“Because I know who you are, Jocelyn Sinclair,” Derek said. He lifted his hand to stroke her cheek. “Even if you don’t.”
The trembling intensified as he moved his hand downward, tracing the column of her neck. Jocelyn thought he was going to touch her breast, but he allowed his hand to fall, getting to his feet instead. “I’ll say goodnight, then,” he said, his voice silky, yet all the more intimidating for it. “Sweet dreams.”
She heard the door close softly behind him and let out the breath she’d been holding. Her whole body shuddered with shock, her teeth chattering as she wrapped her arms about herself, her pulse accelerating until it felt as if her heart was hammering against her ribs, her breath coming in short gasps. How could he know her name when she’d only just remembered it this afternoon? The beach had stretched in either direction as far as the eye could see, the shoreline bare and desolate, her shout snatched away by the wind and carried out to sea.
Was he threatening her, and if so, with what? Did he mean to ask her to leave, or was there something else he wanted from her? Was it possible they’d known each other before the shipwreck? If they had, Derek had shown no signs of recognizing her in those first few days. Had he been waiting for her to remember him, to acknowledge him? And why hadn’t he said anything before tonight? Was there a reason he’d kept her identity a secret this long? Whatever his motives were, she had to stay clear of him until she had a firmer grasp on the reality of her situation. She had nowhere to go, no one to turn to for help. Derek hadn’t asked her to leave, only not to encourage Ben, but she hadn’t done anything to give Ben the wrong idea. Had she?
Jocelyn lay awake for hours, listening for footfalls on the stairs or the stealthy turning of the doorknob, but the house was quiet, everyone asleep, or pretending to be. She must have dozed off eventually because suddenly she was on a ship, the sky nearly black despite the early hour, the wind howling with rage as it tore at the canvas sails and rocked the great vessel as if it were a toy. People were running across the deck, calling out to each other as they tried to secure the ship. Several sailors were up in the rigging, holding on for dear life as they went about furling the sails. The captain was on the bridge, his lips pressed into a firm line, his expression tense as he surveyed the tempest raging around them.
“Get down below!” he hollered over the wind, his command directed toward the passengers who’d come up on deck.
The storm had come on suddenly, the sky darkening in a matter of minutes and the waves swelling as if some giant hand were stirring the ocean and whipping it into a frenzy. The water towered higher above the ship with every new wave, crashing onto the deck and covering it with at least a foot of water.
Jocelyn heard a muffled cry as a sailor lost his grip on the rigging and fell hard, his agonized scream of pain immediately drowned by another gush of water. He sputtered and coughed as he tried to raise his head, but went white with pain, unable to shift his back off the slick boards.
“His back is broken,” someone cried. Jocelyn stared in horror as the man’s face contorted, tears rolling down his already wet cheeks as his mates tried to move him from beneath the mast. They didn’t get far. Another crushing wave knocked them off their feet, their burden landing with a heavy thud and a piercing scream.
“Get down below!” the captain yelled again, but none of the passengers paid him any mind. They gripped the sides of the ship until their knuckles were white, watching in terrified fascination as wave after wave built and crashed, battering the ship and forcing it to tilt precariously on the starboard side.
Jocelyn looked around in panic. Her mind was sluggish, uncooperative. Her skirts and cloak were soaked, her feet barely managing to maintain purchase on the slick wood of the deck. Someone was crying and praying, someone else was cursing the captain for not anticipating the sudden change in weather. She looked around again, searching, craning her neck, when she heard the crack. It seemed to go on for a few seconds, the sound raw and jagged. One of the masts had cracked under the strain, the spar falling, dragging the rigging and the half-furled sails with it.
Jocelyn screamed as she was pitched forward by the rush of seawater flowing over the side, and then she felt the impact, the pain in her head blinding as the force of the blow sent her hurling over the side and into the bubbling cauldron beneath. She never felt the ocean’s watery embrace. She was nearly insensible by the time she began to sink, her skirts blooming about her as if she were a giant jellyfish.
Chapter 22
March 2018
London
“What does your day look like?” Quinn asked Gabe as he came into the kitchen, his hair still damp from the shower. Quinn popped several slices of bread into the toaster and spooned coffee into the cafetiere.
“Surprisingly light,” Gabe replied. “I have a lecture in the morning, and then I hope to catch up on some paperwork. What about you?”
“I have some errands to run, and I’d like to speak to Colin about the effects of a head injury on memory, for one,” Quinn replied. “Alice has remembered her name. It’s Jocelyn Sinclair, but she doesn’t seem to recall anything else. Not yet.”
“That’s a lovely name,” Gabe said. “And fairly unique. Think there might be something about her online?”
“It’s worth a try, I suppose.”
Quinn didn’t expect to discover much. Unless Jocelyn Sinclair had done something to distinguish herself, her name would be lost in the annals of history. She did wonder how long it would take for Jocelyn to fully recover her memory. Given her situation, she hoped not too long. Quinn couldn’t begin to imagine how she would feel if she found herself in Jocelyn’s situation. Jocelyn had been lucky to have people who were willing to care for her, but given what Quinn had seen, the situation was about to turn toxic.
“The wheat and barley test confirmed that Jocelyn was pregnant at the time of the shipwreck,” Quinn said. She tried to sound matter-of-fact but couldn’t keep the emotion out of her voice. “Oh, Gabe, can you imagine not being able to remember who the father of your child was or any other details of a life you’d had before it all happened? I can’t even begin to wrap my mind around that.”
“Losing your memory must be difficult enough in this day and age, but I can’t imagine what it must have been like in the eighteenth century, when there was no information to go on, save the person’s word for who they were and where they’d come from,” Gabe said.
“She was completely bewildered,” Quinn agreed.
“Did she think the child’s father might have been lost in the wreck?”
“She hadn’t seemed to recognize any of the men who’d washed up on the beach,” Quinn pointed out.
“Which doesn’t mean one of them couldn’t have been her husband. Memory can play strange tricks, especially after such a harrowing experience. Her mind might have been protecting her from more trauma.”
“I can’t help hoping he was alive and waiting for her somewhere. Perhaps she’d been on her way to join him.”
“Or maybe she’d been trying to get away from him,” Gabe suggested. “Not every marriage was a happy one.”
“No, I suppose not,” Quinn said. She smiled brightly as Emma walked into the kitchen, putting an end to the discussion. In either case, it was time to wake Alex and Mia and get them ready for school.
“I’ll see you both later,” Quinn said. “Have a good day.”
“You too,” Gabe and Emma said in unison.
**
Quinn returned home just before noon to find a large Amazon box on her doorstep. She grinned when she saw the name of the sender. Seth Besson. He’d sent a gift for Mia’s birthday. He always made sure to send something a few weeks early in case Quinn didn’t approve and the present needed to be returned or exchanged. Quinn brought the box inside and opened it carefully, gasping with delight at the beautiful dollhouse Seth and Kathy had chosen. It came with about fifty pieces of furniture and a family that had a mum and dad, an older sister, a middle broth
er, and a little girl, just like the Russell family. Quinn hid the gift in the cellar and went to call Colin.
“Hello there,” Colin said cheerily. “You caught me just in time. I was about to begin a postmortem.”
“Hi. Colin, I was wondering if you might help me with something.”
“Certainly. Did you find anything else that had belonged to the victim? Assuming this person was a victim,” he added. “We really don’t have anything concrete to support the theory that he was murdered.”
“No, we haven’t been back to the burial site. My question is more hypothetical. If a person were to lose their memory as a result of a blow to the head, how long would it generally take to regain it?”
Colin considered this for a moment. “I’m not an expert on memory loss, Quinn. Why do you ask? Have you learned something that might suggest our man had been hit on the head?”
“No. This is for a different case,” Quinn lied. She could hardly share her findings with Colin. “An educated guess will do,” she prompted.
Colin considered his answer for a moment. “This type of memory loss would fall under psychogenic or dissociative amnesia. It’s usually caused by severe trauma and can last from hours to years.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” Quinn asked.
“Dissociative amnesia is the loss of episodic memory. A person will still remember language and be able to perform everyday tasks but won’t be able to recall any personal details, such as their name, their past, relatives and friends, or their work. Generally, this type of amnesia is treated by exposing the person to familiar faces and places to jumpstart their memory.”
“And would the memory come back all at once, do you think?”
“Probably not. It would start returning with brief flashbacks, I should think, and not necessarily the important bits first. Perhaps the brain would release images that were easy for the patient to handle. But again, this is pure conjecture on my part. You would have to consult a specialist if you were after a more scientific explanation.”
“Thanks, Colin. I appreciate it.”
“Anytime. Happy to help. Regards to Gabe,” he said as he rang off.
Quinn didn’t think she needed to seek an expert opinion. If Colin’s hunch proved correct, then within the coming weeks, Jocelyn should begin to recall events from her life. Quinn would just have to be patient and allow the story to unfold. In the meantime, she had the children to collect.
Chapter 23
Having finished their snack, the children went down for their afternoon nap, and Quinn returned downstairs, where she settled on the sofa with her laptop. She had some time until she had to start on dinner, and she was ready to delve into the history of Long Island, and Milford in particular.
She had visited the Hamptons once, years ago, and remembered the seaside community as being peaceful and picturesque, with multi-million-dollar homes and gorgeous boats moored off the piers. She hadn’t liked its residents nearly as much as she had liked the views, finding their snobbery and sense of entitlement off-putting in the extreme. But that was the way of the rich the world over, and despite her standing in the scientific community and Gabe’s newfound status as a bestselling author, Quinn could never see herself rubbing shoulders with people who were drawn to the Hamptons’ overpriced shores.
But this was now. In the eighteenth century, Long Island had been a rural community, a backwater sparsely populated by farmers and fishermen. It had encompassed what were currently known as Brooklyn and Queens as well as Nassau and Suffolk counties that made up modern-day Long Island. Brooklyn, known as Kings County, had been the setting for the Battle of Long Island, the largest Revolutionary War engagement between the British and the Continental Army, but the rest of Long Island had seen virtually no military action. It had been occupied by the British during the latter years of the war, and relations between the colonists and the occupiers were for the most part cordial.
The locals had been ordered to provide housing and meals for the British and Hessian troops stationed in Queens and Suffolk counties, not an arrangement they relished, but they had put up with the invaders to protect their homes and loved ones. Quinn didn’t find any references to the town of Milford, possibly because it no longer existed or may have been renamed or absorbed into a larger township of a different name. And given what she’d seen of the town and shoreline, it was impossible to tell which part of Long Island it had been located in. The only thing she thought she knew for certain was that it hadn’t been on the shore of the Long Island Sound.
Likewise, there was no mention of either Jocelyn Sinclair or Ben and Derek Wilder, but she hadn’t really expected there to be. Few civilians made it into the history books unless they had done something heroic or met with a gruesome end that had resulted in repercussions that couldn’t be ignored, sparking change or outright rebellion. Disappointed, Quinn shut the laptop and was about to put the kettle on when the doorbell rang.
A young woman stood on the step, a curtain of hair obscuring her face as she looked down at her phone, a bag slung over her shoulder. She looked up when Quinn opened the door, her gaze anxious. Quinn smiled, her heart simultaneously leaping with nervousness and joy. The visitor was a few years older than the last time Quinn had seen her, her hair now had coppery streaks, and her face was no longer that of an adolescent girl but a young woman, but Quinn would know Daisy Crawford anywhere. At first glance, she didn’t resemble her birth mother, but the tilt of her head, the direct way she looked at Quinn, and the defiant angle of her chin were pure Jo.
“I’m sorry,” Daisy began as she shoved the phone into the pocket of her jacket. “I don’t know if you remember me.” Daisy looked lost for a moment, probably second-guessing her decision to come.
“Of course I remember you. I’m so glad to see you, Daisy. Do come in. I was about to make a cup of tea. Have you eaten?”
“No,” Daisy said softly, visibly relieved that Quinn wasn’t angry with her.
“Come through to the kitchen,” Quinn invited as they entered the house. “I can make us some sandwiches, or an omelet, if you prefer.” Quinn had eaten a yogurt before going to collect the children and suddenly realized she was quite hungry.
“It doesn’t matter,” Daisy said. “Whatever you were going to have is fine with me.” She set her bag down on a chair and came to stand by the worktop, leaning against it just as Jo had done when she visited Quinn.
“Ham and cheese?” Quinn asked. “I got a taste for it while I was in America. They really do go well together, especially with a slice of tomato and a bit of mustard or mayonnaise.”
“Sure. Sounds good.”
“Are you in London by yourself?” Quinn asked. Daisy should have been at school, but Quinn didn’t want to sound accusatory or overly maternal. It wasn’t her place.
“I’m meant to be home sick,” Daisy replied. “I’m not, though,” she added hastily. “You don’t have to worry about me being around the children.”
Quinn nodded. The thought had crossed her mind, but she didn’t want to admit it. “So, what brings you to London?” Daisy would have taken the train from Leicester, so she must have had a plan when she set off.
Daisy averted her eyes, her cheeks turning a lovely shade of rose. Quinn noticed that she was clasping her hands anxiously. “I needed to speak to you. I hope you don’t mind me showing up like this.”
“Of course not,” Quinn said, although she was a bit baffled by Daisy’s sudden arrival.
Daisy took a deep breath. “I don’t even know where to start.”
She looked so nervous; Quinn felt a wave of sympathy for her. She couldn’t begin to imagine what had brought Daisy to her door but didn’t want to rush her. She’d tell Quinn the reason for her visit in her own time. They hadn’t seen each other since Jo’s funeral, two and a half years before, and even then, they hadn’t really spoken to each other. The Crawfords had left immediately after the burial, and there’d been no contact since. As far as Daisy was concerned,
Quinn was her absentee aunt’s long-lost sister, not someone she’d have reason to seek out.
Daisy took a deep breath and tried again. “My dad gave me Aunt Jo’s camera. I like photography, you see, so he thought I might want it. It’s very expensive, the type of camera professional photographers use. I could never hope to buy a Leika for myself or wheedle one out of my parents for my birthday or Christmas.” She sounded breathless as she spoke. “I was happy to have it, especially since I’d never really known my aunt, so I felt no sense of loss,” Daisy explained. “I’d never even met her in person.”
“I’m sure she would have been glad to know that someone was using it. She loved that camera.”
Daisy nodded. “Leikas take amazing photos.”
Quinn finished making the sandwiches and handed the plates to Daisy, who set them on the table. She then poured them both mugs of tea and brought them over. Daisy sat down across from Quinn but made no move to touch her sandwich. Her face was flushed, and she looked even more anxious. It wasn’t the lack of welcome she’d been worried about, Quinn realized. Her stomach dropped, her heart beating faster as an unsettling idea took hold and made her reevaluate Daisy’s pained expression.
“Daisy, you can tell me anything,” Quinn invited, trying to keep her voice even.
“Can I?” Daisy asked. Her gaze was searching Quinn’s face, as if she were trying to decide if she could trust her.
Daisy picked up half a sandwich and took a bite, chewing slowly, as if stalling for time. She swallowed and took a sip of tea. Quinn took a bite of her own sandwich, giving Daisy time to compose herself.
“I saw things,” Daisy blurted out. “I saw awful things.”
“When you held the camera?” Quinn asked.
Daisy nodded, her head going up and down like a bobblehead’s. “I don’t know what it means. I thought I was going crazy. Every time I picked it up, I saw these scenes. It was like watching a film, only I knew all the actors from my own life.”
The Lost (Echoes from the Past Book 9) Page 10