by C. J. Lyons
Plus, soon, Nellie thought, Miss Cortez would be leading all the K-1 students to morning Mass. Nellie could hide in the church and rejoin them—and no one would ever have to know. Especially Sister Agnes.
It took both hands and all her strength to haul open the towering wooden door to the church. Inside, it was dark, though not like at night when she couldn’t see, more like shadows stacked on top of each other. She shivered. Kinda spooky.
The door swung shut behind her with a thud, sealing her in, and she jumped. Then she dragged in a breath, inhaling vaporized beeswax and incense and all sorts of holy stuff that tickled her nose. She strode forward. It was church. Safe haven from evil—that’s what Father Stravinsky said.
Dipping her fingers in the holy water and dripping it as she made the sign of the cross, she stepped from the little room in the front past two more massive doors that were always open to the real inside. Here the ceiling went up and up and up until large wooden beams met like Noah’s ark turned upside down. Stained glass lined the walls, casting sparkly splashes of color across the gray marble floor and the dark wooden pews.
She stepped forward, feeling bold, ignoring the skittery feeling dancing inside her stomach. She crept past the alcove where the Lady of Sorrows was, making sure not to look at the larger than life statue of the young mother cradling her dead son, a big sword piercing her heart. If she looked at it too long, the Lady looked like Mommy, and she couldn’t even think about Mommy with a sword sticking out of her heart.
Where to go? Should she crawl into a pew and hide? Or behind the curtain that led behind the altar? Maybe hide in the back corner?
Glancing around at possibilities, she made the mistake of looking at the form hanging high over the altar, his face glaring right down at her, telling her bad girls went straight to H-E-double hockey sticks.
And she was a very bad girl.
Nellie scampered backward, her sneakers slipping on the marble floor. She hated Jesus-nailed-to-the-cross. The pretty, stained glass Jesus-walking-on-water and Jesus-healing-the-sick she liked. Jesus-nailed-to-the-cross she was angry with. He was supposed to be the shepherd of souls, but he hadn’t shepherded her mom back home. She had prayed to him every night to find Mommy, wherever she was lost, but he never answered her.
Jesus-nailed-to-the-cross made her wonder if anyone got to heaven. She shuddered; she didn’t want to think about that. Mommy wasn’t in heaven, singing with the angels—even though some of the kids said so. Her dad would have told her that if it was true. Her dad sometimes messed things up, like this morning, but he never lied.
Jesus wasn’t supposed to lie either, but Nellie didn’t really know or trust Jesus. She trusted her dad.
She stood still, scowling up at the bleeding Jesus so high up in the rafters that she had to crane her neck back to meet his angry, pain-filled gaze.
You’d better find my mommy soon and bring her back home, she shouted in her mind, not daring to give voice to her rage. You’d just better!
Chapter 8
LUCY WATCHED AS Tommy returned inside the house to retrieve Sarah’s apartment keys. She checked the time on her phone: nine fifty. Nick should be between patients. Usually she tried not to call him at work, but she needed his advice.
“What do you know about global amnesia and psychogenic fugues?” she asked when he picked up.
“Hey honey, how’s your day going?” he chided, but there was laughter in his tone. Nick was well accustomed to Lucy’s over-involvement in her cases. “Does this explain the messages on my machine from Oshiro and Don Burroughs?”
“Same case. Not a police matter, so they came to us.” She filled him in on Sarah’s predicament. “We’re digging into her past—credit check, searching her apartment, all the usual. I thought starting with a cognitive, sensory-based interview might help. But I don’t want to make things worse.”
“No, I think you’re on the right track. With a TBI,” traumatic brain injury, Lucy translated, “she might not be able to focus for long. Watch for headaches, vertigo, nausea. She might be confused, emotionally labile.”
“She’s pretty upbeat. Tommy said it was a defense mechanism.”
“La belle indifférence.” Nick said it in a fake French accent, which made it sound sexy. Of course, Nick could make anything sound sexy—to Lucy.
She forced herself to focus on the case. “Any other tips for the interview?”
“Patients with retrograde amnesia tend to follow Ribot’s Law: they lose more recent memories, the ones closest to the traumatic event, but may retain some sense of their remote past.”
“So we should start with trying to access memories from her childhood, then work forward in time?”
“Exactly. And don’t pressure her too much. Overwhelming her or adding any stress inhibits recollection. Let her set the pace.”
“If we can’t get anywhere, what would you recommend? Is it too soon to try hypnosis?”
“When did she hit her head?”
“Two days ago.”
He thought about it. “I’d make sure the other symptoms of the concussion clear first. Unless there’s an urgent need to intervene.”
“Nothing urgent. Just trying to get her life back.”
“Good luck. Call me if there’s anything I can do to help.”
When Lucy returned inside she was surprised when Missy directed her to Valencia’s private wing. Valencia met her in the hallway outside the sturdy oak door leading to the kitchen. As always, she was dressed as if she were on her way to have tea with the First Lady. She wore a burgundy silk sheath, and her gray hair was swept up into a deceptively simple twist that Lucy knew was too complicated for her to ever re-create with her own rambunctious curls.
“Tiffany thought the kitchen might be a more relaxing place for a chat,” she explained. Valencia was the only person who used TK’s given name without fear of repercussions.
“Good idea.” Even Lucy, whose culinary skill set began and ended with pressing a button on a microwave, adored Valencia’s kitchen. The room somehow radiated all the love and care that had gone into the hundred years’ worth of meals prepared there. It was a perfect place to get an anxious interview subject to relax. “So, things are working out? Having TK live here?”
When Lucy had first met TK, the former Marine was camped out in an empty closet at the gym where she’d been teaching parkour and self-defense classes, and all her possessions were able to fit into the rucksack she carried on the old motorcycle she used for transportation. TK had reminded her of a feral cat then—homeless but too proud to ask for help. But now, living on the estate with Valencia, TK had shed her restless, aimless energy and was laser focused on her work.
“I love having her here,” Valencia said. “And she’s a huge help to Xander.” The estate’s manager and Valencia’s personal assistant, Xander Chen, was in his sixties. Hong Kong born and raised, he had a British accent that always made Lucy think of Batman’s butler, Alfred. “But don’t blame me for her new attitude—that’s all on you.”
“Me?” Lucy was surprised. It felt like she and TK argued about everything.
Valencia’s smile widened. “The Texas case was a wake-up call for her. Seeing you in action, she realized how much she still has to learn. You’re her role model.”
Lucy couldn’t help but glance down at her injured foot. Not even forty and already forced out of the job she’d loved, facing permanent disability, stripped of all her police powers, and placed in charge of a group of civilians? “Not sure I’m comfortable with that idea.”
“Get used to it.” Valencia meant more than simply mentoring TK, Lucy knew. It was hard though, seeing Burroughs and Oshiro this morning, being reminded of everything she’d lost when she left the FBI. “You have a lot to offer, Lucy. And I think you’ll be surprised at how much working without the constraints of law enforcement’s bureaucracy and regulations can offer in return.”
“Like interviewing a victim in your kitchen.”
“
More than that. If Detective Burroughs and Deputy Marshal Oshiro hadn’t gone the extra mile in bringing her to us, the police would have had little to offer Sarah once they established her identity and that no crime was involved. Social services can’t do much either—they’re much too bogged down in cases of abuse and neglect, helping those who can’t help themselves. But we don’t have those rules to follow, constraints placed by caseloads or a results-driven administrative culture. We can help her, make certain she doesn’t fall through the cracks.” Valencia glanced at the closed door beside them. “Besides, it’s nice to work a case that you already know has a happy ending, isn’t it?”
Lucy couldn’t disagree. But there was another case that concerned her. “TK and Wash are worried about Tommy working this case. Apparently the anniversary of his wife’s disappearance is this week?”
Valencia’s expression clouded. “I should have thought to give you a heads-up on that. I apologize. How’s he holding up?”
“He’s going to document Sarah’s apartment for us, then he’s taking the rest of the week off to be with his daughter and hopefully escape the press.”
“I’d hoped that working Sarah’s case would keep his mind off Charlotte.” Valencia sighed. “But it’s probably better this way. Her case… it’s so frustrating, so many false trails.”
“Then you think she did leave voluntarily?”
“The evidence points that way. Most of it. But, no, I don’t believe that. I just can’t find anything to prove otherwise.”
“I’d like to take a look. If that’s all right with you.” Lucy was torn between the desire to find the truth—and help Tommy—and the knowledge that meddling in co-workers’ private lives never ended well. But if she was going to continue to work with Tommy, she needed to know everything.
Valencia’s nod was slow in coming. “I’d appreciate it. Fresh eyes might be exactly what we need.”
Chapter 9
WHILE THEY WAITED for Lucy, TK bustled around the kitchen, arranging the chairs at the farm table into an intimate grouping at the end closest to the stone fireplace that filled an entire wall. Sarah sat at the table and watched with the slightest trace of amusement on her face.
“Let’s start with the basics,” TK said. “Coffee? Tea? Soda?”
The question brought a frown to Sarah as she considered. “I’m not sure.” Her mouth twisted as if she was trying to re-create the taste of each option. “I can almost imagine how they smell, taste, but…”
“Smell is the most primal trigger of memories.” Ever since she’d begun working with Lucy, TK had been reading everything she could on interviewing techniques to complement what she’d already learned from her Marine training. She poured a cup of black coffee and set it before Sarah, followed by a glass of cola and an iced tea. “Real tea will take a few minutes.”
Sarah started with the iced tea. She sniffed it cautiously, then took a sip. “This is good, but needs something. It’s kind of tart.”
“Sugar coming up.” TK spooned and stirred while Sarah tried the cola.
She immediately wrinkled her nose. “No. Bubbles. Ugh.”
“And the coffee?”
Sarah tasted it. “Bitter, but feels familiar.”
“Try adding sugar and milk,” TK suggested. As she watched to see if Sarah completed the coffee-making ritual reflexively or if she had to taste-test her way through it, she distracted Sarah with more questions. “Any sense of where you drink coffee? Does it feel like you’re home alone? Just waking up? Or picking it up from a Starbucks?”
Sarah added two teaspoons of sugar and a healthy dollop of milk, stirred, then tasted and nodded in satisfaction. “Good.”
“You got it on the first try,” TK praised her.
“So the memories must be there, just waiting to come out. Starbucks,” Sarah mused. “I can see it, know what it is. They have the mermaid logo, right?”
“Right.”
“But it doesn’t feel like an everyday thing. When I think of it, it feels like, I can almost hear someone’s voice.”
“Like maybe you’re meeting someone?”
Sarah nodded eagerly, cradling her coffee mug in both hands and inhaling deeply. “This smell, it smells like… Do we know what direction the kitchen in my apartment faces?” she asked excitedly. “I can almost feel the sun coming in at a low angle. Like this is part of my morning. Coffee and sunshine.”
“We’ll take a look when we take you over to walk through it. Let’s try some more smells.” TK selected a few spices from Valencia’s well-stocked cabinets. As she was arranging them on a plate and covering them with a tea towel so Sarah wouldn’t be able to see the labels, Lucy came in and poured herself a cup of coffee.
“I like coffee with milk and sugar,” Sarah announced proudly.
Lucy raised her own mug in a toast. “Good start.” She sat down at the far end of the table and nodded to TK to continue.
“Close your eyes,” TK told Sarah. “Just tell us whatever comes to mind with each smell. Don’t try to identify the smell if it doesn’t come right away, instead concentrate on where you were when you smelled it, who you were with, any memories at all.”
Sarah nodded and closed her eyes. TK started with vanilla. “Oh. Warm and happy. I feel like I’m being hugged—like I’m a little girl. There are a lot of voices, all women, and we’re in a kitchen like this one only not as big. The oven is being opened and closed and my hands are wet—I’m washing dishes!” she exclaimed. “I’m young, not sure how old, but it’s a holiday…” Her face creased with concentration. “Thanksgiving? Christmas? It’s cold—the window over the sink is cold. I’m standing on a step so I can reach it.”
“Who’s with you?” TK asked in a gentle voice.
“Women. All older. I can’t remember their names, see their faces, but I feel safe. I feel loved.” Her eyes popped open, glistening with tears. “My family. I was home. But why can’t I remember more?”
“Relax. You’re doing great. Let’s try another.”
Sarah shook her head in frustration, her hair falling around her face. “No. It’s so damn hard. I mean, why can I remember stupid things like George Washington and how to make my coffee and that gray is not a color I’d ever wear, but I can’t remember my name or face or my own family?”
TK looked to Lucy, who nodded and shifted to the chair beside Sarah. Lucy placed her palm on Sarah’s arm. “My husband, he works at the VA, with PTSD patients. A lot of them also have traumatic brain injuries, memory problems. He says there’s a pattern to how memories are lost and found again—that usually the older the memory, the more likely it is to remain.”
“So we have to go through this over and over until I rebuild my entire life? I know you’re trying to help,” Sarah said, sounding miserable, “but I just want to go home. Can’t we continue this there? Maybe something will trigger things. Bring it all back. I really want to go home now.”
Made sense to TK. But Lucy hesitated. “Sarah, when you were in your apartment earlier with Burroughs and Oshiro, what did you feel?”
“Nothing. I mean, it’s a small place, was easy enough to figure out where my clothing was, simply because there weren’t many options, but nothing looked familiar. But we were only there for a few minutes, just long enough for me to change and get cleaned up after the hospital.”
“No sense of belonging?”
“No. Felt like a hotel room or something where it just happened that the clothing they said belonged to me was hanging in the closet. But maybe there’s more—a favorite blouse or piece of jewelry, I don’t know.” She frowned. “Why don’t you want me to go home?”
TK wondered that as well. She eased back in her chair to watch both Lucy and Sarah.
“It’s not that.” Lucy glanced at TK, then Sarah. “It’s just that most people, their homes have personal items. Notes scribbled in a calendar, photos on the fridge, mementoes…”
“Right. Exactly. Let’s go see.” Sarah stood eagerly—then paused and
frowned at Lucy. “Wait. If any of that stuff was there, Detective Burroughs would have showed me, wouldn’t he? It would have given him a starting place. But he didn’t. Which means he didn’t find anything.” She shook her head. “How could that be?”
TK stood beside Sarah, annoyed at Lucy for upsetting her further. “Don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of it. But you’re right. Maybe there’s something he missed that you’d recognize. We won’t know until we go check it out.”
“But… who lives like that? What kind of person am I?”
“I wasn’t trying to upset you,” Lucy said. “Why don’t you wait in the reception area while TK and I clean up here, and then we’ll take you home?”
Sarah nodded, her face a blank. But then she glanced up. “Will Dr. Worth be there? I’d feel much more comfortable if he was.”
“Why? Do you feel sick? Need a doctor?”
“No. I’m fine. Just, I don’t know, he feels… not familiar, that’s too strong of a word. Comforting? I feel like I can think better, my mind’s not as fuzzy when he’s around. Does that make any sense?”
TK smiled. “Tommy’s a pediatrician. I think he has that kind of calming influence on us all.”
“Okay, then. I’ll wait for you out front.”
Sarah left, and TK turned to Lucy. “What the hell was that all about?”
“I wish I knew. But Burroughs and Oshiro both felt like there’s more going on with Sarah. Like maybe she purposely erased her past.”
“No. She’s not faking it. No way.”
“Not that. More like, maybe she’s hiding from someone, keeping a low profile.”
TK snapped to attention. “Lucy. The public service announcements—if she really is hiding from someone, we’ve just broadcast her face to the world.”