Mind Lies

by Harlow Stone

  He gives me a thin-lipped smile. “It is. However, we’ve discovered the reason for these symptoms.” It’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop when he says, “You’re pregnant.”

  My hand somehow wound up in Portia’s, and she’s squeezing it.

  Hard.

  Katherine is on the other side of me, prepared as any head doctor would be to help me navigate the news.

  I’m pregnant.

  What if Locklin is the father?

  And worse, what if he’s not?

  “Oh my god,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut. I have déjà vu; a barrage of images flash in front of me like a movie reel.

  I wake up in the middle of the night. My sleep shirt is soaked. My hands are slick with . . . blood. I try to dial 9-1-1.

  I’m lying in the hospital, battling the depression that tried to sink its claws into me after I realized what happened to my baby. I realize I’ll always be doing this on my own.

  My child would only have a part-time father, if he lived long enough to take on the job.

  Locklin’s words echo in my ear: “You left me, Jerrilyn.”

  “Jerri, are you alright?” Katherine asks, snapping me out of my memories.

  “Do you have my file in that bag?” I ask her. She says yes and proceeds to pull it out. I waste no time in grabbing it from her, placing it on my lap and flipping furiously through the pages.

  “What are you looking for, Jerri? Perhaps I can help?” she says. I ignore her, reading the top of every page until I’m satisfied. I then go back to the page that mentions my miscarriage. I pull it out and wave it at Dr. Havan. “Is this going to be a recurring problem? Will I carry this baby to term? Am I high risk?” I ask.

  He looks over the page before setting it back on the bed. “From what I understand, Ms. Sloane, you should not have any problems carrying to term; however, you’ll need to speak to an obstetrician to be certain. I already paged the one on-call if you wish to find out exactly how far along you are and what to expect.”

  I shake my head. “Yes, send her. I need to know.” He gives me an affirmative nod before heading to the door. “If the dizziness persists, please come back and get looked at.”

  I barely acknowledge him as he leaves, not because I’m rude but because I’m too overwhelmed with the news of the pregnancy.

  “Do you think it’s him, Jerri?” Portia asks. I sigh. “I don’t know. I have no idea who the father of my child is. Jesus.” I laugh. It’s a humorless one, but it’s there. How many people can say they got knocked-up, suffered from amnesia, and then forgot who got them pregnant?

  Me. That’s who.

  “We’ll work through this, Jerri. What were you remembering earlier before you asked for your file?” Katherine asks. I wave my hand in dismissal. “Just the note that mentioned my previous miscarriage.”

  Thankfully, the obstetrician chooses this moment to enter, saving me from lying anymore to Katherine. I don’t want to lie to her. She’s a wonderful woman and a great doctor; however, there are some things that need to be kept to myself.

  “Hello, I’m Dr. Ranier.” She offers her hand, and I mildly shake it, watching the nurse roll a portable ultrasound machine into the room. “I’ve been briefed about your condition, Ms. Sloane. I understand you have worries, maybe a few questions?”

  That’s an understatement, but I say, “I do. Were you told about the first miscarriage?” I wait for her to confirm before I continue. “Will it impact this one?”

  She proceeds to set up the machine, moving on autopilot. “Unfortunately, miscarriage is common thing, but it doesn’t always mean the mother will have difficulty carrying again. I’m sure you fit into that category, Ms. Sloane. But to be safe, let’s go in and have a look, okay?”

  Dr. Katherine slips into the hall while Dr. Ranier instructs me to lie back and relax.

  “This is very early, Ms. Sloane. I’m sure you conceived around the time of your accident, give or take a few days, which puts you at about four weeks pregnant.” She points to a tiny dot on the screen. “It’s not much to look at yet, but there he or she is.”

  I fight back the few tears that gather in my eyes. “And how does everything look?”

  Portia holds my hand in both of hers. “Everything looks great so far,” Dr. Ranier says. “We’ll schedule another ultrasound for a month from today just to be on the safe side.”

  “Thank you. I have one more question.”

  She nods. “Shoot.”

  “Would being in a coma or on any of the medication I was given effect the pregnancy?” She flips through a few pages of my chart sitting at the end of the bed before shaking her head. “Honestly, in most cases, it would be considered too early for something to happen. We’ll run a few extra tests at the next ultrasound, but I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Priority number one now is taking care of you so you can take care of baby. I’ll leave a prescription at the desk for your pre-natal vitamins and folic acid. I also want you to make sure you’re eating properly. Your blood sugar levels were quite low today, as were your protein and iron.”

  I tell her, “I haven’t had much of an appetite after the accident, but I’ll make sure that changes.”

  “Good.” She smiles before wrapping up her machine. “I’ll see you in four weeks.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “What were you really looking for in that file, Jer?” Portia asks in the car on the way home. After I told Katherine I would call her in a day or two once I got some rest, we beelined out of the hospital as quickly as my tired body would allow.

  “My name,” I tell her. She frowns, so I elaborate: “In my last memory of Locklin, he called me Jerrilyn. It wasn’t a nickname. It was like when someone’s pissed off at you and chooses to use your full name to let you know how serious they are.”

  “Was he pissed off?” Cooper questions.

  “Yes. He was. It was when he found me after I left the apartment above Ming’s laundromat. He was waiting for me in my apartment the day after Portia moved out.”

  Cooper says, “This isn’t a bad thing, Jerri. I can look into more with that name, see if it helps me find anything new.”

  “I want to go to Brockton,” I tell him. “I want to see where I got that parking ticket, maybe find out if the coffee shop he and I went to is there. I want to see where I got into the accident as well.”

  “Whoa, Lady, that’s a lot for one day, don’t ya think?” Portia says, clearly more worried about my well-being when all I’m worried about is getting answers and finding the father of my child.

  “No, Portia, I need to do something. If you guys are busy, take me to a car service place or something, I need to—”

  Cooper cuts me off. “We’ll take you, Jerri. Portia’s just worried after what happened this morning.”

  I give Portia a kind glance and tell her, “Thank you, and I appreciate it. But either I can sit at my apartment or sit in a car. And right now I’d rather sit in the car on our way to potentially finding some answers as opposed to sitting on my ass doing nothing.”

  “You’re not doing nothing, Babe. Hell, look at the video; it’s up to one point four million views already. Coop said there’s already a following of people rooting for you to find your man. We’re bound to get some answers from that alone.”

  “I can’t bank on just that, Portia. I can’t sit and wait. I’m pregnant!” I fume. “And I have no idea who the father is or who tried to kill me last month.”

  I hear her muffled “Okay, Babe” from the front seat, and the car remains silent for the rest of the drive.

  “Hey, Jack, could you send me the exact location of where the parking ticket was issued as well as the site of the accident? Thanks,” Cooper says into his phone.

  “Who’s Jack?” I ask.

  Cooper’s phone beeps a few times, and he plugs the address into the GPS before answering, “He works with me. If you’re worried about more people getting involved, I’ll tell you now I trust him with my life.
”

  We already passed the sign for Brockton, and I pay close attention to the streets and businesses as we’re driving. Cooper finds a spot near a book store and points across the street. “That’s where the parking ticket was issued, Jer. There’s no overnight parking on the street. That’s why you got the ticket.”

  I nod before pulling on the handle to get out of the car. “Small town, huh?” I don’t wait for them to answer; I just start walking toward the unknown.

  Portia falls into step beside me and loops her arm through mine. “I hope you don’t think I was trying to talk you out of coming here. I’m not,” she says.

  I squeeze her arm. “I know you’re not. And I’m sorry for losing it a little in the car back there, but I’m just so frustrated. I’m fucking pregnant, Portia. How messed up is that?”

  She leans into me. “It’s not messed up. You’ll be a great mother, Jerri. And we’ll do whatever we can to help you find him. Just be prepared that I may not be so forgiving in the future. Yes, you’re pregnant, but after almost losing you once, and the scare we had this morning, I’m going into over-protective mode because I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “Look up, Jerri,” Cooper says from behind me. I glance up the street and see a steaming coffee mug on the overhang of a storefront. My steps falter. I practically drag Portia behind me until we reach the front door. Swinging it open, I let the scent of coffee beans assault my nose before taking in the decor.

  Red loveseat by the window.

  “This is it,” I whisper. “It’s the same. I mean, the couch is the same from my memory, even the layout.” I look to Portia with wide, hopeful eyes before the young male barista behind the counter in front of us asks, “Latte and blueberry muffin?”

  I don’t recognize him, but I ask if he recognizes me. “I remember orders, not names,” he says.

  I cock my head to the side. “And I always get a latte and a blueberry muffin?” He looks at me like I’m a little crazy before Portia turns on her megawatt smile and says, “My friend here had a bit of an accident and is suffering from amnesia. So I’m taking her around to all our favorite places to help jog her memory.”

  Barista guy nods and says, “I don’t recognize you, she’s usually in here with her husband. Plain black coffee.” He makes a face as he says it, as if black coffee is hazardous to your health. Portia keeps the smile on. “She sure is. We were supposed to meet him here, but we were running late. Of course he forgot to charge his phone again.” She shakes her head at me and adds, “He always forgets to charge it. Was he in here already? If not, we’ll take his coffee to go and meet him at home.”

  Barista shakes his head. “Nope. Haven’t seen him in a few days.”

  Hope.

  That’s what I feel when he mentions that Locklin was here: deep-to-my-bones hope. As Portia orders a round of coffees, including Locklin’s, I squeeze her hand so hard I think I might leave nail marks. I ask for a to-go tray before we haul ass out of there.

  “Oh. My. God,” she exclaims when we get out onto the sidewalk. I’m too stunned for words as she and Cooper jabber back and forth on the way to the car; Cooper about hacking the coffee shop’s financials to see if he can find a credit card receipt with Locklin’s name on it, and Portia for solving the smoking gun that proves Locklin is indeed more than just a man from my dreams.

  We pile into the car, where Cooper proceeds to tell us we’re going to the impound lot that has my vehicle. I remain silent, nodding along when I’m supposed to and staring out the window as we drive to our next destination.

  Locklin was here, in this town, a few days ago.

  Hope.

  * * *

  “First row at the back,” the impound attendee tells us. “Detective O’Shaunessey’s back there now having another look.”

  We all glance at each other before walking toward the back of the impound lot. “Why would he be here again?” Portia asks. “Didn’t he already say he was here?”

  Cooper shakes his head. “He never confirmed he was here exactly; he just told us the brake lines had been cut.”

  “Yes, but why would he need to look at it? Isn’t that what the mechanics are for?” I ask. Cooper doesn’t answer because at that point the detective and his partner, standing at the side of a white Chevy Tahoe, come into view. They’re leaning close, clearly arguing about something. But they stop their hassling when they hear approaching footsteps. Both their heads turn at the same time; Bryan O’Shaunessey’s bald one and his partner’s dark-haired one. As soon as I get an eyeful, I realize they must be related. They have the same tanned skin, muscular build, angular jaw, and thick eyelashes as one another. Bryan is clearly an attractive man, but his partner is beautifully rugged. His two-day stubble suggests he doesn’t give a shit what people think of his face, and his hair, which is a little too long, tells you he has more pressing matters than getting to the barber.

  “Ms. Sloane,” Bryan addresses, nodding at me before glancing to his partner. They share a look, words unspoken but a conversation had. Bryan continues, “This is my partner, Detective Cavanaugh.” He gives us a chin lift, striking blue eyes—the same as his partner’s—fixed on me.

  I break eye contact first to address Bryan. “A message was left for me a few days ago at the shop. It asked me to clean out my belongings before the truck gets sent to the wrecking yard.”

  Bryan nods. “Go ahead. We’re pretty much done here. The vehicle was already printed; there was a partial on the undercarriage, but since it wasn’t that close to where the brake lines were cut, I’m not holding my breath.”

  My shoulders sag a little as I was hoping for better news. “Well, thank you for trying anyway.”

  He moves away from the driver’s door and asks, “Have you remembered anything yet? About the night of the accident or otherwise?”

  I shake my head as I move toward the door, hoping to find something that will give me a clue. “Unfortunately, the answer to that question is still a big fat no.” I try to open the door but it won’t budge, due to the completely smashed front end. Moving to the back door, I have better luck, but Cooper kindly pushes me to the side and offers to clean out my belongings.

  Turning back to the detective, I ask, “You found anyone who wants to kill me yet?”

  “Jerri!” Portia scolds, interrupting detective Cavanaugh as he opens his mouth to speak. “Can you not talk about someone wanting you dead with such a cavalier attitude?” she adds.

  I sigh before rubbing my temples. “I’m sorry. As I said earlier, I’m just frustrated.”

  She leans against the truck and says, “I get it. It has been an eventful day. But let’s keep the killer talk to a minimum.”

  “Eventful day?” Detective Cavanaugh rumbles. The timbre of his deep voice is enough to give me goosebumps—not necessarily the bad kind. O’Shaunessey gives him a look I can’t decipher and pipes in, “Anything you want to share, Ms. Sloane?”

  I shake my head and wave him off. “Wasn’t feeling well this morning, but I’m fine now. Just a little tired.”

  Placing his hands on his hips, he says, “I don’t have any leads yet, but I can promise you we’re still looking into it. I meant what I said about remembering. Even if you think it means nothing, it could mean something.”

  I give him a tight-lipped smile. “I know. But nothing yet. I have your card; I’ll call you if something comes to me.”

  Promising to call if they find something, they both stare at me for a moment before saying goodbye. I’m not holding my breath at the moment either, but I say thank you none the less.

  “All set,” Cooper announces. He retrieved a hobo bag from somewhere in the vehicle and filled it with everything he could find. No memories or flashbacks come to me, and since nothing looks familiar, I follow them back to the car.

  After we’re all seated and buckled, Cooper drives for a few miles to the site of the accident. I don’t even bother to get out of the car. The road is unfamiliar. The tree I hit cle
arly sustained no lasting damage aside from a few broken limbs, and the glass that would have littered the highway over a month ago is long gone.

  “Anything?” Portia asks, and I just shake my head. The slight curve on the road suggests I was travelling at full speed and was unable to break enough before hitting the tree. I eye the cars we pass, partly thankful that I don’t remember the head-on collision at fifty miles per hour.

  “On a lighter note, you didn’t tell me how delicious the detectives were,” Portia says, smiling.

  Cooper scowls. “Portia!”

  She gives him an innocent look and says, “What? It’s true. Cavanaugh is like that silent, broody type you always love, Jer. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

  I run my fingers through my messy hair, which never did get blown out by Marcus this morning. It feels like a lifetime ago. Yawning, I tell her, “He was not hard to look at. I agree with you.”

  She nods. “They have to be related. Those eyes?”

  I silently agree before leaning back against the headrest and closing mine, all the while contemplating how I can get to the coffee shop every day to hopefully run into Locklin.

  Would I even recognize him?

  My heart tells me yes, but my mind argues no.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Easy, Lass. You need to be still.”

  Locklin calmly runs his hand over my head, massaging the back of my neck in an effort to calm me. I’m half on my side, half on my stomach as I bite back the cry that wants to rip free from my throat. The pain when Locklin applies pressure to my hip is excruciating. I was blessed to have passed out for a while, but when he transferred me from his arms to this small cot, my fortune was over.

  “Where are we?” I ask in an effort to take my mind off the blood that continues to soak through the towel. No cut should bleed this much. It confirms that it’s less of a flesh wound and more of a stab wound.

  I feel the light rocking motion as the boat he brought us onto moves through the water. I know Locklin would protect me from harm, but that doesn’t mean I’m not curious as to where he brought me. Squatting in front of the cot, he leans his face close to mine. “You’re safe, Lass. No one can hurt you here.” I jump when I hear a thud on the upper deck of the boat. Shaking his head, he says, “An old friend of mine. This is his fishing boat.”