by Debra Webb
Patrick scanned the report. Detective Lyons was correct. The Sande Williams accused of identity theft in D.C. was not the woman sitting next to Patrick. He met the detective’s gaze. “Do you have a description of the Sande Williams suspected of committing this crime?”
“Absolutely.” Lyons stood. “Give me a minute.”
When the detective had left the interview room, Sande evidently couldn’t hold back her frustration any longer. “What’s going on?” Her blue eyes searched Patrick’s, her worry and uncertainty crystal clear.
That was a question he couldn’t answer. “I’m not sure. But I’m guessing the suspect’s description is quite similar to yours, otherwise we wouldn’t be here right now.” He stared at the report, which basically told him nothing at all. “I’ve got a feeling the detective is as much in the dark as we are.”
The door opened and Detective Lyons returned with a brown case file in hand. He settled into his chair and took his time going through the papers in the folder. When he no doubt felt confident the tension had mounted sufficiently, he pulled a photograph from among the pages and passed it to Patrick.
“This was Sande Williams.”
Patrick accepted the photograph, held it loosely between his fingers as he stared, unblinking. At first, the image of his murdered wife transposed itself over the victim lying on the cold, stainless steel table with nothing more than a plain white sheet draping her nude body. Sweat formed on his skin.
But this wasn’t his wife. This was…a woman who looked very similar to Sande Williams. Blond hair, petite frame. Somewhat rounder face…the lips noticeably thinner.
The gasp next to him shook Patrick from his intense study of the obviously dead victim in the photograph. Sande’s horrified gaze was fixed on the image.
“Do you understand now why I needed to bring you in?” Lyons asked.
She nodded slowly. “If that’s Sande Williams…” Her gaze collided with Patrick’s. “Then who am I?”
“That’s a damn good question,” Lyons growled.
Patrick jerked his attention to the less than tactful officer. “No more games, Detective. What’s going on here?”
Lyons withdrew another photograph from the file and placed it on the table. “This was Nancy Childers, also of D.C.”
Like the other photo, the deceased female lay on a stainless steel morgue table with a white sheet covering her body. Physically, the victim was a fairly close match to the Nancy Childers murdered only a few hours ago.
“My question is why we have two pairs of women with the same names and similar physical descriptions.” He tapped the first photo, then the second. “Not twins, mind you. Just women who look a hell of a lot alike at first glance.”
Sande shook her head slowly, her attention glued to the photos. “I don’t understand.”
“That makes two of us,” Lyons said.
“What gives you reason to believe these two victims are connected?” Patrick gestured to the photographs. Admittedly, there was no way this situation was a mere coincidence, yet stranger things happened. There had to be something else Lyons had opted not to share.
“Both murders were executed using the same M.O. Each victim was involved in an identity theft ring that’s currently under investigation.”
“In D.C.,” Patrick suggested. The detective had said that Sande Williams was suspected of a crime in D.C., not Chicago.
“We’ve traced that same ring to Chicago and New York. We could be looking at something bigger than that. We just don’t know yet.” He turned to Sande. “You’re the first we’ve discovered with amnesia.”
The detective’s closed expression made Patrick’s instincts buzz. “You’ve tracked down other members of this ring?”
Lyons didn’t respond right away, but his eyes told Patrick he wasn’t going to like his answer.
“Between our investigation and the ongoing one in D.C. we’ve connected ten suspects.”
“Have interviews or interrogations revealed any details that may be useful to my client’s situation?” Patrick was swiftly growing impatient with the detective’s stall tactics.
“We have zip.”
“You’ve collared ten suspects and you have nothing in the way of information as to how this operation works or the motives behind it?” Maybe if he excavated long and hard enough he’d get half the story out of the man.
“We have zip,” Lyons reiterated, “because your client is the first suspect we’ve connected to this operation who’s still alive.”
SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE dead.
Sande now knew without doubt that when she’d awakened outside that morgue, it had been a mistake.
She wasn’t supposed to wake up.
“You don’t drink coffee,” O’Brien said as he settled on the sofa next to her. “How about tea or…” He shrugged. “Water. If you’re a chocolate fan, unfortunately, I’m all out of hot cocoa.”
“No, thank you.” Sande wasn’t thirsty or hungry. She was tired. Tired and frustrated.
“Let’s talk about the feelings you experienced when you realized you didn’t like coffee.” O’Brien reclined against the back of the sofa and settled that dark gaze on her.
No matter how impatient she’d been or how irrational she’d behaved, his patience seemed unwavering. He just kept on being there, prodding her along.
There was something she needed to say before this went any further. “First, I want to thank you for taking me in.” The thought of going back to that shelter, as nice as it was, had been more than she could bear. No matter the security on site, right now she trusted no one except O’Brien.
He waved a hand. “No problem. My job is to see that you’re safe and secure.”
His associate, Windy, had made the same offer when she’d met them at the precinct. But Sande felt safest with O’Brien. Maybe because he was a man. She couldn’t say for certain, but something about him made her feel secure, or calm. Both, she decided.
“Still, I appreciate your going above and beyond. I’m sure taking clients home with you isn’t in your job description.” Especially one who might be crazy.
One of those broad shoulders lifted, then fell nonchalantly. “You’re the first, but, as I said, it’s not a problem.”
She sighed. Time to answer his question about the coffee. “I don’t know. There was this heaviness in my stomach. A revulsion almost. I just knew I couldn’t drink coffee.”
He nodded. “It felt real, instinctive.”
“Yes.”
“That’s progress.”
She noticed he didn’t say it was a good sign or that it meant she was on her way to regaining her memory. Progress…She supposed that was something.
Time to ask the hard questions. “Why can’t I remember anything? As far as I can tell I haven’t suffered any head trauma. You think it’s drugs?”
“That’s possible.” He contemplated her question for what felt like forever. “Your condition could be psychological for reasons other than the involvement of drugs.”
He’d mentioned that before. “You mean, I don’t want to remember.”
“Not necessarily. Though it would appear you’ve suffered no physical trauma, there may have been extreme emotional trauma.”
She stared straight into his eyes. He needed to be completely on the level with her. No skirting the truth, no matter how hard it was to take. “Will I regain my memory?” She bit her lip, then blurted the rest. “Will I get me back?”
Whoever me is.
That was the thing. If she wasn’t Sande Williams, who was she? There was no match on her prints. The Illinois DMV considered her Sande Williams. But the dead Sande Williams in the photo in Lyon’s case file had possessed a license from D.C. So the driver’s license didn’t really mean anything. Unfortunately, getting a driver’s license under a name other than your own wasn’t so difficult.
“If,” O’Brien began, emphasizing the word, “you’d suffered the kind of head trauma necessary to cause global amnesia
, the answer would be no. You likely would not ever recall your past.”
Sande frowned. “Global amnesia. I’m not sure I understand what that means.”
“Complete amnesia. No recall whatsoever.” He held up a hand when she would have thrown two more questions at him. “But that’s not the case here. Most patients with that level of amnesia have to learn to walk, talk, basically everything, all over again.”
That was a relief. Or was it? “So, what if drugs are involved?” She wasn’t sure what was scarier, drugs or emotional trauma. Drugs meant someone had introduced pharmaceuticals into her body. But that would clear up eventually, wouldn’t it? If she’d experienced some emotional horror, remembering it could be more painful than any damage the drugs may have done.
“A lot would depend upon the drug used.” He reached for the final French fry on his plate. They’d picked up takeout on the way to his home. Burgers and fries she had known without doubt she loved.
When he’d finished off the fry, he continued, “There are a number of drugs that cause temporary memory loss. Not usually to this extent or even for this long. But there are dozens of experimental drugs out there that might create this very scenario. There’s just no way to know without the lab results. We should have those results tomorrow.”
“More waiting.” She slipped off her shoes and pulled her knees to her chest.
“More waiting,” he confirmed.
Sande chastised herself for not thanking Windy for the clothes; she’d picked up jeans, sweaters, undies, socks and sneakers. Patrick’s partner had gone out of her way to be helpful and nice; and Sande owed her for her kindness, as well as the clothes. But after the visit to the precinct, she hadn’t been able to think about anything except the pictures of those murder victims.
Was the blond woman the real Sande Williams?
Her pulse rate started to gallop, and she closed her eyes and ordered it to slow. She couldn’t keep it together if she allowed her emotions to get out of control. She had to think clearly. Rationally.
Opening her eyes, she decided a subject change was in order. “You know—” she turned to O’Brien “—I think I’ll have tea after all.”
He pushed himself to his feet. “Sugar?”
Sande considered the question a moment. “Yes. Definitely sugar.”
When he’d headed for the kitchen, she got up and walked around the room. The space was large for a condo. She wasn’t sure how she knew that but she did. Not a lot of color. Mostly whites and beiges. Probably the place had already been painted when he moved in. In contrast, the furnishings were dark and heavy. Lots of leather and wood. Masculine. Not surprising. O’Brien was definitely a man’s man. Probably somewhere in the condo was a weight bench where he worked out. A guy couldn’t keep muscles that well defined without working at it.
She’d made her second trip around the room before she realized what was missing. Pictures. There were no personal pictures. There was art—sculpture as well as paintings. But no pictures of family or friends or favorite places.
“Tea for the lady,” he announced as he entered the room. No fancy tray, just a steaming mug with the tea label hanging loosely from one side.
Sande took the hot mug into her hands. The heat felt good. “Thanks.”
He resumed his seat on one end of the sofa and she settled onto the other end, as before. She tasted the tea. “Mmm. Good. Thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
She sipped the warm liquid for a while to work up the nerve to delve into the subject gnawing at her. “So tell me about you.”
His unguarded expression immediately went into lockdown. “What do you want to know?”
He definitely had secrets. Or just stuff he didn’t want to talk about. “Are you originally from Chicago?” Start with the basics.
“I am.” He didn’t meet her eyes as he answered. Instead, he busied himself cleaning up the remnants of their dinner.
“How long have you worked for the Colby Agency?”
“Two years, two months and one week.”
“Ah ha. The move to the agency was a major career change?” Only a significant one would be remembered so precisely.
“It was.” He stood, hamburger wrappers and fry bags in hand. “Excuse me.”
His reaction to her questions confused her. Made her more curious. Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about himself. But when he returned and took his seat once more, he didn’t tell her to change the subject, so she kept going.
“What did you do before?”
This time he looked directly at her when he answered. “I was a psychologist.”
She blinked to cover her surprise. Wow. She certainly hadn’t expected that answer. “As in Dr. Patrick O’Brien?”
“Not anymore. I’m just plain Patrick O’Brien now.” His face remained impassive.
“Ever been married?” He wore no ring, and considering there wasn’t a single picture of a woman in his home, she was pretty sure he wasn’t now.
“Once.”
“Divorced?”
“No.”
A knot formed in her stomach. “Your wife died?” Why, oh why, had she started down this path? No wonder his expression had closed so completely. She was a horrible person. Here he was, being so nice to her, and she had to go and bring up a painful past.
“Yes.”
When she would have relayed how sorry she was for his loss, he interrupted. “It was three years ago. She was murdered by the wife of one of her many extramarital conquests.”
Dear God. What kind of woman did that to a man like this? “I didn’t mean to bring up such a painful subject.” Sande set her tea on the end table. “I was being selfish. I didn’t want to think about my problems anymore, so I nosed into yours. Sorry.”
Those dark eyes held hers. He made no attempt to disguise the sadness or the contempt in them. “It is what it is. I thought I knew her. I was wrong. I won’t make that mistake again.”
Silence seemed to suck the air out of the room for the next few seconds. His last statement was the saddest one of all. This man, who had trusted and loved, would never allow himself to be hurt again. Or to feel.
None of your business.
Definitely. Sande decided the best way to get past it was to ask the next question. “Did the police get her killer?”
He nodded. “The wife and the thug she hired to do the job.”
“I’m—”
“Don’t say you’re sorry again. It’s over. There’s nothing else to say.”
Talk about living in denial. She wondered why a psychologist couldn’t see that in himself, when he surely recognized it in patients all the time.
Was she in denial? She assumed she would get her past back. Was she wrong to blindly assume anything? If the people after her had their way, she would end up dead on a stainless steel table just like the other Sande Williams. And both Nancy Childers’s.
Back to O’Brien. Talking about him was a lot less stressful for her.
“Have you dated anyone since…recently?”
A glimmer of a smile haunted his lips. “Are you asking about my social life?”
Her cheeks heated. “Yes, I guess I am.”
“I’m afraid you’d find it rather boring.” He chuckled. “But to answer your question, yes, I have dated from time to time.”
That was good. “That’s the right attitude.” She hugged her knees to her chest once more. “Being alone stinks.”
He seemed to realize at the same instant she did that the statement had come straight from the heart.
“You know loneliness, do you?”
She laughed softly, dryly. “Evidently.”
“Sometimes people need solitude to heal.”
Spoken like a true shrink. “I don’t like being alone.”
This time her frank statement startled her. Her chest tightened and her heart rate increased.
“Now we know two things about you,” O’Brien offered. “You don’t like coffee or being alone.�
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“That’s good, right?”
He smiled. Her breath caught. Patrick O’Brien was a very good-looking man, but when he smiled, he was gorgeous.
“That’s progress,” he reminded her.
“Progress. Right.” For the first time today she felt relaxed. Definitely safe.
“I’m sure you’re tired.” O’Brien stood. “Why don’t I show you to the guest room?”
Yes, she was tired. But she had a feeling that he was also tired. Tired of her questions, perhaps.
“Good idea.” She grabbed her shoes and followed him into the hall between the living area and the kitchen.
He stopped at the first door on the left. “Let me know if you need anything. There’s a T-shirt on the bed. I hope that’ll work for you to sleep in.”
“That’s fine. Thank you.”
When he would have turned away, Sande did something that startled her all over again.
“Is it possible to lose everything and ever be happy again?”
He turned back to her, searched her eyes. No doubt for the motive behind the question. She realized too late that it probably hit a little too close to home for his comfort. But, in truth, the question was about her.
Or maybe it was about him, too.
“There are varying degrees of happiness, Sande. Don’t mistake a lesser degree for unhappiness. Life is what you make it. You work with what you’ve got.” He called good-night over his shoulder as he walked away.
“Night.” She watched him disappear into his room. “But what if you don’t have anything?” she murmured.
It was hard to work with something you didn’t have.
She might not ever remember her real name or the life she’d had before, but somehow, some part of her instinctively sensed that her life—her real life—was pretty damn empty.
Chapter Seven
Patrick woke to a scream.
He threw back the covers and jumped out of bed.
Sande.
He rushed to the guest room, switching on the hall light as he went. She sat in the middle of the bed, sobbing. He settled on the edge of the mattress, facing her, and he gently took her by the shoulders to get her attention.