“You’re a chocoholic,” she proclaimed, gazing at me with laughing eyes.
“Well, for a nun, that is probably a terrible sin, but I’ll ask forgiveness later. This is just too good,” I said, wrapping my lips around the fork and rolling my eyes at the decadent taste of chocolate pie. “No, if God made something taste this good, it can’t possibly be a sin.”
Trina tossed her head back and laughed, and I felt unfamiliar but not unpleasant tingles run through me. I was beginning to feel more like myself around Trina. I realized that I didn’t need my memories to feel comfortable with someone, and Trina was the only one I felt comfortable with.
“This pie is so good, but not as good as my mother’s pies. She loved to cook, and we loved to eat,” I stated.
“What was your favorite meal?” Trina asked.
“Sunday dinners, when we’d have pot roast or fried chicken. I remember I used to squirm around in church, eager to get home and eat. I was a fat kid… what? What’s that look?”
Her surprised look turned into a frown. “Nothing. I was enjoying listening to you talk about your mom.”
Now, I was the one who was surprised. “Oh, my God. I remembered my mom!”
“I’ll bet that you look like her,” Trina said, putting her arms on the table and interlacing her fingers.
“Oh, no. She was beautiful.” I squinted to recapture the memory. “She had soft blue eyes and blond hair, and she always seemed to have a smudge of flour on her cheek.”
“Well, except for the flour on your cheek, I’d say you look just like her because you’re definitely beautiful.”
I could feel my face heat up, and the butterflies were teasing my stomach again. “Thank you,” I mumbled, wishing I could stop blushing.
She looked down at her hands and sighed. “Well,” she began, looking up at me again. “I guess we’d better go. I need to go by the station and check in, and you can talk with the psychologist while I talk with my partner.”
The butterflies suddenly burst into flames and charred the acid in my stomach. “No,” I said defiantly. “I don’t want to talk to them or anyone else today. Why can’t I just talk to you? I’m remembering things when we talk.”
“Imagine how much more you could remember if you were asked the right questions. A professional wouldn’t be surprised like I just was, which caused you to stop talking.”
“Would you come in with me?” What is wrong with me? I’m a grown woman acting like a six-year-old child afraid to let go of her momma’s skirt. There was a feeling deep inside that told me to be afraid. It was a tangible but unobtainable feeling, and it reminded me that I wasn’t in control of my life.
“I don’t think the shrink will allow that,” she explained. “He tends to like a one-on-one visit without distractions. But I promise, I will be right there ready to take you home when you’re finished.”
I shook my head. “No, thanks.” She started to say something, but I interrupted her. “I can’t explain it, Trina. I’m just not ready to be locked in a room with a man.”
She seemed put out by that. “You don’t trust the police?”
“I don’t trust anyone,” I replied testily.
“Do you trust me?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied, placing my fingers on the cross hanging around my neck. “And if you come in with me, I will speak with him. But, for reasons I can’t explain, I feel panicky just thinking of being alone with anyone.”
“Okay, I do understand and actually, it’s a good defense mechanism. Your instincts are all you have to protect yourself right now.”
Sighing with relief, I smiled at her. “And you. I’ve got you to protect me.”
“Count on it,” she said, sliding her hand across the table until our fingers touched.
Chapter Nine
And This is Where I Work – Trina Wiles
As I drove through the city, I glanced over at Joyce. It was as if she had never been in a city or seen tall buildings before. I guess, considering she had amnesia, this was a first for her. I pointed out different buildings and landmarks, such as the historic Esperson office complex, and the JPMorgan Chase Tower, the tallest building in Houston. Not wanting to end her fun, I drove by the aquarium with the dolphin waterfall, and, of course, the Houston Astros stadium. I thoroughly enjoyed sharing my city with her, watching her mouth hang open as she gazed up at the buildings. It dawned on me that she wasn’t a tourist. She lived in Houston and had seen all of this before. None of it seemed to trigger her memories, though.
The twenty-eight-story Houston Police Department building with its white columns and glass walls at the entrance, sat right in the heart of downtown Houston. It was home to thousands of police officers and detectives. That didn’t include the forensic experts, lab techs, and trainees. The HPD was state of the art with a twenty-four-hour emergency tactical command center, a crime lab that took up three floors, a fingerprinting laboratory, voice/data room, a very large fitness center and even a gift shop. Specialized details worked in the building like the bomb squad, SWAT, dive team, hostage negotiation team, and my favorite, the doggie detail. And it went without saying, the best damn criminal investigation department in the world. But then, I could be biased.
I pulled into the parking lot and we got out of the car, but that was as far as Joyce would go. I walked around and took her hand. “This is where we get some answers. Ready?”
She looked at me and smiled weakly.
We made our way inside and jumped on the elevator to the fifth floor. The office was nearly empty, except for Paul and a couple of other people. Some would be at lunch, some working a case. With Joyce being so jittery around people, that would work in our favor. My office was typical of the detective squad rooms shown on television. The room was oblong with a linoleum floor, glass interior walls, and an industrial-sized coffee maker. It had eight desks, some lining the walls, some in the middle of the room, mine being one of them, and, of course, there were computers and telephones on each desk. A bay of television monitors lined the exterior wall, each turned to a news station, local and national.
“Joyce, I want you to meet my partner, Detective Paul Rhoades,” I said as we walked up to his desk, directly across from mine. His desk faced the window; mine faced the hallway.
Paul looked at me curiously. “Joyce?”
“Yeah, she prefers that over the other name.”
“The other name? You mean her real name?”
Joyce looked down at the floor, as if she had done something wrong. Or maybe it was his deep male voice that frightened her.
Paul stood and held out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Joyce. Why don’t you have a seat while I talk with Trina?”
“Joyce, can I get you a cup of coffee or a soda or something?” I asked, pulling over a chair for her.
“A soda, please,” she answered quietly. She looked around at some of the guys looking at her. They quickly averted their eyes, but it was not quick enough. Joyce began to look nervous.
“I’m just walking over there to the breakroom. I won’t be out of your sight, okay?”
The breakroom was at the end of the oblong detective squad room, and like the CID, was mostly made of glass, so you could see people coming and going.
She nodded, a shy smile on her lips, but she wouldn’t sit down. Psychology class in college taught me that victims were perpetually in a fight or flight readiness. I didn’t think Joyce would fight, so she remained standing in order to run away if she felt threatened.
Paul followed me across the room and into the break room, where he shut the door, which had a glass window, and began yelling at me.
“What the fuck is going on, Trina?”
“What do you mean?” I asked calmly, used to his outbursts.
“Her name isn’t Joyce, it’s Sister Emily Ann Sutherland.”
Exhaling quietly, I turned and looked at Joyce through the window. She was smiling at me. I smiled back and then turned to Paul. “You once told m
e to stop seeing the obvious and look at the esoteric. My gut is telling me that there is much more to her story than being a rape victim. If she’s more comfortable being called Joyce, then I will call her Joyce.”
“You see conspiracy, and I see a tragic set of circumstances.”
I opened the refrigerator and pulled out one of my two sodas. I kept a stockpile in the refrigerator because I didn’t like coffee. “Think about it, Paul. She was raped and labeled a snitch. Her fingerprints were burned off and she’s lost her memory. They left her for dead, so what happens when they find out that she’s alive?”
“Trina, her DNA came back, and it matched her ID. She is Sister Emily.”
Damn it. Even though the Reverend Mother had recognized Joyce, I still didn’t want to believe it. Now, I guess I had to face facts. Joyce was a nun.
“It’s a tragic case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said kindly. “But you’re right, if they find out she’s alive, they will come after her. We need her to remember what happened, and she’s not going to do that if you shield her from it.”
“Her memory is coming back in bits and pieces; it’s just going to take some time.” He shook his head. “Yeah, I know, she may not have that much time. I’m trying to talk her into seeing the shrink, but she’s too afraid right now.”
“She’s going to be more afraid if they catch up to her again,” he said caustically.
Setting my arms akimbo, I glared at him. “Have you ever been raped, Paul?”
“No, have you?” He knew I hadn’t because we discussed it once, when I investigated my first rape victim. It was a case I had to finish up before officially moving to the unit I’m in now. “Look, I get it. I do,” he continued. “It’s a delicate situation. But you’re getting too attached to her. That isn’t fair to her and could even put her life in jeopardy. You don’t want that, do you?”
“Of course not, damn it,” I growled, raking my fingers through my hair. “Look, just back off and let me handle this, okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” he grunted. “I have twenty years’ experience to fall back on, but don’t take my advice.”
He was right. He had seventeen years more on the job training than I had. I’ve handled a lot of rape cases as a cop, but those were first contact after the attack. Since becoming a detective three years ago I’ve only investigated a few cases in conjunction with SVU and a couple with Paul. I’d be a fool not to listen to him. “No, you’re right. I’ll get her in to see Dr. Franks this…” Movement at my desk distracted me. A man wearing a dark suit and tie was talking to Joyce, and she had her head down, her arms folded protectively across her chest. “Who’s that guy?” I asked, not waiting for an answer as I rushed out of the breakroom.
“Excuse me,” I bellowed, walking up to the man and standing between him and Joyce. He was taller than me by a couple of inches, but he towered over Joyce, and I knew she had to be afraid. “Can I help you?”
“I was just asking this lady if she knew where Detective Paul Rhoades was. Wait, never mind, I see him.”
Paul came walking out of the break room, his phone to his ear. “Okay, thanks, Doc. I’ll send her up.” He ended the call, stuffed the phone in his pants pocket and held out his arms. “Greg, you old dog. How the hell you been?”
The man stepped around Joyce and walked up to Paul. “If I were any better, I’d be illegal. Ya feel me?” he said, giving Paul a manly bear hug.
“What’s with the shades?” Paul asked, pointing at the sunglasses Greg was wearing.
“Allergies,” Greg explained.
I glanced at Joyce, who gave me a weak smile. I could tell she was nervous, but she didn’t move, determined not to give into it.
The men separated, and Paul turned to me. “Trina, I want you to meet my old partner, Gregory Moore. We were rookies together back at the old precinct. Greg, this is my new partner, Trina Wiles.”
“You were a rookie, I was an up and coming special agent with the FBI,” Greg boasted.
“Oh, is that what you’ve been doing? I hadn’t noticed,” Paul teased.
“It’s nice to meet you, Special Agent Moore,” I said, holding my hand out. “As Paul said, I’m his partner, Detective Trina Wiles.”
He shook my hand and looked at Joyce. “How many partners do you have, Paul?”
“Oh, this is Joyce. She’s not a cop,” I explained without giving away too much.
“Joyce,” he repeated, holding out his hand.
Joyce stood frozen at my side, not making eye contact with anyone.
Greg leaned close to Paul and whispered, “What’s wrong with her?”
“Total amnesia,” Paul answered. “She was violently attacked and can’t remember any of it.”
Greg shook his head. “When you say total?”
“Retrograde amnesia,” Paul clarified.
“Damn, that’s too bad. I hope you’ve caught the bastard,” Greg said.
“We’re working on it,” Paul replied. “By the way, Trina, Dr. Franks is waiting on her.”
“What? I haven’t… you called him just now, didn’t you?”
“I wasn’t sure you would have time to, so I thought I’d help you out,” Paul replied with too much self-satisfaction in his eyes.
“Uh, yeah. Thanks. It was nice to meet you, Greg,” I said, taking Joyce’s hand and walking toward the elevator.
“You, too, Trina.”
I was too angry at Paul to look back. The nerve of him, pushing Joyce before she was ready. She was going to be so hurt and probably never trust me again… unless… “Joyce,” I began as we walked into the elevator. I pushed the sixth-floor button and turned to her. “We’re going to see the police psychologist now.”
“No,” she whimpered.
She looked worn out, defeated. That made me even angrier. “I will go in with you, and you don’t even have to talk if you don’t want. I’ll just introduce you to Dr. Franks, explain the situation, and we’ll leave. Will that be all right?”
She looked me square in the eye. “And you won’t leave me?”
“No, I won’t leave you,” I answered immediately.
“Okay. But if you don’t mind, I’m kind of tired. Can we go home after this?”
“Sure,” I affirmed. “And maybe we could order some Chinese takeout and watch another movie.”
“Oh, I like that idea,” she said, smiling.
I am in so much trouble. “He’s really a good guy,” I said as the elevator doors opened to the sixth floor. “I’ve talked to him before. It was a breeze.”
She gaped at me. “You did?”
“Yeah. Well, it was kind of a mandatory thing, but once you get past the awkward part, it was easy,” I replied, tapping on the doctor’s office door. To her credit, she didn’t ask what we talked about and if she had, I would have had to admit it was just a mandatory psych eval that every cop took before becoming a detective.
“Hiya, Doc,” I greeted him cheerfully, leading Joyce into his office.
It wasn’t a typical shrink office, not that I’ve been in very many… or any. It was more a typical office with a desk, computer, two overstuffed chairs, diplomas on the wall, and no window. There wasn’t even a couch to lay on. Personally, I found it less intimidating without it.
“It’s good to see you again, Trina,” he replied, holding out his hand.
I had just seen him on Friday in the hallway. Maybe Paul explained the situation and he was trying to put Joyce at ease. “Dr. Leonard Franks, I’d like you to meet Sister Emily Ann Sutherland. She prefers to be called Joyce, though.”
He studied her without being intrusive. “It’s nice to meet you, Joyce. I understand you are the victim of a brutal attack?”
Joyce, looking at her hands, nodded.
“Do you like being a victim?” he asked.
She looked at him as if he had just insulted her. “No, I do not.”
“Then I can help you, if you’ll let me.” He pointed at an overstuffed chair. “W
on’t you sit down? Can I get you a glass of water?”
Joyce looked at me and I nodded reassuringly. Leonard watched the interaction but gave no response to it. It felt like I was being evaluated again.
“Is Trina staying?” Joyce asked, glancing at me.
“What would you do if I said no?” Leonard asked.
“I’d leave,” Joyce responded immediately.
“Well, then. Trina is welcome to stay if that’s what you want,” he replied, looking over at me. “As long as she doesn’t talk.”
I chuckled and then realized he was serious. I walked over and sat down in one of the chairs, and Joyce sat down in the chair next to mine. Leonard picked up his notepad and pen from the desk and pulled his desk chair around to sit in front of us.
“I read your case file, and there really isn’t much in there about who you are.”
“There’s not much in there, yet,” I corrected him.
He put a finger to his lips and shushed me. I pursed my lips and locked them, handing Joyce the invisible key. She let out an unguarded laugh and placed the invisible key in her shirt pocket, the one she had borrowed from me. Leonard watched with keen interest, scribbling on his notepad, and I realized that if I didn’t knock it off, he could pull me from her case. He would, too.
“Sister Emily, can you tell me why you prefer to be called Joyce instead of your given name?”
She thought about it for a moment, placing her scarred fingers on the cross on her necklace. “Well, I don’t honestly know why. Trina gave me the name when I didn’t know my real name. But Joyce just seemed more like me.”
I was impressed. That was the most she’d said to anyone since she woke up in the hospital. She was really trying, and that would go a long way in helping her come back from the dark place she was pushed into.
Leonard nodded. “That’s a very good reason, but how will you be able to feel right about your name if you don’t use it?”
“What’s in a name?” she asked.
A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Great, now I’m quoting Shakespeare.
“Have you considered that it was the name your parents gave you?” he asked.
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