by C. J. Lyons
Lucy had to give them credit. For a story with almost no facts, they’d managed to create the illusion of a much wider conspiracy, as if husbands and wives throughout Pittsburgh were busy searching for nefarious partners to help eliminate their spouses, leading one paper to do a series on “how to get away with murder,” while another online tabloid website tried to create a sting operation to snare potential hit men for hire. All of which no doubt brought much-needed eyeballs to their publications, but were of no help in finding Charlotte.
The last theory—suicide—was the least popular. And the one with the least concrete basis. But both Charlotte’s family and colleagues had mentioned that she was stressed during the weeks before she vanished. No one said why, only that she’d seemed distracted and at times distraught. She was in good health, and at the time she went missing she hadn’t been involved with any cases at work that would have been unduly stressful. Social workers rotated around various units at the hospital in an effort to avoid burnout, and when Charlotte vanished, she’d been working in the rehab department, one of the least stressful.
All of these hypotheses strived to create sense out of the devastation Charlotte had left in her wake. And odds were, none of them were right.
Lucy paced back and forth, her gaze darting from one wall to the other, letting the facts and questions whirl and spin, sparking off each other, without committing to any of them. Trying to be both neutral and involved, searching for what lay beneath the facts, seeking out new questions to ask.
Wash interrupted her with a knock on the door. “Found a few things on Sarah.” He wheeled forward into the tiny room. “Wow. Isn’t it kind of overwhelming? Seeing it all in one place like this?”
“It can be. Which is why I don’t want Tommy stumbling in here.” She glanced at the analyst to make sure he caught her meaning. “He doesn’t need more on his plate right now.”
“Sure, I get it. If you need me to help, just holler.”
“I will. Thanks.”
“So, what’cha think? Some crazy serial killer and she was in the wrong place, wrong time?”
The public always defaulted to random acts of senseless violence committed by strangers, but that was the least likely, statistically speaking. Especially with no evidence; most acts of spontaneous violence weren’t clean and neat. And there was no evidence of anyone stalking Charlotte, targeting her. Which meant looking to those she knew and loved.
“C’mon,” Wash continued when Lucy didn’t answer right away. “We know it wasn’t Tommy. And why would she run off, leave her husband and kid? Had to be some psycho.”
“What did you find on Sarah?” Lucy led him out of the room and locked the door behind her. They traveled down the hall back to the team’s main work area.
“Got her birth certificate. Unfortunately her parents are named Robert and Mary…”
“How many Robert and Mary Browns can there be?”
“A helluva lot more than you might think. But based on the address listed, I followed the real estate transactions, and I think I tracked them down.”
“Great. Where are they?”
He wheeled back in place behind his computer—Wash always seemed more comfortable with the computer and its screen serving as a barrier between him and the rest of the world—and clicked a key. The projection screen at the other end of the room lit up with two obituary notices. “Died in a car accident four years ago. I’m working on tracking the other relatives listed, but it’ll take a while. And then we still need to make sure they’re the correct Brown family.”
“Right. We can’t get Sarah’s hopes up without being certain. She’s been traumatized enough.”
“TK sent over a copy of her lease agreement. Turns out she’s a freelance photographer. I found several photographers named Sarah Brown with websites; I think this one might be hers.” The screen flipped to a website with a wide screen slideshow of nature photos. “There’s no personal profile picture, but the locations are all Pennsylvania and surrounding states, and it says the photographer is based in western Pennsylvania. The contact info leads to a Gmail account with a free phone number and answering system.”
“So basically untraceable.”
“Right. But, once we can prove that she is the actual owner of the Gmail account, we can ask them for access. Don’t hold your breath, though.”
Lucy knew that privacy reigned supreme when it came to tech companies, unless there were exigent circumstances like in a kidnapping or critical missing person—which was not the case here. Maybe since Sarah’s wallet and cell were presumably stolen when her car was broken into, she could ask Burroughs to report her as a victim of identity theft. That would allow them access without needing court orders—although it would still be a slow slog wading through the bureaucracies surrounding Sarah’s various accounts.
Lucy’s eyes blurred as Wash flipped through Sarah Brown’s photos, one image morphing into the next. “She really does have a thing for ferns and moss. Did the camera card’s GIS info give you anything to go on?”
“No. It’s all for the area around the trail she was found on. The first photo on the memory card is from earlier that same day, the trailhead sign—probably to help her organize her files when she downloads them.”
“If you were a professional photographer, wouldn’t you have a big computer and screen? They didn’t find any in her apartment.”
“These days, you can use your laptop, screencast to a hi-def TV, and the image is bigger than life, filled with all the detail she’d need to edit them. Same thing as what I’m doing here.”
“So she could have had everything in the car and lost it all in the smash and grab. I guess I was just expecting all sorts of equipment at home—lights and whatnot. But Burroughs didn’t mention anything.”
“Look at what she shoots.” He nodded to the image on the screen, which was filled with layers of thick, richly colored moss. “I’ll bet she does it all in the field with what she can carry with her.”
“Doesn’t help us much, then.”
Before she could ask anything else her phone rang. TK.
“Lucy? We have a problem.”
Chapter 13
TOMMY HELD SARAH much as he’d become accustomed to holding his daughter, trying to comfort her the best he could. But holding Sarah felt so different—and yet, so very familiar, in ways he fought to deny.
The scent of her shampoo, the feel of her hair, simply having a woman lean on him, need him… He closed his eyes, and for a fleeting, searing moment it was Charlotte he held, not a stranger. He wanted to savor, to etch this exact second of time into his memory so that he would not lose it as he had so many other moments with Charlotte.
But something inside him refused to allow him even that small measure of comfort. He didn’t push Sarah away in his need, but neither did he submerge himself in the intoxication of faux memory and denial.
Instead, as he’d done millions of times during the past 363 days, he relived those last moments with Charlotte.
He’d been pulling out of the driveway on his way to work. Nellie was waiting in the Pathfinder for Charlotte to drive her to school. Charlotte came out of the house, cell phone to her ear, her expression suddenly clouding, then growing—angry? Frustrated? Concerned? A mix of all three, maybe?
He hadn’t kept on driving. No. He’d stopped, half in and half out of the driveway. Had been poised to shift into park, roll his window down, and ask her what was wrong. But she glanced up when he stopped the car, shook her head, and waved him off.
And he’d gone. He’d left. Never to see her again.
The vision of those final moments—the entire encounter less than four seconds by his estimate—brought with it so many questions. And emotions. It used to be denial. It wasn’t his fault—he’d done everything he could. Then came anger, right on Kübler-Ross’s schedule. Why hadn’t she let him help? What had she been hiding from him? How could she have put herself in danger? What if something had happened when she had
Nellie with her instead of later?
The questions raged on, unrelenting and never ending. Without answers, without even a body to mourn, he had gotten stuck in anger. Well, there was the occasional bargaining, and definitely some depression, but absolutely no acceptance. A maelstrom of grief consumed him from the moment he woke—when he did sleep—and followed him through the day and into his dreams.
And now, to have a woman in his arms once more. A woman who, for whatever reason, smelled like Charlotte, and who needed him, who was depending upon him.
A woman who had stopped sobbing and now was simply embracing him, her head nestled into his shoulder, hair hiding her face. The temptation was so strong—to steal this moment of comfort, transplant it over his own painful final memories of Charlotte.
No. He straightened, pulling his arm away from her shoulders. No. Sarah looked up, her expression wounded, as if he’d rejected her.
“It’s going to be all right,” he told her, using his best “I’m the doctor and know these things, trust me” voice. “Let me check with TK. We’re not going to let anything happen to you.”
She blinked, her eyes still wet with tears. Blinked again as she weighed his words. Finally, she nodded.
Tommy stood and went into the bedroom where TK was talking with Lucy.
“What’s the plan?” he asked.
TK held a palm up, nodded, then said, “Got it.” She hung up and pocketed her phone. “How’s she doing?”
“Okay, I guess. What did Lucy say?”
“They found Sarah’s parents. Dead. A few years now. Still working on locating any other kin.”
“Seems like rediscovering her past is the least of our problems. What are we going to do to keep her safe now?”
“Wash is scouring court records, seeing if she was ever involved in any domestic violence cases or requested a restraining order. Hoping to get a name for whoever is stalking her. But since nothing showed up when the police ran her name, it means going county by county through their local databases.”
“Maybe we should hand this back over to the cops?” Tommy might not like Burroughs, but the man was good at his job.
“Lucy is updating Burroughs. But it’s still not a crime—her feelings of being frightened when she saw someone’s handwriting is not evidence.”
“We can’t penalize her because she can’t remember who’s stalking her with creepy messages and anonymous gifts. There has to be something we can do.”
“Lucy is working on a place for Sarah to stay the night. In the meantime, we take the dress and card and everything over to Burroughs, and we watch over her.”
“It’s a start.”
They returned to the living room. Sarah sat curled up on the center of the sofa, the empty space surrounding her making her appear even younger and more vulnerable. She looked at TK, then at Tommy, saying nothing. As if resigned to her fate.
That’s when it hit him. Without her memories, Sarah had no idea who she could trust and who might be dangerous. She had no one. Except his team.
TK took charge. “I know you’re scared,” she said, surprising him with her empathetic tone. “But we’re going to protect you. I’m going to stay with you while we find a safe place for you to go.”
“You’re leaving?” she asked Tommy. Her expression made it seem as if she was close to tears again.
“He’s just going to take the evidence over to the police,” TK rushed to assure her. “But I’ll stay. All day and all night.”
To Tommy’s surprise, Sarah uncurled her legs and stood. “No. That’s foolish.”
She strode past both of them to the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards until she found a box of plastic sandwich bags. She handed them to TK. “To save the fingerprints.”
“Right.” TK exchanged a glance with Tommy before retrieving the card and carefully slipping it inside one of the bags. She was doing it more to appease Sarah than anything—they both knew there was little chance of any forensic evidence to be found, which was why Burroughs wasn’t leaving his real cases to come himself. But if it made Sarah feel more in control…
“You’re not planning on staying here?” Tommy asked Sarah while TK collected the dress and its wrapping.
“No. Of course not. It’s not like this place has any meaning to me. I meant it was foolish for TK to insist on staying with me both day and night. What good is an exhausted bodyguard, right? She should take that,” she jerked her chin at the wedding gown as if it were contaminated, “to the police and then go get some rest. While you help me pack. We can go someplace public and safe until we figure out where to go next. A cheap hotel would work for me, except I don’t have any money or an ID—at least not until my replacement driver’s license gets here. Detective Burroughs said it should arrive by tomorrow.”
And that was that. No whining, no tears, just a plan. Tommy liked that. He only wished there was more to it. He knew Sarah wouldn’t be safe until they caught her stalker—and she found her memories.
“Would it be okay for us to set up surveillance here?” he asked. “In case the stalker returns?”
“I think that’s a great idea,” TK added. “We can put a button camera overlooking your front door and another inside.”
Sarah shrugged. “What do I care? I won’t be here.” She walked into the bedroom, leaving the door open so they could still talk. “Did you see any suitcases when you—oh, found it.”
TK bundled her evidence. Tommy walked out with her, holding the door open for her.
“You okay with this?” she asked. “I know you were planning to head home early.”
“I don’t need to pick up Nellie from school until three twenty. That should give you and Lucy time to flesh out a plan, find a place for Sarah to stay.”
“No problem.” TK looked past him back into the apartment. “I don’t know what to think of her. She seems all over the place, emotionally. Like she forgot what to feel and when to feel it, if you get my meaning.”
“It’s not uncommon in patients with concussions, even mild ones. Add that to the fact that her emotions are totally disconnected from any memories or life experiences…”
“Yeah, that makes sense. Feel kinda bad for her. It’s a shitty position to be in, even without a possible stalker. Can you imagine? Losing everything?”
“Losing everything is easy. People do it all the time and start over. It’s the losing everyone—including yourself. That’s a living hell.”
TK paused, met his gaze. Seemed to realize maybe he wasn’t talking only about Sarah and her amnesia. “It’ll be okay.” Her tone made it sound so damn easy. “Give it time. It’ll be okay.”
With that she left. Tommy stood in the hallway, watching her walk away, and all he saw was Charlotte. Shaking her head and waving him away… right when she needed him most. And he’d gone. He’d left her. Alone.
Chapter 14
TOMMY RE-ENTERED SARAH’S apartment and closed the door behind him. He leaned against it for a long moment. He felt off balance, but that was nothing new—losing Charlotte had been like losing his gravitational center. He had to hang on with everything he had to keep from spinning off into the void. If it weren’t for Nellie, he would have let go long ago.
What was taking Sarah so long? He wandered through the living room and into the bedroom, hoping he wouldn’t interrupt her packing her underwear or anything else inappropriate. He found her sitting on her bed cross-legged, an open suitcase stuffed with clothing beside her. She was staring at the digital screen on her camera.
“I think I know where we should go,” she said without looking up at him. “I want to retrace my steps, follow my path from Saturday.”
Tommy considered. It was Monday morning; the trail would probably be deserted. “Last place anyone would be looking for you.”
She glanced up, the camera rising with her as if it were part of her, and smiled. “My thoughts exactly. We can use the GIS info and these photos as a map. Maybe something there will trigger a memo
ry—after all, it was the last place I chose to go, right?”
He didn’t want to give her false hope. “Actually, with a traumatic brain injury, it’s often those memories closest to the time of the trauma that remain permanently erased.”
“Oh.” Her mouth worked back and forth as she considered that. “Still, better than staying here staring at stuff that feels like it belongs at someone else’s garage sale, right?”
“Sure. Finish packing and we’ll get going.”
She sprang off the bed, carefully returned her camera to its case, closed the suitcase, and zippered it shut. He hauled it off the bed—not very heavy; she really did travel light. “Sure this is everything you need?”
“No, but it’s everything I could think of. Packing is easy when you have no clue what clothes you like or which shoes are the most comfortable.” She spun around, taking in the room as if she’d never see it again. “I have no idea what I’m leaving behind. Everything feels so… sterile?” She heaved her shoulders in a sigh. “Leave your attachments behind. That’s like Zen or Catholic or something? Right?”
“No idea. Sounds kind of like the Hare Krishnas.”
“Hare Krishnas?” Her eyes closed as she concentrated. “I’m seeing orange, like wings flapping, swirling around… oh! I remember. They’re a dance troupe?”
“Close enough. Let’s go.”
He ushered her out to the Volvo. Traffic was light, and a little more than thirty minutes later, they left the narrow two-lane highway that twisted around the mountain, turning onto a gravel drive leading upward. Passing beneath the shadows of tall hemlocks, they arrived at the parking lot at Fiddler’s Knob.
During the drive they’d learned that Sarah didn’t like rock, country, pop, or cool jazz, but preferred classical music or NPR. She knew some of the presidents but not all of them, remembered the major wars but wasn’t sure who ISIS was—although to be truthful, who really was?—and she knew how to drive a straight stick, her left foot reflexively mimicking Tommy’s movements as he shifted gears.