DARE TO REMEMBER

by Debra Cowan

  Mace halted at the squad-room door and let her walk into the hallway alone. "Thanks for coming in. I know it couldn't have been easy."

  The words sounded practiced, as if he'd said them dozens of times. Which he had.

  She turned, a strange combination of hunger and wariness in her silver eyes. "I'm glad … you were here."

  I could've been there for you the whole time, baby. At the thought, his jaw locked and he only nodded at her.

  The air grew tight with memories of the past and regret for what would never be. His chest burned, as if the breath were being slowly squeezed out of him.

  Uncertainty flitted across her features, and she looked as if she might say something else. Instead, she gave a weak smile, hurrying to the top of the stairs as though escaping a trap. Was that what he'd become to her? A trap into a life she feared?

  A door creaked open and O'Kelly stepped out in front of Devon, bumping her elbow. Mace's partner reached out to steady her. "Sorry, ma'am."

  "Pardon me." She kept her chin tucked into her chest and rushed past him, bolting down the stairs as if she couldn't wait to get away from Mace.

  O'Kelly recognized her then and his jaw dropped. "What the hell!"

  Mace's gaze followed her down the stairs until she disappeared.

  His partner trotted down a couple of steps and stared, as if to assure himself he'd indeed seen who he thought he had.

  Mace exhaled deeply and sagged against the door frame, feeling as if he'd been pistol-whipped.

  "What's going on?" O'Kelly moved back up the stairs to stand beside him.

  "Got a witness on the Landry case."

  "A witness?" He snorted exactly as Mace had earlier. "Since when?"

  "Since about two hours ago."

  "Are you telling me…?" Disbelief fired O'Kelly's green eyes. "Devon?"

  Mace nodded, wishing he could dodge the rage and bitterness churning inside him. He'd wished for her to come back into his life, but not like this.

  "She saw the whole thing."

  Mace gave O'Kelly a quick rundown of Devon's statement.

  "Oh, man." O'Kelly grimaced and released a slow breath. "You believe her?"

  "I didn't." Mace met his partner's probing gaze. "I do, now."

  O'Kelly picked up on the worry in Mace's voice. "But?"

  "I'm not so sure she can handle what she knows."

  The other man glanced thoughtfully toward the stairs. "She gonna testify?"

  "She says she is."

  At the doubt in Mace's voice, O'Kelly lifted a brow.

  "I don't know if she's up for it," Mace said. "So let's go talk to her shrink and find out."

  * * *

  Why didn't you come to me, Devon? Why?

  She didn't need him. That was why. She was doing fine on her own.

  He shouldn't have cared, but he did. That realization did nothing to dim the hurt, the disappointment. It did nothing to erase the question that lurked behind those he had to ask Dr. Hector Beasley half an hour later.

  "Detective Garrett, I'm sure you'll respect the privilege of doctor-patient confidentiality," the doctor said.

  Mace and O'Kelly stood in the tastefully furnished third-floor offices of the psychiatrist who was treating Devon. The slender, mid-forties doctor smiled easily at Mace, who choked back his impatience.

  He was asking the questions he needed to, but not the one that really tortured him. Why hadn't she come to him? Why?

  Oh, he knew what she would say—it was because she'd broken their engagement—but he didn't buy that. He had a stake in Bill's case, because of their friendship and he used to have a stake in Devon's future, he thought bitterly before reining in his irritation.

  "I'm not trying to nail you to the wall, Doctor. I just want your honest opinion of Devon's, er, Ms. Landry's mental competency." Mace hated those words, but he'd seen her thin hold on control, her struggle to even complete giving the statement. "Can't you offer an opinion?"

  "Detective Garrett, she repressed a memory. She's not crazy."

  "I don't think she is crazy, but can her recollection of events be considered dependable?"

  The doctor's eyes darkened perceptibly. "I would say her recollections will be more detailed than anyone should have to suffer. Yes, they'll be dependable."

  Mace's gut twisted at the blunt observation. "I'm worried that testifying could—"

  "Send her over the edge?" The doctor finished what Mace feared to voice.

  He shrugged, uneasy with Beasley's ability to pick up on his thoughts.

  "There is that possibility." Dr. Beasley eased into his chair and removed his glasses. "But Devon's a strong lady. Her visit to you is a good sign, especially strong at this point of her therapy."

  "That doesn't tell me how she'll hold up in trial." Mace tried to rein in his quickly wearing patience. This guy was doing nothing to allay Mace's fears about Devon and her well-being. "If she testifies, it'll get ugly. Brutal."

  "I can't tell you how she'll do during a trial," the doctor said gently. "No one can, not even Devon. But it's something she has to do and she should be allowed to try."

  "Even if it destroys her in the process?" Mace asked sharply. After seeing her reaction while giving her statement, he knew there had to be some security in blocking out the memory; there was certainly less fear.

  Speculation fired Dr. Beasley's dark brown eyes. "What's your opinion of Ms. Landry, Detective Garrett?"

  The question surprised Mace and he frowned. Beasley gestured expansively. "You sound as if you're more than one-time acquaintances."

  Mace had called Devon by her first name and realized that must have been how the doctor had correctly deduced a deeper relationship than the typical police officer to civilian. He said guardedly, "I know her."

  "Then you know she's a very determined woman. She wants to face this thing, despite the hell she's been through. I believe she can only get stronger."

  "And what if you're wrong?" Mace hated that the doctor was so calm, while his own protective instincts were screaming at him. His words were fierce enough to elicit raised eyebrows from O'Kelly. "Who'll be there to pick up the pieces, take care of her?"

  "I think she's picking up her own pieces, Detective."

  Damn, but shrinks annoyed him. Almost as much as bean counters. Did Mace fear Devon couldn't handle the trial? Or that she could?

  Because if she could, then she would well and truly be able to put him and their relationship in the past.

  Several hours later, he toed off his boots and sprawled out on his couch with a long-neck. He lay on the same worn beige couch he'd had a year ago. He lived in the same sparsely furnished, plain apartment he had then.

  The blueprints for the house he had planned to build for him and Devon were stuffed to the back of a shelf in the dusty bookcase. He'd considered getting a place next to Aunt Micki's cabin at the lake, but he hadn't done anything about it yet.

  Maybe now was the time. Devon certainly seemed to be moving on.

  I think she's picking up her own pieces, Detective.

  Dr. Beasley's parting words spun through his brain as Mace took another swallow of ice-cold beer. He stared at the dainty ring he'd taken from his nightstand drawer, the ring that was now pushed onto the end of his pinkie finger.

  White light bounced from the perfect oval-cut diamond solitaire that had set him back three months' salary. The burnished gold band was warm from his skin. Reflexively, he stroked the ring, moving his thumb across the prongs that held the flawless stone.

  A year had passed since their breakup, but he couldn't force himself to sell the ring. So he kept it, a scarred badge of survival, a token of hope that wouldn't quite die.

  Idiot.

  Mace knew he should sell the ring or give it to his mom or Aunt Micki, so one of them could have a piece of jewelry made for herself, but he couldn't bring himself to do either.

  Somehow it reminded him of what he owed Bill. Mace had lost a friend and a future. But he was over
Devon. He wouldn't wallow in the past.

  With a twinge of pain and regret, he recalled the emptiness, the bleak determination in her eyes at the station. But she'd handled it, he noted with grudging admiration.

  She'd been unnerved while giving her statement and picking out suspects, but her discomfort stemmed from something beyond uneasiness about him.

  She was fine. She didn't need him anymore. Mace took a long drag of beer, telling himself it was nothing more than that nagging sense of responsibility over Bill that caused him to dwell on her.

  Nothing more than responsibility that caused him to drive to an established, tree-studded neighborhood at two in the morning and park across the street from her trim frame house.

  Nothing more than responsibility that caused him to stay there all night.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  Just look at me. One visit to the police station and cold sweat drenched Devon's body. Apprehension knotted her stomach and her body shook as if she'd survived a tornado.

  Was she affected this way because she'd seen Mace? Or because she'd gone to the police and set in motion a series of events she couldn't stop?

  She stood in her classroom. Even though school had been dismissed for the summer, she had come here because she felt safe. Here in this ten-by-ten room she felt close to her kids, knew where she stood in their world and had confidence in her abilities with them.

  She had no confidence in her ability to remain strong throughout the strenuous length of a trial.

  Seeing Mace had certainly unsettled her. He still affected her more than she'd imagined he could.

  He seemed harder, even more in control than when they'd been together. Had she been responsible for the hardness of his blue gaze? Before, when they'd been together, there had been an air of recklessness, even abandon, but now there was a subtle shift in attitude that she couldn't quite finger. He had changed, not in physical ways, but in emotional, less pronounced ways.

  That was what niggled at her. This nervousness was more due to seeing Mace. Keeping a distance from him was imperative. It had been too hard-won for both of them; she couldn't jeopardize her peace of mind or the case.

  The phone, kept in her classroom because of the physically and mentally disabled children she taught, rang shrilly in the quietness. She'd worked through lunch and hunger gnawed at her stomach. The sun slanted in the western sky, drawing long shadows through the linoleum-tiled room and across the Formica cabinets.

  Large, ragged-edged sheets of butcher paper, decorated with birds and animals and people drawn by her kids, sprawled across the back wall of the classroom. The phone shrilled again and she picked it up, expecting to hear her mother's voice.

  "Hi, hon." Josh Van Horn spoke softly out of the ear-piece.

  "Oh. Hi." Jolted for a moment, she stared out the windows into the empty playground beyond. The swings swayed in a slight breeze, their chains creaking. Sun blistered the stainless steel of the monkey bars, shooting off a brilliant arc of light.

  Should she tell Josh about her visit to the police?

  She hesitated. She hadn't yet been able to confide in him about remembering the details of her father's death. Not that Josh wouldn't understand—he was wonderful about waiting until she was ready to talk about any subject. But Devon wasn't ready to talk about her dad at every turn, even with Josh.

  "Devon, you there?"

  "Of course. How are things in Chicago?"

  "I think I'm going to get the job. This second interview was more in-depth." His smooth, cultured voice rose excitedly. "They showed me some of the actual accounts."

  "That's good. I'm glad." Part of her felt guilty at not telling Josh about her memory of Dad's murder and her identification of the killers, but she shied away from discussing it. She would tell him, though. She would.

  Devon wondered if she felt pressure to inform Josh simply because Mace knew.

  "What do you think?"

  "About looking around?" She winced in shame. She hadn't heard most of what he'd said, although she had caught the last mention of looking for an apartment or a house.

  "Yes. Hey, are you okay?"

  "I'm fine. A little distracted. I'm trying to get my room straightened up a bit."

  "I think you'd like it here." His voice lowered. "I want you to come with me. Have you thought about it?"

  He was referring to his marriage proposal. Unable to summon more than a flash of regret, she stared out the window at a discarded cola can that lay under the monkey bars. "Of course I have."

  "But you're not ready yet."

  The petulance in his tone got her attention. Josh was never petulant. "I'm sorry, Josh. I just need some more time. I'm still dealing with my father's death—"

  "I know, hon."

  "And I don't want to leave the children."

  "They have schools here, Devon," he said with fond exasperation.

  "I know, but these are my kids. And Mom—"

  "I didn't mean to rush you. We'll talk about it after I return. Have you seen Dr. Beasley this week?"

  "Yes. It was a good session." She didn't say more and he didn't press. He knew only that she had been seeing the psychiatrist to help her deal with her father's death. Of course, Mace knew that, too, and she'd seen him only yesterday after a year apart.

  "How is your mother?"

  "She's fine." Devon shoved away thoughts of Mace and tried to concentrate on her conversation with Josh. "Still in Houston with Aunt Sue. They're square-dancing every night."

  "Well, I wanted to check in, see if you needed anything. I'll probably spend the weekend here with my uncle Joe and take a look at some houses. The job possibility looks really good."

  "I'm glad, Josh," she said warmly. "That would be wonderful for you."

  "I hope it will be wonderful for us, but I won't push on that. I promised to give you time and I will."

  "Thank you."

  "I'll call you in a day or two."

  "I'll look forward to it." A pang of loneliness hit her. This was Josh, whose nice safe job as an accountant always made her take a breath of relief, and she did so now. Why couldn't she concentrate on him instead of thinking about Mace and her visit to the police station?

  Even if she couldn't dismiss Mace easily, just hearing Josh's voice reaffirmed what she knew to be right: she'd changed over the last year but not in the ways necessary to become a cop's wife. Not in the ways that Mace needed in a partner.

  Which hurt nearly as much as seeing him…

  Josh hadn't said he loved her and Devon knew that meant he was hurt by her inattention. She hung up the phone, feeling a twinge of guilt. She did love him. She especially loved that his job was safe and that she didn't have to worry about him or herself being gunned down.

  Devon held on to that surety with a single-minded, desperate determination. Even so, she wouldn't be intimate with him, not until she'd made a more firm commitment.

  She knew deep in her heart there was a piece of her that still yearned to be with Mace. But she would never be with Mace again. And the step she'd taken by going to the police station would forever put in the past their relationship.

  Though there was an undeniable sense of relief associated with the thought, there was also a nagging sadness. Devon tried to minimize it. It was never easy to forget someone with whom you'd promised to spend your entire life. The most difficult part of confronting the past had been seeing Mace yesterday at the police station.

  At least she wouldn't have to see him every day. Thankful for that, she picked up her purse. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she turned and froze.

  Mace leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, one long, jean-clad leg crossed indolently over the other. Blue eyes burned into her.

  Her grip tightened on the purse. "I—I didn't hear you come in."

  "Yeah, you were on the phone." He pushed away from the door and walked toward her. He moved gracefully for a man his size, but Devon was again struck by a nu
ance of change, a new deliberation in everything he did. He stopped next to a cabinet piled with baskets that held clay and glue and blocks. Picking up a ball of blue clay, he rolled it in his hands. "Everything okay?"

  "Yes. Why wouldn't it be?"

  "Just checking."

  She took in the gun nestled in the waistband of his jeans, the set of handcuffs dangling from a belt loop and the polished gold badge he wore clipped at his waist. He gave a tight smile, but there was no apology in the gesture.

  Once upon a time he wouldn't have worn his gun, badge or handcuffs in front of her. Perhaps if he had been more stubborn about it then, she might have learned to cope better with the realities of his job. No, that wouldn't have mattered, she told herself.

  She straightened her shoulders. "Did you come by only to check on me?"

  "I need to know if you're still certain you want to proceed, if you still stand by your statement?"

  "Yes." She could tell nothing by his tone. How long had he been in the doorway? Had he heard her conversation with Josh?

  "The captain wants to go to the DA today." He watched her carefully, as if afraid she might try to bolt.

  She nodded. "All right. I won't change my mind."

  "You're—"

  "I'm sure."

  He stared at her so hard she finally swallowed, but she didn't speak. She wasn't about to confess that she'd been wondering all day if she had the guts and stamina to face the grueling trial ahead.

  Her skin tingled under his regard. She resisted the urge to rub her arms, wryly admitting she wasn't over seeing him yesterday, He seemed to dwarf the room, and she knew it was due to his commanding presence as much as the breadth of his shoulders.

  "There's something we need to talk about." He tossed the ball of clay into the air, caught it and neatly flipped it into the basket.

  A small thing, but his fluid movement triggered the image of another fluid movement—his body moving atop hers. The last year melted away. It was as if they had never been apart, never broken up, never dealt with the murder of her father.