”

  Smiling, I say, “As are you, Cooper.”

  When we near the steps, Cooper puts his hand on my shoulder. As I raise my eyes to ask him why, I note the man standing at the door leading to my apartment above the shop. He’s ringing the doorbell.

  “Can I help you?” Cooper’s voice is much stronger than it normally is. He’s on alert and hasn’t let go of my shoulder. The man is dressed similarly to Cooper and is matching in size with similar wide shoulders and narrow waist. He’s wearing dark jeans and a dark long-sleeve shirt beneath a dark jacket.

  “Looking for Jerri Sloane,” he says, his striking blue eyes trained on me. He obviously already knows who I am. “Who’s asking?” Cooper replies.

  Pushing his coat aside, the stranger shows a badge hanging like a dog tag around his neck. “Boston P.D. Detective Bryan O’Shaunessy.”

  Cooper asks, “Don’t you guys usually travel in pairs?”

  Boston P.D. guy smirks and points to the blacked-out SUV on the side street before asking, “Can I have a few minutes of your time, Ms. Sloane?”

  Confused and curious, I nod. “Yes, but Cooper stays,” I tell him.

  He nods as if he doesn’t give a shit and asks, “Got somewhere we can talk?”

  Cooper replies, “If it won’t take long, we can talk right here.”

  Boston P.D. shrugs and leans against the building. “I came to the hospital a few weeks ago, but you were still out. Took a bit to track you down. I came the other day as well, but nobody was home.”

  No, I wasn’t, because Portia and I were at Ming’s Coin Wash, where the earth fell from beneath my feet.

  “Anyway,” he continues, rubbing his bald head. He’s fit, is maybe late-thirties, and has a distinct Boston accent. “I need to ask what you remember from the night of the accident, where you were headed and coming from. Blood results came back quickly. They determined that no drugs or alcohol were at play, but I need your side of the story.”

  “Was there another side?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “No, there was not.”

  I frown. “If it were a single car accident, I don’t know why my comings or goings are important.”

  Standing up from the wall with his hands clasped in front of him, he says, “It usually isn’t, but in this case it is. Anything you tell me could be helpful.”

  Cooper takes the words from my mouth when he asks, “Why in this case?”

  Boston sobers. “Do you have any enemies, Ms. Sloane? Anyone who might want to cause you harm?” The blood drains from my face, but I do my best to respond truthfully. “I don’t know.” It’s not a complete lie. If my memories are true and someone does want to hurt me—I don’t know who they are.

  “Why?” Cooper asks.

  “Because the brake lines on Ms. Sloane’s SUV were cut,” Boston soberly replies.

  I gasp, and Cooper’s hold on my arm keeps me upright. He guides me toward the outside steps so that I can sit down. Breathing deeply, head in hands, I ask, “Why are you just telling me this now? It’s been a month!”

  He clears his throat. “I wasn’t at the scene when the wreck took place. The officer who was made note that there were no skid marks on the road. Normally that would mean the driver was impaired or fell asleep at the wheel, but you came up clean. I tried to see you in the hospital, but you were still in a coma; and, as I said, I came to see you the other day, but you weren’t home. So this is me following up.”

  Cooper huffs and sits down beside me. “She can’t help you.”

  Boston takes a bolder stance, clearly agitated. “And you are?”

  Cooper looks him dead in the eye. “Cooper Gray. My wife and I are Jerri’s close friends.”


  “I can see that,” Boston replies, his tone insinuating we’re more than friends. I hold my hand up, cutting Cooper off before he unleashes. “I was just at the Gray’s for dinner, and Cooper walked me home. To be honest, I’m grateful he did because your presence at my back door is a little intimidating.” I wave to his brick wall of a body. “And I can’t help you because I don’t remember,” I grudgingly add.

  “You don’t remember the accident? Maybe you can tell me where you came from at one in the morning?”

  I shake my head. “I take it you didn’t speak with the doctor who released me?”

  He shakes his head. “I was informed when you woke up, but I was out of town. By the time I got to the hospital, I found out you’d been discharged.”

  I scoff. “I wouldn’t have been able to help you any sooner. I don’t remember because I have amnesia, Detective, which means I remember nothing. I don’t remember what my car looked like, much less how the accident happened. The only reason I know my birthday is because I read it in my medical file. So as I said, I can’t help you. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

  He softens instantly, the blood draining from his stark but handsome face. “I’m sorry, Ms. Sloane. I wasn’t aware.”

  “Clearly,” Cooper mumbles, earning him a scowl from the detective.

  “And where were you on the night of the accident Mr. Gray?”

  Cooper scowls back. “In the Cayman Islands, on my honeymoon.” The Detective still looks skeptical, so Cooper adds, “My wife and I live in the building across the street. She can confirm we were there. You can also look at my credit card statements. Go ask the resort staff and the pilot who flew the damn plane.”

  Reluctantly, he nods, placated by Cooper’s response. “Did you remember this man and his wife when you woke up, Ms. Sloane?”

  I shake my head, tired of the conversation. “No, I didn’t. But his wife and I run this store together, and there are hundreds of photos of us together in my apartment, so I’m pretty sure they can confirm we know each other,” I respond sarcastically.

  “I hope your memory returns, Ms. Sloane. The cut brake line was no accident. I’m gonna leave my card; if you remember anything, please call me.” He hands me his card and asks, “Are you driving again?”

  Stuffing the card in my pocket, I reply, “No, I haven’t replaced the old vehicle yet, and to be honest I’m not ready to. I’m not sure I would remember how to drive properly, let alone know where I’d be going.”

  Stuffing his hands in his jean pockets, he speaks as he steps back to his truck. “I’ll be in touch, Ms. Sloane. Stay safe.”

  Not yet knowing who I need to be safe from, I simply wave lightly and hang my head.

  Do you have any enemies?

  Your break lines were cut.

  “Shit just got a whole lot more serious, Jer.”

  I nod, watching the SUV with two occupants drive away.

  “It sure did, Coop,”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Did you think I wouldn’t find you, Lass?”

  I freeze as I pull the key from my apartment door. It’s not the old apartment above Ming’s Laundromat. It’s the new one a little closer to night school, the one I moved to so I could get away from the man currently parked on my couch in the living room.

  Locklin.

  It has been four months since I last saw him, four months since I packed my few belongings and moved into this tiny, low-rent apartment. It has only been two days since Portia left, and I’m grateful she’s not with me tonight; I have no idea how I would explain Locklin’s presence.

  I had offered Portia my couch to sleep on after her horrible on-again-off-again boyfriend gave her a black eye. I still don’t know her very well, but I knew enough that no woman deserved that sort of treatment, and I also knew she needed a safe place to lay her head at night. The arrangement only lasted a few weeks while she waited for an apartment to open up. She left the other day, and I can truly say I miss having her here.

  You don’t realize how lonely you are until the sound of silence truly sinks in.

  Locklin has broken that silence, and for the first time since we met, I can honestly say I am not thrilled to see him. I spent weeks, maybe months, lost in myself and the grief over losing our child.

  Lost and alone.

  His presence now is a kick in the teeth.

  “I don’t recall inviting you in.”

  Even in the dark, I know he has that stupid smirk on his face, the one that says, “I’ll go where I want, do what I want, and see who I want, and not a damn thing will get in my way.”

  “You left me, Jerrilyn.” The deep timbre of his voice, and the use of my full name, lets me know exactly how pissed off he is. “No forwarding address at Ming’s. No text. No calls. Why?”

  His Irish brogue, which is more pronounced when pissed off or turned on, sends shivers down my spine. Much to my dismay, it still and probably always will affect me. Regardless of his wants, I need to put myself first. We’ve been doing this back-and-forth for years now, and no matter how much steel I put around my heart—sometimes to keep him in, sometimes to block him out—I know it’s time.

  Closing the door, I finally turn to face him. The bulb over the stove casts a faint light on his face. The dark hair flopping over his forehead casts shadows over the angles of his cheekbones. I drop my purse on the counter and lean back against it. I have no intention of taking a place next to him on the couch. I can’t think, let alone speak properly, when we’re that close.

  Folding my arms over my chest, I prepare to say what I’ve planned from the moment I left Ming’s. I knew he would find me eventually. Stupidly, I had hoped for more time.

  “I’m done running with you, Locklin.”

  His fingers clench into fists as he replies. “I’ve kept you in the same place for more than a year. That’s hardly running.”

  I shake my head. “I know. I guess what I mean is I’m not running again. And if you need to, I won’t be coming with you. I’m staying here, Locklin.”

  Leaning forward, he places his clenched fists by his thighs and flexes them. Mockingly, he says, “I had no intention of moving you. Boston has proved to be safe, so I don’t understand the theatrics and you running from me. If you wanted a new apartment—by the looks of it, a much shittier one—you could have talked to me first, and I would have helped you fucking move.” His voice raises with each word. “Because you wouldn’t talk to me, I had to track you down like a goddamn dog. THEN, I have to wait for days until that woman from school leaves your apartment. What the hell were you thinking, Jerri?”

  I move from the island and stand on the other side of the coffee table, holding onto what little patience I have left. “What was I thinking? I’ll tell you what I was thinking, Locklin—”

  “Please, fucking do!” he yells.

  I calmly say, “I was thinking that I’m done hiding in an apartment with no life and no friends. I was thinking that if and when I’m not in school, I’m going to get a job. I’ll be twenty-four soon, Locklin, and I’m done hiding away while life passes me by.”

  He throws his hands in the air in frustration and stands from the couch. “In case you’ve forgotten, hiding keeps you safe!”

  “Oh, piss off with the safety bullshit again, Locklin. What do I do all day, huh? Up until YOU decided night school was safe, I spent my days held up in an apartment. The only thing I had to look forward to was when you would finally show up.” I curse the crack in my voice, but I power on. “It’s not just about school or getting a job, which I plan to do. It’s the fact that the only purpose I’ve had for the past few years is to sit . . . and wait . . . for you. My life revolves around you, Lockin. My days became, ‘How many weeks until Locklin returns,’ ‘How many days will he be staying,’ and ‘How many days until he comes back’? I’m sick of it, Lock. I can’t do it anymore.” Wiping the tears from my cheeks, I shake my head when he starts to move closer. “I don’t want to do it anymore, Locklin.�
��

  He staggers, and when I have the courage to face him, I raise my wet eyes to meet his confused ones. Shaking his head, he says, “You don’t know what you’re saying, Lass.”

  I nod. “Yes, Locklin, I do. I’m done waiting months on end for you to come to me. I’m done waiting weeks before I get a text letting me know you’re alive. I’m done being your temporary resting spot.”

  “You were never temporary. WE are not temporary!” he says, slicing his hand through the air to emphasize his point.

  “It’s not your choice, Locklin. I won’t sit and wait for you anymore. Either you’re here or you’re gone. I’ve given you two years to settle this, and you haven’t. I’m done waiting, Locklin.”

  Pushing the coffee table to the side, he curses. “This is bullshit, Jerri! You cannot make me choose. I’m not ready to take them down yet; I need more time!”

  I knew that’s what he would say. “That’s fine, Locklin. You go do what you need to do, but just know I’m not in it anymore.”

  Skirting the coffee table at speed, he grabs onto my shoulders. “You can’t do that to me, Lass. I’m still here because of you! I’m doing this for y—”

  “Don’t you dare.” I nearly growl the words at him. “Don’t you dare, Locklin. You’re standing in this apartment because of me, but the reason you’re gone for months on end and won’t let this go is because of her.”

  Shaking his hands off my shoulders, I move to the island and retrieve the small black-and-white photo from the back of the drawer. Locklin watches me, running a hand through his thick hair. I stop in front of him, admiring his rugged beauty for what may be the last time before I hand him the photo.

  Tentatively, he reaches out, holding the corner of the image with care before angling it toward the light in the kitchen. He frowns, and then his jaw goes slack when he reads “Baby Sloane” in the top right corner. The image of the unborn child is but a blob, but it still holds weight—the weight of something he and I created together.

  “Jerri girl,” Locklin whispers. He looks from the photo to my stomach, surely not having read the date on the image, which was taken many months ago.