I was a fucking idiot. I knew it before, but it’s even clearer now. A prize fucking idiot.
She tried to turn onto her side and groaned at the ache emanating from her knee. Her head throbbed, and she didn’t know if it was from the head injury or too much emotion. She did know it was a bloody uncomfortable headache, and that was enough to get her reaching for painkillers.
Her heart ached when she remembered Erin’s words. I loved my Morgan, but you’re the one who keeps telling me you aren’t her. She’d made it clear she didn’t want Morgan anymore.
No, that’s not true. She does want me, but she doesn’t want to want me. That’s different, right?
Morgan stared at the ceiling. And she doesn’t trust her—the old Morgan. She won’t give me a chance because she doesn’t really believe that I’ve changed.
Erin’s words played over and over in her head. She knew she needed to prove to her that she was different, that she could be trusted. The question was how.
She pushed the covers off and swung her legs out of the bed, wincing as she hopped to the bookshelves and searched for a notepad. A pen was sitting on the coffee table and she grabbed it as she staggered back to the bed, flicking on the small lamp before she sat down. She drew two columns on the page and wrote in the headings. Old Morgan. New Morgan.
Under the heading Old Morgan, she wrote was an idiot before drawing a line under it and slowly adding all the details she had learned of her old self. The trauma that had led to her disillusionment sat at the top of the column. Each item added to the list built up a picture of a woman who had given up. She was someone who had suffered and never truly recovered from it, allowing herself to remain the victim of her own past, rather than flourish in the life she had built herself.
Glass half empty kind of girl. Always waiting for the bad news around the corner and not appreciating the precious gifts she had right under her nose.
At the top of the second column, she wrote I will not give up.
The youthful pride and optimism of her nineteen-year-old self fed her passions and urged her to seek the dreams and goals her old self had long since given up on. Dreams that had turned to dust and scattered on the winds of weakness, were rekindled, given life, and set free. Her art would have its voice again, and she would set it loose upon the world.
Her children were loved, and they would know it. They would never question her sincerity or her loyalty, and they would learn that they could trust and depend on her as never before. She wouldn’t quit when they needed her, and she would be there if ever they wanted her.
Morgan wrote the words as she whispered them to herself. A vow, a promise, a binding contract that she set forth.
Then another name appeared on the page, one she didn’t remember writing.
Erin.
She drew a big circle around it, before she finished her pledge.
Maybe she’ll never love me back, but she will never again have cause to doubt that I love her. To the end of my days, I am hers.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Maddie shifted next to Morgan and dropped her hand to her knee. “Mum, can you help me with my homework?”
“First week back at school and you have homework already?”
“Yup, can ya help?”
“Sure, what’ve you got?”
She pulled a book from her backpack. “Math.”
Morgan groaned. “I was never any good at math. Isn’t your mum better at this?”
“Yep. But you should practice too. You don’t want me to be smarter than you are, do you?” Maddie giggled when Morgan started to tickle her.
“Cheeky little madam. I’ll give you practice.”
The tickling continued until a cough at the door distracted them. Morgan looked up with Maddie sprawled across her lap, her feet kicking cushions onto the floor.
“We have company.” Erin led two police officers into the room.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the door.” Morgan helped Maddie back onto the sofa, careful not to jar her knee.
The taller officer took off his cap, tucked it under his arm, and held his hand out. “Ms. Masters. I’m PC Lock and—”
“PC Ward. I remember.” She shook their hands before they sat down. “Maddie, why don’t you go to your room and start on your homework? I’ll come and help you when I’ve spoken to the police.” Her uninjured leg began to twitch against the floor. Her playful mood evaporated, replaced by a sense of caution. The images the men had shown her at their last meeting still tormented her.
Maddie’s cheeks were still red from her excitement, but her eyes were serious. She stuffed her book into her backpack, kissed Morgan’s cheek, and then scampered out of the room.
Erin followed her toward the door. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“Please, stay.” Morgan reached out and snagged Erin’s hand. “I’d really like you to.” Despite her trepidation, or maybe because of it, she wanted her close. Erin already knew they had pictures of Morgan with someone else; what could possibly be worse than that?
Erin paused, her cheeks coloring before she pulled her hand away, seemingly embarrassed by Morgan’s pleading, and sat in a chair across the room.
Lock cleared his throat. “We have the man who attacked you in custody. We have to ask you to come and identify him.”
“I don’t remember him. I don’t remember anything.” Morgan pressed herself further back on the sofa.
“We understand that. But this is a formality.” Ward leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He had dark hair and eyes, thin lips, and a crooked nose, possibly the result of a well-timed fist.
“It’s a waste of time.” She picked at her nails, frustration coloring her voice.
Ward shrugged his hands. “Maybe, but in some cases, seeing their attacker helps people to recover their memories.”
“That’s in cases where drugs are involved, isn’t it?” Erin asked.
“I will be able to answer more of your questions after the identity parade. But not before.” Lock turned to face Morgan. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a police officer for fifteen years now, and I haven’t come across a case like this before. None of us know what will work and what won’t.” He looked at Morgan. “It might do nothing, but it might help.”
“How do you know it’s him?” Morgan tried to stop her leg from jumping. The nervous twitch annoying her more and more.
“I can’t go into details. Not until after the ID parade. Then I’ll be able to fill you in on some of what we know.” Lock’s cleanly shaven scalp glistened slightly in the light from the bay window. Gray eyes watched her, calm, sincere, and open.
She glanced at Erin, at the tight frown knitting her brows together. She knew Erin needed answers more than she did. Would it help her forgive? Morgan had no idea, but she knew that she had to try to give Erin everything she needed. If that meant facing the man who had attacked her, then so be it. “When?”
“We can have the lineup ready in an hour or so.”
“Now?” Morgan knew she was staring as he nodded at her. “I’m not…” She looked at Erin. “Will you come with me?”
Erin shook her head. “The kids are home—”
“Chris could come and watch them. Or maybe Amy?” Her voice sounded desperate, even to her own ears, but she didn’t want to face this alone. The possibility that this might trigger her memory was as terrifying as the prospect of meeting the man who had beaten her. The thought of doing it without Erin made her heart race and her breathing accelerate. Her fear must have shown because Erin’s face softened, sympathy—or was it pity?—etched in the subtle lines of her face.
“Is that okay?” Erin looked from one police officer to the other.
“Of course,” Ward said. “If it helps, we could probably get a family liaison officer over to help out.
“No, I’m sure that won’t be necessary. I’ll just call my brother and see if he can make it.” She pulled her mobile from her pocket, dialed, and waited for Chris to answer.
“No. When we get to the station, we’ll go into a room. The glass wall will let you see the people in the other room, but they can’t see you. It’s safe. He won’t be able to see you.”
“But he’ll still know it’s me.” She tried to recall the features of his face. The grainy picture hadn’t been enough to fix in her mind. All she could see were shades of gray dots, white light, and black shadows. No face would come to her. Was it my father? Is that what the letter was about? She dragged her father’s face from the depths of her memory and examined it as she remembered him. The shaggy, unkempt dark hair, the deep-set black eyes, and the chiseled features were so much like the ones she saw in the mirror every day. She tried to picture him twenty years older. Twenty prison years older. Would that fit with the gray and black pixels on the page? “Did I know him?”
“I can’t tell you anything until afterward, Ms. Masters. Then I’ll be able to answer some of your questions.”
“But not all of them?”
Lock smiled, an ironic little smile of agreement. “Probably not, no.”
Erin ended her call. “He’ll be over in twenty minutes or so.” She looked at Morgan. “Do you need anything before I go and tell the kids we’re going out?”
“No, just tell Maddie I’ll help her when we come back if she still needs me.”
Erin frowned and looked like she was about to say something, but she pressed her lips together and stayed silent.
“What?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Erin’s voice was quiet as she left the room.
Ward stood. “I’ll go and organize the lineup.”
“Do you need any help?” Lock pointed to Morgan’s crutches.
“No, I’m fine, thanks. Do we just meet you there?”
“That’ll be fine. We’ll see you soon, Ms. Masters. Maybe we can help you get some closure on some of this.” Lock dipped his head as he left, the click of the front door signaling their departure from the house.
I won’t hold my breath. “Right, thanks.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Morgan blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights that hummed overhead, plastic chairs creaked under their occupants’ weight, and locked doors were everywhere she turned. Her gaze flitted around the room, and she stared briefly at posters stuck on notice boards, leaflets about the Crown Prosecution Service, legal aid, and bail bondsmen. The desk sergeant watched them, smiling sporadically as he leafed through his paperwork, his jowls wobbling as he moved his head.
A door to their left opened and PC Ward popped his head through. “This way.”
He led them through a maze of corridors, each one white with strip lights, closed doors, and nothing to distinguish it from any other. They approached a small group of people standing and talking to PC Lock. He nodded as they got close.
“Ms. Masters, this is Mr. Harper. He’s here from the Crown Prosecution Service, and this is Mr. James, for the defense.” Lock indicated one after the other. “When we go in, you won’t be able to see anything through the glass. Ms. Masters,” he said to Erin, “I have to ask you to remain completely silent in there.”
“That’s fine,” Erin said.
“When you’re ready, we’ll turn on the lights and get the men to enter the room. All you have to do then is tell us if you recognize anyone, specifically if you recognize him from the night you were attacked. Do you understand?”
“I do,” Morgan said.
“Okay, take your time, Ms. Masters.”
They filed in, one at a time. There were no chairs or tables in the room. Just a large, glass viewing window and an intercom on the wall beside it. Looks like the snake enclosure at a zoo. Morgan couldn’t stop the shudder that scuttled along her spine. The small space was overwhelmed with the odor of cheap cologne, deodorant, and nervous sweat. The tension rolling through her body was an undulating ribbon of energy, palpable, unrelenting, yet elusive. Her hand shook as she grasped at Erin’s fingers, searching for comfort, desperately seeking solace as she faced her fear. The shaking abated a little when Erin’s strong fingers linked with hers, squeezing just enough to offer her reassurance.
“Are you ready, Ms. Masters?” Lock stood in front of her.
Morgan nodded and then jumped as the light went on behind the glass. The room was empty. More white walls and strip lights, the window barred. A buzzer sounded and the door opened. Six men entered the room in a long line, each holding a board in front of their chests. They were all between six foot and six foot three inches tall, they all had short hair in varying shades of brown. Some had tattoos, one had a pierced eyebrow, and several had earrings. All of them looked to be in their thirties.
One of these men attacked me. One of these men stole every blessed memory I had. Images from the DVD Tristan had given her flitted through her mind; she saw him slapping chubby baby hands into a birthday cake in the shape of the number one. She saw herself bending over a toddling Maddie, as she gripped onto her fingers and took unsteady steps around the lawn. There were pictures from their wedding. One of them stole all that and so much more.
She stared through the glass and the anger grew inside her, fear fleeing in its wake. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting—hoping—to happen when she looked into the eyes of her attacker but she realized she had expected something. She wanted the movie moment where it all came flooding back in that moment of clarity. She wished she could turn to Erin and tell her she remembered it all; every date, every kiss, every wonderful second that they had spent together. But there was nothing.
She searched face after face, hunting for a clue, a sign that this was the man who had taken her life and callously left her for dead. The features of each unrecognized visage jumbled before her eyes, twisting into a monstrous caricature of a man. A man who resembled everyone and no one.
Morgan ached to be able to say the words she knew everyone was longing to hear, that’s him, number whatever. She hated the fact that it was ever more apparent that the day would never come when her memories would return.
She closed her eyes and let her head fall to her chest, despising her own inability to even accuse her assailant.
“Do you recognize anyone?” Lock stood close beside Morgan, his voice soft.
“No. I wish I did, but I don’t recognize anyone.” She turned her head to look at him.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. James smile before he quickly covered it, his unprofessional display indicating that her answer was good news for his client. Mr. Harper made no indication that her response affected him either way, and she was glad he was the one fighting for justice on her behalf.
“Are you certain? Take another look and just make sure. Take your time. There’s no hurry.” Lock tipped his head toward the glass once more, directing Morgan’s gaze back round. She followed his direction.
“Ms. Masters was perfectly clear.” Mr. James stepped forward. “She doesn’t recognize anyone. I think it’s time to let my client go.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. James.” Mr. Harper examined his fingernails, looking bored with the situation. “We have a witness statement that identifies your client, video evidence of him committing the offense, medical reports to corroborate Ms. Masters’ amnesia, the blood and drug evidence found in your client’s home.” He inclined his head toward Morgan. “The CPS agreed to this identity parade, which you insisted upon, in the interest of justice, and in the hope that it may have had some benefit for Ms. Masters.” He opened the door and led them all out. “Mss. Masters, thank you both for your time today. I will be in touch with you in due course.”
He ushered Mr. James out ahead of him. They were obviously deep in discussion as Ward and Lock led Erin and Morgan to another room. There was a table and chairs with a recording machine against the wall.
Ward indicated the chairs for them. “Can I get you a drink?”
Erin shook her head.
“Water, please.” Morgan’s voice sounded scratchy and hoarse.
Lock sat down as Ward left the room. He opened a file and placed the photograph of a man on the table—a mug shot. The man’s hair was so short and dark it looked like a shadow on his head, and he had a tattoo crawling out of the neck of his T-shirt. It looked like a claw scoring the flesh of his throat. Morgan grimaced as she realized that this man had been standing in the room. His sneer was still etched in her mind’s eye as he had stared through the one-way glass in her direction. She shuddered and wrapped her arms around her body, unconsciously trying to fight off the chill that was seeping into her bones.
“His name is Jimmy Davidson.” Lock paused as Ward came back in the room and handed Morgan a plastic cup before sitting.
Morgan was pale and her knuckles had turned white around the grip of her crutches. “He’s the man who attacked me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Lock flicked his eyes in Erin’s direction then back at his file. He pulled out a mug shot and placed it on the table.
“This is his wife. Anna Davidson.” He watched Morgan carefully, waiting.
“Do you recognize her, Ms. Masters?”
Morgan pulled the picture closer, studying it. She saw Erin press her hand to her mouth. She frowned as she looked at the image; blond hair, blue eyes, flawless skin, and high cheekbones stared back at her. She didn’t know the woman, and she knew they could all see it on her face. She couldn’t look at them. She didn’t want to see pity on their faces.
“No, I don’t think so.” Morgan pushed the picture back toward him. “Should I?” She heard Erin gasp and turned to see her eyes wide and her jaw slack with shock.
“Anna Davidson was a model in a life drawing class you taught. She posed for the class for about six months.” Lock tucked the picture back into the file. “The night you were attacked was the last class of term before the break for the summer. After the class finished, you and she went for a drink in a local pub.”
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