“I have no idea who I am—why I was in that motel room—how I got hurt—who might be after me. Or worse, Ryan.”
Greg studied his gun. He’d polished it early that morning, while he was waiting for people to get to work.
Of course, then, much of his extra energy had been a result of the incredible night he’d spent. The excitement he’d still been feeling. Yeah. Well…
“It was pretty obvious that I’d been in danger, enough so that I took my son in such a hurry that I didn’t even grab my identification. I got cash from someplace and ran. But because I have no idea what that danger is, I can’t fight it. I can’t even be prepared for what I might have to run from, or what might be coming at me.”
“Maybe you weren’t running at all,” Greg said, pretty sure his intent was to poke holes in her story. “Perhaps you’d just had your purse snatched, got roughed up in the process, but got away.”
“I’ve considered that,” Beth said slowly. “But then, why did I check into that motel under the name of Beth Allen if my name is really—” she paused, glancing down at the card lying between them “—Silverman,” she finished. “And why would I have been carrying two-thousand dollars in cash?”
Okay, so the purse-snatcher idea wasn’t his best. He couldn’t even imagine how horrifying it would’ve been for a young mother to wake up to the reality Beth said she’d found in that Snowflake motel. Or how strong that woman would have to be to cope all alone….
No. Greg shook his head. He wasn’t going to let anyone make a fool of him again. He’d just come off a ten-year term. He wasn’t doing it again.
Ever.
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“Of course not.” She shook her head. “I’m in hiding.”
That was convenient. “Like I said, Beth, amnesia happens, but not without symptoms and signs. I saw my father through years of therapy and I encountered more head-injury patients than I can count, so I have personal experience with these things. I just don’t see how I can possibly believe you.”
“By listening to your heart?”
He could tell she didn’t really expect that to fly.
“You made one critical mistake,” he told her now, in control of his faculties again. Fully numb once more.
“What?” she asked, turning, one leg on the couch as she faced him.
Her puzzled frown would have sold him on her innocence just a day earlier.
“I’ve gone over and over this so many times,” she whispered, “it’s all one big foggy mess to me. What did I miss?”
He wasn’t going to play her game. Wasn’t going to be a participant—a pawn—in whatever ugly scheme she might be creating.
Out of the blue, a mental picture of Beth up at Rabbit Rock flashed through his mind. The way she’d given everything she had to him that night, to comfort him, to help him fight his own demons. The way she’d understood…
No. He couldn’t let himself go soft.
“Today,” he said, a little less complacent. “You made the mistake today. Now. When I confronted you with the truth and you knew you’d been caught. If you’d just come clean, told me what this is really all about, I’d have done everything I could to help you.”
Greg was barely aware that his voice had trailed off. That was all it would’ve taken. A plausible story. Hell, he’d been going along with her all these months, having faith in spite of her silence, understanding that she’d needed time. But he had to draw the line somewhere. There was a point when a man’s belief wasn’t a matter of faith but of wanting to have faith. It could make a fool of him.
With Culver and Foltz, he’d drawn the line in the wrong place. He couldn’t do that again.
Not if he was ever going to trust his own judgment again.
“Even now you can’t trust me with the truth,” he said, regretting the words when he heard the emotion he hadn’t meant to express.
He needed a drink. If this anesthetic ever wore off, he was going to hurt like hell. He should’ve taken time that morning to polish the leather of his holster, as well. Its scuffed surface wasn’t doing much for the gun.
“That’s just it, Greg,” she said. He heard the tears in her voice but didn’t look up to see if she was crying. “I am trusting you. For the first time in eight months, I’m able to trust my life, Ryan’s life, to someone else.”
God, that hurt. If only she’d said those words the night before… “Funny how that trust magically coincides with the very moment I discovered the truth on my own.”
“It’s not the truth.”
She could’ve played it better if she’d injected a note of defensiveness into her voice rather than sounding like she was giving up so easily.
Greg picked up the postcard. Made himself study it. To remember the facts. “You’re saying that this woman is not you? That the boy who’s been missing for eight months isn’t Ryan? That’s not true?”
“No.”
He was disappointed in her answer. As though, after all this, he’d still been holding on to some nebulous hope.
“Of course it’s us,” she said, leaning over to glance at the photos.
The expression on her face surprised him. She looked more hurt than anything else.
Yet he was the one who’d been lied to. Betrayed.
Wasn’t he?
“What’s not true is that I knew who we were before today,” she said quietly, sliding back to the corner of the couch, her arms wrapped around her chest. “I see now that I should have told you,” she said. Again, her voice was resigned, not Beth-like. “And yet, what would’ve happened if I had? You’d have had to go looking for me and you’d have found out that I’d kidnapped my son and it would all be over.”
She’d been fighting him since the first day they’d met, but suddenly there was no fight left.
And she should still be fighting him if she hoped to convince him not to turn her over to the FBI without so much as a goodbye to the baby boy she loved.
And she did love her son. There was no doubting that.
A mother didn’t exist who loved her son more than Beth loved Ryan. Nor was there a mother who looked out for her baby’s welfare more than Beth.
“Maybe I made a mistake, but I was doing the best I knew how,” she said. “The best I was capable of doing. I have no idea why I’m running. And until I do, how can I possibly know how to proceed in any direction at all? How can I predict what kind of hell you might create?”
He wasn’t used to going around creating hell for people, but okay.
“Think about it,” she said. “I tell you—a cop, no less—and you start to investigate. You find out I’ve done something against the law and you’re bound by your office to turn me in. Because I don’t remember what happened, I can’t even defend myself. I lose Ryan. I go to jail. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about any of it.”
He thought about that.
“Or what if I am in danger? What if whoever beat me up is itching to finish the job? To hurt Ryan? Your digging into things might alert someone. And before we even know who we’re alerting, he’s here. And it’s too late.”
That wouldn’t have happened. He’d have protected her.
“I also went through a lot of times when I didn’t want to know. Whatever I’m running from—not physically, but mentally, emotionally, inside me—must be pretty horrific if my mind’s gone to such lengths to protect me against it. I spend a lot of time scared to death to find out what it is. What if, when I do, I still can’t face it? What if I don’t deal with it any better the second time around? What if I lose my mind and they lock me up in some nuthouse? How am I going to take care of Ryan?”
He remembered that night at the casino. The way she’d reacted to whatever had set her off.
If Greg’s chest got any tighter, he was going to have go outside for some fresh air. Might not be a bad idea in any event.
She sure has a career in storytelling if cleaning toilets ever ceases to satisfy her.
That last thought was beneath him.
But how in the hell could he possibly know what was the truth? And how much of his reaction was simply a matter of Greg Richards, Mr. Nice Guy, being taken in again?
When would he learn? If the heartbreak with Shelby had been like kindergarten in this life lesson, Culver and Foltz were surely on the college level. So what was he doing now? Going for a doctorate in how to have his trust abused?
“Besides, how did I know I could trust you?” Beth asked, startling him with a question too closely related to his own thoughts. “I couldn’t even trust myself.”
In the past twenty-four hours he’d certainly learned how that felt. “You might’ve thought of that before you slept with me.”
“I did.” The simple words, emitted without hesitation, held a depth of emotion. “A lot. In the end, making love with you was between you and me. It was personal. I could trust in that. But this is far bigger. This is my son’s life.”
A pretty damn good reason to spin this incredible tale.
She’d almost had him.
“So what was your plan?” he asked, more out of curiosity than anything else. And maybe to find out if she could produce one.
Beth shrugged. “Nothing too fancy,” she said. “Nothing really even too logical. For a lot of the time, I’ve focused on just surviving.”
Basic. But a good answer.
“I’ve been searching everywhere I could think of, trying to find out whatever I could on my own.”
He was impressed when she listed all the work she’d done in the library, on the Internet. The hundreds of hours she’d spent searching.
He could verify that she’d spent a lot of time at the library.
Of course, she knew he knew that, so she could be using this to convince him, when, in reality, she’d been doing something incriminating that entire time. Like working on whatever criminal activity she was involved with. Making contact with coconspirators. Perpetrating some kind of scam. Or creating permanent new identities for her and her son. Researching other places to run. Other jobs.
“I’ve also done a lot of studying on amnesia,” she said softly. “My best guess is that this is hysterical retrograde amnesia. That means I could regain my memory at any time. And then I’d have my answers. I’d have the ammunition necessary to fight whatever battle awaits. I’d have a clue as to where and how to proceed.”
Like he’d told himself many times in the past hour, it was a fantastic, incredible story. One he might even believe, if only…
“Why didn’t you tell me this last night, Beth? You had the perfect opportunity.”
“I had no idea what to say, no control over what you’d do with the information.”
Her words were deadening his heart again. She’d been manipulating him, just as he’d feared.
“You’re a cop, Greg. In some ways, the obligation that goes with the territory limits your choices.”
“It also makes my ability to help you that much greater.”
“Maybe.”
He waited for her to say more. Needed her to say more, to offer him assurance, some kind of entrance into her most private thoughts. When she didn’t, the armor surrounding him grew another degree heavier.
“Would you have told me today, now, anytime soon, if I hadn’t found out?” Damn, it was almost as though he were begging her to give him enough rope… Inventing reasons he could still believe. Still justify this insane idea that faith wasn’t faith unless it endured to the end.
“Probably not.”
She’d cut the rope. He didn’t fall nearly as far this time—it hardly hurt at all.
“So, the bottom line is, you didn’t trust me enough to tell me.”
Her eyes brimmed with sorrow as she held his gaze. “I guess—” She choked on the words.
“Then, how can you expect me to trust you?”
“I can’t.”
BETH WAS COLD. Her skin had goose bumps. Her fingers and toes and nose were freezing, as though she’d been outside in Maine during the dead of winter. But this chill was coming from inside.
She’d lost.
Maybe everything: A mysterious and frightening game for which she still had no definition or rules. Her one chance to know what real love could be. Her son.
Oh God. Ry. What have I done to you, my precious baby? Shivering, Beth sat up, forcing her mind to concentrate, considering only the next few moments. She couldn’t think about Ryan and stay coherent. Not when losing him, losing the right even to see him, was so real—possibly imminent.
Over her dead body.
A strength of will she did not recognize passed through her, held her in its grasp. “I will give up my life before I let them have him,” she said. And then frowned. As she sat there, she had no doubt whatsoever of the conviction in her words. She just had no idea where they’d come from.
“We’re talking about Ryan?”
When she looked at Greg, it was almost as though he’d left and come back. She was seeing him differently.
The adversary? Or the negotiator? Was saying anything saying too much? She wasn’t sure; she knew only that she had to tell him. “Yes.”
“Who’s them?” He sounded like a cop.
But a good one. A cop who cared about seeing the right thing done. Or was that just her own bias? Was she projecting upon Greg the things she needed to find in him?
She had to make a decision. Work with him. Or find a way to make things work in spite of him. Her time was up.
Beth took a long breath. Let it out slowly. Forced her mind to focus on only one thing. “I don’t know,” she said, taking the plunge. She wished she hadn’t, when the shuttered expression darkened his face.
“I’m telling you the honest-to-God truth, Greg. Just now, I had a very deep and certain feeling that there’s someone out there who’s a danger to me and my son. Someone I’m protecting Ryan from. I don’t know who. I’m assuming the ‘where’ is Houston, but I don’t know that, either. I don’t know why. I just know with complete conviction that I will die before I see him go back to them.”
“There’s more than one of them, then?”
“Yes,” she said, surprised to be able to answer without hesitation. “I have no rational basis for knowing this, but I’ve never been more certain of anything.”
“This isn’t just a custody battle gone bad? It’s not just Ryan’s father you’re running from?”
He still didn’t believe her. He thought she knew more than she’d told him. But he’d called her son Ryan. That meant something.
“Maybe it is a custody battle,” she said. “Perhaps one involving a powerful family or something.”
The idea wasn’t completely foreign to her. And yet, it didn’t seem quite right, either.
His glance brooding, he sat there, an imposing figure in full uniform. He was the same man who’d made her feel so incredibly safe and secure—and loved—the night before. And yet…
Did he believe her, even a little? She couldn’t tell. But she could only take his silence for so long.
She needed to get Ryan. To get out.
And how could she do that with the sheriff of Shelter Valley sitting in her living room?
She switched to the rocking chair. Dizzy now, as well as freezing, she was afraid she was going to be sick.
The red haze continued to come and go, a companion so frequent she almost didn’t notice. Except for the horrible sense of helplessness that accompanied it.
If not for her son, she’d give in and let it just take her—and be done with it.
“What happens next?” she finally asked, when it appeared he might sit there forever. He’d shut himself off from her, leaving her no idea what he was thinking. What he was waiting for.
Or what he had planned for her.
She was so damn tired of being afraid. And yet, every corner of her mind was filled with terror. There was nothing else.
“I’m trying to decide that.”
Her legs were shak
ing visibly. She couldn’t stop them. “Are you going to call the FBI?” She had no idea how all that worked. Would she be spending the night in jail? What would they do with Ryan?
Light-headed, Beth began to rock, to concentrate on her breathing. To try to think. She had so damn little experience to draw on, to guide her.
Had she ever been in jail? Would she survive even one night there? Would she survive having Greg turn her in?
What would they do with Ryan?
Greg sat forward, elbows on spread knees, his hands lightly clasped between them. “Because there are some possible extenuating circumstances and because, as the sheriff of this town, it is my sworn duty to protect its citizens and because you are currently one of those citizens, I would like to do some more investigating before making any irrevocable decisions.”
It was a mouthful. Spoken in a monotone. They could have been discussing a baseball game.
Beth continued to rock. To shake. “Okay.”
She didn’t know if she’d just been given a reprieve. Or a jail sentence. She just knew that, for the moment, she was out of choices.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“I CAN’T LEAVE YOU HERE ALONE.” Greg might have sounded embarrassed or apologetic. He didn’t.
“Why not?” The question was out, and then the obvious answer hit her. “You don’t trust me not to run.”
“Can you assure me you won’t?”
“No.”
He nodded. “Wouldn’t matter, anyway. You’ve already run once, which proves you’re capable of doing it again. I would be remiss in my duties if I gave you the opportunity.”
“So you’re arresting me?” Where was the strength that had rescued her moments earlier?
Head slightly bent, he looked at her. “No. But I will if I have to.”
This from the man who’d held her so tenderly less than twenty-four hours before.
Rock. Back, forth, back, forth. That was all she could do. Just rock.
“I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask for a little more time?” He couldn’t, in all conscience, give it to her; she understood that. She wasn’t even sure what she’d do with it if she had it. What could she do that she hadn’t already done? All of which had led her nowhere.
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