Blank Slate

by Snow, Tiffany

Langston dug around the back of the SUV before emerging.

  “Always be prepared,” he said, handing her another roll of toilet paper. His mouth tipped up slightly in a faint smile.

  Clarissa laughed outright, her breath a puff of white in the frosty air. “Langston, you’re my favorite Boy Scout ever,” she said, grinning at him.

  Erik was struck speechless for a moment, which was not a frequent occurrence. O’Connell’s smile transformed the angular lines of her face, her eyes twinkling with mischief. Her laugh was warm, inviting him to share the joke. She was simultaneously someone he’d love to have a beer with and a woman he’d strip naked at the slightest invitation. The dichotomy was as perplexing as it was intoxicating.

  Erik watched her disappear among the trees, waited impatiently for her to return, and didn’t relax until she had. By then, the SUV was dug out and ready to go, thanks to some help from the off-duty forest ranger that had happened upon them.

  Erik hadn’t told the man that he was FBI, hadn’t explained that he was transporting a prisoner. He didn’t know why. When the man had asked what they were doing out here, Erik had told him they were on vacation and had gotten lost trying to get into town. The lie had sprung easily to his lips, which was a strange thing for someone who made a habit of always telling the truth.

  A few minutes later, they were following the ranger’s jeep through the Colorado backwoods.

  Erik observed O’Connell out of the corner of his eye. She hadn’t said much once she’d returned and now seemed lost in thought as she gazed out the window.

  He wanted to talk to her, find out what she was thinking, but didn’t know what to say. That was a bit disconcerting. Erik certainly didn’t consider himself a smooth operator, but he usually didn’t have problems knowing what to say to women either.

  “There’s some more jerky in the back, if you’re hungry,” he offered, when he could think of nothing else.

  She looked at him, wrinkling her nose slightly in distaste. “I’m not that into jerky,” she said. “Maybe you can buy me a proper breakfast once we reach civilization? We did just spend the night together, after all.”

  The mischief in her grin made Erik squirm uncomfortably in his seat, remembering too much about last night. He quickly returned his gaze to the road before clearing his throat.

  “Yeah, sure, I can do that,” he replied. She had to be starving. He certainly was. A hot breakfast of eggs and bacon with a side of pancakes and about a gallon of coffee sounded fantastic.

  Erik’s attention was drawn again to her as she picked up a manila folder resting on the dash.

  “You can’t look at that,” he said, reaching for the file. “That’s FBI property.”

  O’Connell maneuvered the folder out of his reach. “It has my name on it,” she protested. “I should be able to read my own file, shouldn’t I?”

  “No, that’s not how it works,” he insisted. “Give it to me.”

  O’Connell raised an eyebrow. “Make me.”

  Shit.

  Her lips twitched as he glared at her then reluctantly turned back to the road. The paper rustled as she turned the pages.

  The file wasn’t very thick, but Erik had memorized its contents. Among other things, it contained a brief history of the O’Connell family. Mother dead shortly after Clarissa’s birth. The father hadn’t remarried, but he’d had a string of live-in girlfriends. The older brother, Daniel, had been arrested for petty theft numerous times as a teenager, then graduated to grand larceny as he got older.

  The father had been arrested, tried, and convicted of theft and manslaughter ten years ago. A security guard at the jewelry story he’d robbed had died while trying to intervene. Although Flynn O’Connell had said he hadn’t meant to kill him, those things had a tendency to happen when you hit someone over the head with a brick. Flynn was currently serving a life sentence in Ireland’s Mountjoy Prison.

  Erik glanced back over, watching as O’Connell read. She was frowning, the skin puckering between her brows.

  The file went on to describe what they knew of Daniel and Clarissa’s ties to Solomon, though information on Clarissa herself was sketchy. When Flynn had gone to prison, Daniel and Clarissa had disappeared.

  “You want to fill in the missing information?” Erik asked. “What were you and Daniel doing before he hooked up with Solomon?”

  Clarissa glanced up from the file, not sure how to answer. It was like reading about someone else’s life, not hers. When she’d gone into the woods this morning, she’d thought of her dream but hadn’t been able to recall much of it. It was as though she could almost remember the elusive something just out of reach, but it disappeared like smoke when she got close. She’d been upset, that she’d known, had felt a deep sadness that dragged at her but hadn’t known the reasons why she felt that way.

  “I’m…not sure,” she answered truthfully. To her surprise, Langston didn’t react in anger, as she’d expected. He just looked at her, his expression unreadable before he turned back to the road.

  “Who’s Mary?” Langston asked.

  The name provoked the same wave of sadness Clarissa had felt earlier. “I know I sound like a broken record, but I don’t know,” she said. “The name…it sounds familiar, but I don’t know why.” She shook her head in frustration, hating the feeling of helplessness, of not knowing things she should.

  Langston didn’t ask any more questions, so Clarissa continued reading the file.

  There was no known address for her, which was disappointing. She’d been hoping they’d know where she lived, which was an idiotic thought. If the FBI knew where she lived, they would have arrested her before now.

  The file held only one photo, a grainy profile shot taken at a distance. The woman had red hair tied back in a French braid and large black sunglasses. Clarissa stared at the photo.

  “Are you sure this is me?” she asked, holding it up next to her face.

  Langston glanced at the photo, then her. “I’m sure,” he said, his voice flat.

  “I don’t know,” Clarissa muttered. “Could be anybody, really.”

  “It’s you,” Langston insisted.

  His vehemence sparked Clarissa’s temper. “I think your evidence is a little thin to say that I’m this Clarissa O’Connell.”

  “Then why were you at that villa? Why did you kill that man? And why were you shot?” Langston’s angry questions were rapid-fire.

  “I don’t know,” Clarissa retorted. “Maybe I just got in the way or…something.” She didn’t really have any good answers for his questions, but dammit! She wasn’t going to just let him win the argument because of that minor detail.

  Langston snorted in derision. “I’ve spent the better part of a year digging up every piece of information on you, tracking down every lead, no matter how vague. Followed every trail, every whisper or rumor I heard. Grainy video footage in Monterey. A couple witnesses in Chicago. Trust me. I know who you are.”

  The fact that Erik had watched that video footage until he saw it in his sleep wasn’t something she needed to know.

  “The file isn’t that thick,” O’Connell observed.

  “That’s just part of it.” Erik didn’t want to say how he had three full file boxes in his apartment in DC.

  “Where’s the rest?” she asked, glancing in the back as though she might have missed something.

  “Back in DC,” Erik said evasively.

  She frowned at him. “Aren’t you FBI guys supposed to work in pairs? Don’t you have a partner?”

  Erik’s lips pressed together at the thought of Kaminski. “I…had a partner,” he reluctantly explained. “We had a differing of opinion.”

  “About what?” O’Connell asked, flipping again through the file.

  “You.”

  Erik saw her turn and look at him again, but he deliberately kept his eyes on the road.

  O’Connell was quiet for a few minutes, as though digesting this. Finally, she asked, “So what happens now?”r />
  The quiet resignation in her voice made Erik’s gut clench. His hands tightened on the wheel.

  “Now,” he replied, “I’m going to feed you.”

  O’Connell glanced out the window just as Erik pulled into the parking lot of a country diner. He gave a wave to the forest ranger, who drove on.

  Putting the car in park and pocketing the keys, Erik turned to O’Connell.

  “I’m starving. And I believe I owe you breakfast.”

  She smiled, and Erik decided he could really get used to that sight.

  “I like chocolate-chip pancakes.”

  “With whipped cream or syrup?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  Erik bit back a grin.

  “And bacon.”

  “A woman after my own heart,” he quipped without thinking, then quickly moved on. “You’re not going to run, are you? It’s hard to eat if one hand is cuffed.”

  “Cross my heart,” O’Connell promised.

  * * *

  The diner was playing country classics on the radio and held only a handful of customers, most of whom were old men out for their morning coffee and ration of biscuits and gravy. The smell of bacon grease and coffee hung heavy in the air.

  Clarissa took an appreciative whiff as she slid into the vinyl booth where the coffeepot-toting waitress had led them.

  “What’ll ya have to drink?” she asked, handing them each a menu.

  “Coffee,” Langston replied.

  “Make that two, please,” Clarissa added.

  The waitress nodded, pausing at a nearby table to refill their mugs with the dark brew.

  “Bad luck,” Langston said, looking over the menu. “No chocolate-chip pancakes. You’ll have to make do with plain.”

  “So long as there’s plenty of butter and syrup, I’m good.”

  The waitress returned with their coffee and took their order. Langston ordered what seemed to be half the menu. Eggs, bacon, hash browns, biscuits with gravy, and a dish of fruit. Sheesh. Did he always eat like that? You couldn’t tell by looking at him, that was for sure.

  The crooning of Tammy Wynette imploring Clarissa to stand by her man filled the silence as she added cream and sugar to her coffee. She noticed Langston watching her.

  “What?”

  He tipped his head toward her mug. “If you’ve lost your memory, how do you know how you like your coffee?”

  It was a good question, and it stumped Clarissa. “I just…knew,” she replied with some surprise. “I didn’t think about it.” The thought excited her. It meant her memories were still there, just hidden behind a wall, but obviously some were leaking out. She’d had the dream, for one thing. And for another, “Just like I knew I liked chocolate-chip pancakes.”

  Langston looked skeptical as he sipped his coffee; black, she noticed. Of course.

  “So is there a Mrs. Langston, Agent Langston?” she asked, changing the subject and causing him to choke on his coffee.

  “Ah, no, there’s not,” he answered once he’d recovered sufficiently to speak.

  “Why not?”

  “That’s a little personal, don’t you think?”

  Clarissa shrugged. “You and the waitress over there are the only people on the planet that I know. If I ask her a personal question, she may spit in my food. You’re already going to turn me in to the Feds, so I have nothing to lose.”

  Langston took another drink of coffee before answering. “There’s never been anyone I’ve been interested enough in to last more than a few months. For the most part, women are narcissistic, selfish creatures whose sole ambition is to land a man with either looks or money, preferably both. ”

  “Ouch.” Clarissa winced. “Did your high school crush break your heart or something?”

  “What about you?” he asked, evading her question. “Boyfriend? Husband? Fiancé?”

  “You tell me,” she countered, raising an eyebrow.

  “The data’s inconclusive, though you’ve never been spotted with a partner, and no marriage certificate has been issued to you. You don’t wear a ring.” He glanced at her left hand. “And no mark from one that’s been removed.”

  “Maybe I don’t believe in marriage.”

  Their food came then, and it was quiet for the next several minutes as they ate.

  “I can hear your arteries screaming in protest,” Clarissa deadpanned, watching Langston shovel in a forkful of biscuit dripping with gravy.

  “This coming from the woman who likes a little pancake with her butter?” he quipped. “Besides, that’s what the fruit is for.”

  Clarissa skeptically eyed the little dish of cut-up fruit.

  When the check came, Clarissa excused herself to use the restroom. Situated at the rear of the restaurant, she was relieved to see it had a window. Ten seconds later, she had removed the screen and lowered herself through the gap to drop to the ground outside.

  “That was easy,” she muttered to herself. Now to get as much space between her and Langston as possible. She was betting at least one of the pickups out front could be hot wired.

  Clarissa felt a pang of disappointment to bail on Langston, not that he’d given her much choice in the matter. She liked him, and truth be told, it was terrifying to think she was running without so much as a dime to her name or any idea of where to go. But even the unknown was better than the inside of a prison cell.

  Rounding the corner of the building, she scanned the area carefully. No one was around. Walking quickly, but not so quickly as to draw attention, Clarissa headed for the nearest pickup truck. God bless the old men who trusted their neighbors, she thought ruefully, climbing into the unlocked cab.

  The passenger door jerked opened, startling a gasp from her.

  “Going somewhere?” Langston asked.

  His voice was hard with fury, his eyes cold.

  “Langston, I—”

  “Save it,” he bit out.

  A hard grip on her arm and sharp tug later, she was being dragged behind him to the SUV and pushed into the passenger seat.

  Clarissa fumed, bitterly disappointed. She wasn’t mad at Langston. He was just doing his job. She was mad at herself. She’d thought she’d gotten to a place of trust with him, eased him into complacency. Obviously she’d made her move too soon. Now she was back to square one with him.

  Langston slid behind the wheel of the SUV, jabbed the key in the ignition, and stomped on the gas. Soon the diner was receding in the distance.

  Anger rolled off Langston in waves, the atmosphere in the car stiff and silent.

  The miles flew by as Clarissa stared unseeing out the window. Where was he taking her? Was her freedom now counted in hours? Minutes?

  “Thanks for breakfast,” she said when she couldn’t take the silence anymore.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Clarissa winced at the ice in his voice. She felt guilty now, and she hated that, so she lashed out.

  “You’re taking me to jail,” she retorted. “For crimes I have no memory of committing. Did you think I was just going to trot along obediently?”

  Of course she was right. Erik knew that. But that didn’t ease the feeling of betrayal. He’d liked her. That had been his first mistake.

  Trusting her had been his second.

  He couldn’t afford a third.

  * * *

  Erik paced alongside the deserted highway, waiting for the cell phone to make the connection. Now that they were out of the woods, he had a decent signal.

  He glanced over at the SUV. The keys were in his pocket, and he’d left O’Connell cuffed to the door. She wasn’t going anywhere.

  The ringing in his ear cut off as someone picked up the call.

  “It’s about time you called in. You’re in a shitload of trouble.”

  “Why? What happened?” Erik asked.

  “Only about two dozen witnesses who saw you fleeing the scene of a murder at some ritzy place in Colorado,” Kaminski said. “You finally cracked or what?”
>
  “I didn’t kill the guy, she did.”

  “She who?”

  “O’Connell.”

  “Was that before or after she got away again?” Kaminski’s sarcasm set Erik’s teeth on edge. He didn’t know how he’d stood having the guy as his partner for as long as he had.

  “No,” he said flatly, keeping a tight hold on his temper. “I got her.”

  “You killed her?”

  “No, I didn’t kill her! I arrested her. Now will you put Clarke on the phone?”

  Leonard Clarke was the SAC, Special Agent in Charge of the Solomon investigation. He’d been investigating Solomon and his empire for the past five years. No one knew more about the powerful crime lord than Clarke.

  “Clarke here.”

  “Sir, it’s Agent Langston. I wanted to report that I’ve apprehended Clarissa O’Connell.”

  “Excellent work! Has she said anything about Solomon?”

  Erik hesitated. “Negative, sir.” He went on to explain about the men who had come after them.

  “All right, I’ll send a couple of field agents out to clean up the scene. If she took something from Solomon, I want it, Langston, and I don’t give a shit if she wants to cut a deal. Get it for me.”

  “Ah, sir, there’s a slight problem.” Erik wasn’t even sure he should mention it, but knew he really had no choice, not if she was determined to keep it up.

  “What’s that?”

  “She says she has no memory, sir,” Erik blurted. Like a bandage, better to rip it off quickly.

  A heavy pause. “What?” Clarke asked, incredulous. “Did I hear you right? She says she has no memory?”

  Erik winced.

  “What the fuck happened, Langston?” Clarke yelled into the phone.

  “There was a wreck; she hit her head. Sir, I’m not one hundred percent positive that she’s telling the truth. It’s very…convenient.”

  “So does she or does she not have a memory?”

  “I don’t know, sir.” The words felt like salt on his tongue. Erik hated that he was forced to admit he couldn’t answer the question with any degree of certainty.

  Clarke cursed while Erik waited in stoic silence for his orders. He glanced back at the car. O’Connell was watching him steadily from the window. His gaze caught hers and held. She looked…disappointed.