by Paula Graves
It’s time to go home, sweetheart. That’s what he’d said. Home. Was he her husband? Her brother?
No. Not a brother. His gaze had made her feel naked. Exposed. As if he knew everything there was to know about her, inside and out.
What kind of monster had she brought into this sleepy little town?
Footsteps approached her cramped holding cell and came to a stop. Jane forced herself to open her burning eyes, dashing away her tears with her knuckles. Joe Garrison stood just outside her cell, gazing through the bars at her with an expression as intense and knowing as that of the mustached man who’d been waiting in her apartment.
When it became clear he had no intention of speaking first, she asked, “Who are you?”
“You know exactly who I am.”
She pushed off the cot and crossed to the bars. He was several inches taller than she was, forcing her to crane her neck to meet his hard gaze. “I know your name. Now I know your job. But I don’t know you.”
“You’re really good, you know?” He raised his arms and gripped the bars over her head, leaning toward her. He seemed to fill all the space in the narrow cell, even though he remained outside. “Even I can’t tell if you’re lying about not remembering.”
Jane gripped the bars in front of her, trying not to let his imposing presence shake her. “Even you?”
His smile was an awful thing. “We go back a ways, Jane. Or is it Sandra?”
Sandra Dorsey, she thought, remembering the name on the papers in Joe’s hotel room. “Maybe it’s Sandra. I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
“That’s convenient.” His tight smile widened but grew no warmer. “But unfortunately for you, I don’t think it’ll be a convincing defense.”
“Defense for what?” she asked, not sure she wanted to know the answer.
Joe leaned forward, his face pressed between the bars. “Eight months ago, in Canyon Creek, Wyoming, you killed my brother.”
Chapter Three
Jane’s face blanched. She backed away from the bars, groping behind her for the cot, and sat with a graceless thud on the lumpy mattress. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
“How do you know?” Joe asked, unsurprised by how guileless she sounded. The woman he’d known as Sandra Dorsey had raised sincerity to an art form.
“I couldn’t,” she insisted, her voice ragged. “I know I couldn’t.”
The uncertainty in her voice caught him flat-footed. He lowered his voice to a sympathetic murmur. “You don’t really know what you would or wouldn’t do, do you? Since you don’t remember who you are or what life you’ve lived.”
She looked down at her hands, clasping them together to stop their nervous twisting. “I just wouldn’t,” she muttered stubbornly.
“I’ve asked the Trinity police to transfer you to my custody for further questioning in Wyoming, but they’re not ready to let you out of their jurisdiction yet. Not while there are still questions about your roommate’s murder.”
She put her hand to her mouth, her face growing even paler. “Angie,” she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. “It’s my fault, isn’t it? He was after me.”
Joe gripped the steel bars and watched in silence as she pressed her hands to her face, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. He hated the rush of sympathy burning a hole in his gut as he watched her obvious distress, hated that even now, he wanted to believe her.
She had a vulnerability about her that drew a man’s interest, like a lost little lamb that needed protection. It’s what had drawn Tommy to open his home to her and give her a job, no questions asked.
It’s what drew you to her, too, he mocked himself, tightening his grip on the bars.
“Has Chief Trent found anyone who saw the man in my apartment?” Jane asked, her voice hoarse.
“Not yet.”
She looked up at him, biting her lower lip. “You don’t think there was a man at all, do you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” She knuckled away her tears, a childlike gesture that made Joe’s chest tighten. “You think I killed your brother. What’s one more murder?”
He didn’t answer, though his gut churned with the need to tell her exactly what he thought of her, what he’d been thinking of her for months as he chased hundreds of dead ends searching for Sandra Dorsey.
“Too bad it messes up your plans to haul me back to Wyoming, right?” A thread of steel hardened her voice as she pushed herself up from the cot and stood to face him. “Were you even going to take me back there? Or were you going to mete out a little frontier justice?”
“I’m not the criminal,” he answered tightly, angry at her for even suggesting he’d do such a thing. She knew him better than that.
Or she had. Hell, what if she really wasn’t faking the memory loss?
A door opened behind him, dragging his attention away from Jane’s hard gaze. Chief Hank Trent entered, a uniformed officer on his heels. He gestured with his head to Joe. “Let’s talk.”
While Trent pulled Joe to one side, the officer unlocked the holding cell.
“What’s going on?” Joe asked.
“We’ve found a corroborating witness to Ms. Doe’s account. I’ll explain everything.”
“A corroborating witness?” Joe watched Jane exit the holding cell. She met his gaze, her expression tinged with an odd mixture of relief and fear.
“A neighbor saw a man matching the description Ms. Doe gave us. He exited the apartment building by the fire escape,” Trent said. “Becker, take Ms. Doe to room three. I need to speak with her further before she’s released.”
Joe waited until Becker and Jane were out of the room before turning to glare at Hank Trent. “Released?”
“I don’t have grounds to hold her.”
“Then release her to my custody and I’ll take her back to Wyoming on the murder charge.”
“There’s no murder charge yet. You said that yourself.”
“So she just walks around Trinity, scot-free, while two people are dead?”
“She didn’t kill Angela Carlyle.”
“She killed Thomas Blake.”
“You suspect she did.”
“She had the means and the opportunity. And she ran off the day he died.”
“What about motive?”
“I don’t have to prove motive.”
“And I don’t have to turn her over to you.” Trent’s hard expression softened. “Look, I’m not playing hardball here just to yank your chain. I need her to stick around because she’s our best witness in this town’s first murder in decades. But I can’t keep you from talking to her while you’re both here in town.”
“You’re assuming she’ll stick around just because you tell her to.”
Trent smiled. “Well, I’ve arranged a little something for Ms. Doe that just might interest you.”
“THE BUENA VISTA HOTEL?” Jane stared at Hank Trent as if he were crazy. She glared at Joe. “This is your idea, isn’t it?”
Joe shook his head. “You’re a murder witness and the perpetrator is still at large. You need protection, and the Trinity police know the Buena Vista Hotel has the best security in town.”
Jane shook her head, thinking how easily she’d talked her way into Joe Garrison’s room earlier that day. “That’s not saying much.”
Trent made an exaggerated huffing sound.
“Chief Trent has arranged for your room to be next to mine,” Joe said softly, drawing her gaze. His cool gray eyes held hers, full of challenge.
“I just bet he did,” she muttered.
“We don’t have officers to spare, with a murderer at large,” Chief Trent said, his tone annoyingly reasonable. “Chief Garrison was kind enough to offer his services as your security guard. You won’t get a better offer.”
Jane tugged at the neck of her T-shirt. “What’s keeping me from packing my bags and getting the hell out of this town? If I’m not under arrest.”
“We ca
n hold you for twenty-four hours without charging you with anything, you know.” Trent’s voice hardened. “I’d prefer that you cooperate voluntarily.”
“I’ve told you all I know.”
“Then consider this,” Joe interjected, pulling up the chair across the table from her. He turned it around and straddled it, resting his arms across the rounded back and pinning her with his hard gaze. “There’s a guy running around out there who didn’t think twice about slitting your friend’s throat because she got in his way. And from what you tell us, he wants you. Do you really want to be out there on your own right now?”
Jane looked down at the scuffed table, running her finger over a nick as she tamped down a flood of fear at his words. “No.”
“Then the Buena Vista it is.” Trent slapped his hand on the table, sealing the deal.
Jane bit her lower lip, her insides twisting into a painful knot. She felt trapped, shackled by the iron will of the lawmen and by her own blank memory.
“I’ll make the arrangements.” Trent rose and headed out of the interrogation room, leaving Jane alone with Joe Garrison. Joe gazed at her over his folded arms, clearly content to let her squirm beneath his scrutiny.
“Do you usually get your way?” She couldn’t keep a thread of bitterness out of her voice.
“No,” he answered.
“I don’t believe that.”
“If I always got my way, my brother wouldn’t be dead and I wouldn’t be here in Trinity babysitting the last person to see him alive.”
“Who was I to your brother?” she asked, fearing the answer.
Joe dropped his gaze for the first time, focusing on the nicked wood tabletop. “You worked for him.”
“Doing what?”
He looked up sharply at her wary tone. “You kept his house for him. Helped him with the business end of the ranch. Odd jobs-whatever he needed done.”
She took a deep breath and asked the question she dreaded most. “Were he and I…”
Joe shook his head. “No. He was a recent widower. Not over his wife’s death yet. You were…friends.”
She didn’t miss the bitterness of his tone. “Or so he thought, huh? Isn’t that what you’re thinking?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t remember.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She slapped her hands on the table in front of her, venting her frustration. Her palms stung and she balled her hands into fists. “Why? What did I do to you to make you believe I’d kill your brother? That I’d lie about not remembering?”
“Because you lied about who you were, for one thing.” His voice was quiet. Calm. But she heard anger roiling beneath the placid surface. It made her feel queasy.
“How do you know?” She couldn’t help but lean closer to him, eagerness overcoming wariness. “Do you know who I really am?”
He leaned away from her, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the back of his chair. “No. I just know you’re not someone named Sandra Dorsey. The Social Security number you gave Tommy belonged to a deceased woman by the same name.”
“Do you think I killed her, too?”
The corner of his mouth quirked. “No. Sandra Dorsey died in a car accident in Trenton, New Jersey, four years ago. I think you paid someone to give you a new identity, and they stole her name and Social Security number to make you into a new person.”
Jane looked away from his hard gaze, her chest tight with tension. Why had she gone to such obvious trouble to change her identity? What kind of woman was she?
“The man you saw at your apartment-did he seem familiar to you?” Joe asked.
“No. But he knew me.” She forced herself to look at him. “Do you know who he is?”
Joe shook his head. “No. I don’t.”
“Maybe he’s the one who killed your brother.”
“Maybe that’s what you’d like me to believe.”
“And you won’t even entertain the possibility that I wasn’t the one who killed him.”
“You disappeared the day he died. You were gone by the time the neighbor found Tommy’s body.” He stumbled over the words, his gaze dropping away.
Jane felt the ridiculous urge to reach across the table and put her hand over his, to lend him what little strength and comfort she had.
He took a deep breath and continued, his voice threaded with steel. “Your bags were gone. Your clothes. Everything. It was like you’d never been there in the first place.”
“That was eight months ago, right?”
Joe nodded.
“So, where was I between then and this past December when I showed up here in Trinity?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“How’d you find me?”
“I got a fax from the Trinity Police Department, seeking information on a Jane Doe.”
The door to the interview room opened, and Chief Trent walked in before Jane could respond. “All set. I’m afraid we have to keep the bag we found packed in your living room. For evidence.”
“What do I do for clothes?” she asked.
“My sister Erica runs clothing drives for one of the local churches. She’s agreed to raid their stash for a few things your size,” Chief Trent answered. “She’s left it for us at the hotel.”
“Ready to go, then?” Joe asked.
She frowned at the impatience in his voice but gave a swift nod, falling in step in front of him as they followed the police chief out of the room.
BY THE TIME Joe led Jane from the police station, the sun had dipped behind the Sawtooth Mountains, leaving only a faint orange glow in the western sky. Streetlamps along the town’s main streets had already come on, battling the chilly gloom of twilight.
Joe motioned toward his truck, parked in a visitor slot in front of the station. Jane managed a weak smile. “Did you drive over from Wyoming or did you rent that truck at the Boise airport?”
“I drove,” he answered tersely.
Her forehead creased. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No.” He couldn’t exactly tell her that she used to tease him about his truck and his Stetson and everything that went with being a Wyoming cowboy. Back then, she’d said it with such affection he found himself laughing with her. Now he wondered if it had all been an act, all the smiles and the jokes and the easy charm. He hated not knowing what was real and what was a lie.
Maybe the smartest way to deal with her was to assume everything that came out of her mouth was some sort of lie.
“Could we stop by the River Lodge Diner?” she asked as she climbed into the passenger seat of the Silverado.
“Why?” he asked as he settled behind the wheel.
“I want to let my friend Doris at the diner know I’m okay.” She buckled her seat belt and looked across at him. “She’ll know about Angie by now, and she’ll probably be worried about me.”
There was a hint of wonder in her voice, as if she was surprised to know someone cared about what happened to her. He recognized the look. He’d seen it on her face when he first met her almost two years ago, as she told him about the way Tommy had taken her in, no questions asked, when she showed up on his doorstep needing help.
Tommy should’ve asked questions.
They all should’ve.
He started the truck and gave a brief nod. “The River Lodge Diner it is.”
“OH, JANIE!” Doris Bradley engulfed her in a bear hug as soon as Jane entered the diner, drawing the curious gazes of the handful of customers who’d opted for the diner’s home cooking rather than the lodge restaurant’s more cosmopolitan fare. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. “I’ve been worried sick about you ever since we heard the news about Angie.”
“I’m okay, Doris,” Jane assured her. “But I’m not going to be able to work for a while. Boyd’s going to have to find two new waitresses, I’m afraid.”
“You can’t work? Why not?” Doris stepped back, holding Jane by the shoulders. She looked her up and down. “You’re
not hurt, are you?”
“No, I’m fine!” Jane glanced at Joe, who stood a few paces away, watching her with hard gray eyes. She’d asked him not to tell anyone at the diner about her involvement in the case, and he’d agreed, but she didn’t know if she could really trust him to keep his word.
He’d lied to her more than once already, however good his reasons might have been.
“Is Boyd here?” she asked Doris. “I guess I should really tell him myself.”
“Sorry, hon. Boyd hasn’t been here all afternoon. He got a call from his sister a little after one.” Doris lowered her voice to a half whisper. “I think maybe she’s having another one of her episodes. You know he doesn’t like to talk about it.”
“I guess I’ll just have to drop by tomorrow sometime. I’ll need to pick up my last paycheck anyway.” She gave Doris another hug and turned to look at Joe again.
“Ready to go?” he asked.
She felt Doris’s curious gaze on her, but she didn’t stop to explain. She could hardly tell her co-worker that she was basically under house arrest at the Buena Vista Hotel under the watchful eye of Cowboy Joe. Word about her situation would get around soon enough as it was.
“Episodes?” Joe asked as they headed away from the diner toward the Buena Vista.
“What?”
“Your boss’s sister has episodes?”
“Oh. She’s a paranoid schizophrenic. She does well when she stays on her medication, but she doesn’t always stay on it. Boyd’s all she has in the world, and as big a jerk as he can be, he works himself to the ground to help her have some sort of normal life. So when she calls-”
“He goes running,” Joe finished for her.
She glanced at his profile, outlined by the yellow glow of streetlamps lining Main Street. “Family, I guess.”
He cut his eyes her way. “Family,” he agreed.
The well-lit facade of the Buena Vista Hotel shimmered against the dark blue backdrop of the Sawtooth Mountains as Joe pulled the truck into the guest parking lot. He unbuckled his seat belt and turned to look at her. “I know I’ve made it pretty clear that I don’t think you’re telling me the truth. About your memory or about what happened a year ago or six hours ago.”