by Cleo Coyle
Swallowing my nerves, I tapped the image, and a video began to play. It felt so odd, watching myself like a stranger, in a scene that I couldn’t recall. Still, I had to smile, seeing the elaborate setup Mike had arranged, the mock arrest, and his cop friends showing up in uniform.
Then the line of blue parted like a curtain, and he was down on one knee . . .
“Clare, I love you,” he began plainly, “and I know you love me.” Opening the white box, he revealed a gorgeous blue diamond ring.
“I have something to ask you. And you’d better think hard about your answer. With these law officers as witnesses, it’s going to be tough to change your story.”
I watched myself nod, looking a little numb.
“Clare Cosi, will you marry me?”
I could see the deep affection on Detective Quinn’s face—and on my own. And I knew I wanted that love back in my life. I didn’t want to lose it.
Like this fireplace with real logs and real ashes, any recovered memories would have to include everything about our relationship, the exciting crackling and unexpected pops, as well as the bitter embers of anger and arguments.
Was I ready for that?
You’ll have to be, I told myself, because that was what a true partnership required, a steadfast agreement to ride the ups along with the downs; to carry on through the stressful mess that was always a part of anything authentic, anything real.
Putting down the mobile phone, I considered my options.
Sensory reminders had helped before. And my ex-husband seemed convinced that making love with him would have been a powerful key to unlocking my memories.
You want to have sex with me for medicinal purposes?
I had asked Matt that question. Now I asked myself—
Are you willing to try?
* * *
• • •
“MIKE?” I called through a crack in the bathroom door.
“Are you all right?” he asked, pulling the door wide. A towel was wrapped around his hips. His hair was wet, his face full of shaving cream.
“I’m fine,” I said, steeling myself from the sudden shyness. “When you’re finished in there, can you come into my bedroom? I’d like to ask you a question.”
“Okay.”
He arrived barefoot, his long legs hastily shoved into sweatpants, T-shirt collar wet from his damp hair, face freshly shaved.
The attractive look of him made me think of our quiet talk last night. Sitting on the edge of his bed, I had wanted to kiss him. Not because I remembered our history, but because I felt an attraction to him—and not just his half-naked body. I admired the man he was, I enjoyed being in his company, and (most important to me) I trusted him.
Last night, he had kissed my palm. But he never tried to touch me, let alone make love. So what was he going to say to this proposal?
“I’ve been thinking,” I began. “If I could remember our history, it would solve a lot for both of us, right?”
“Sure it would.”
“Well, why don’t you and I . . . you know . . . ?” I bravely gestured to the four-poster bed. “As an experiment, I mean.”
Clearly, this was not the question he’d been anticipating. As I stood next to the bed, blinking expectantly, he stared thunderstruck in the middle of the room. He was so flabbergasted, in fact, I’m sure I could have knocked him onto the bed with a slight tap.
But that bewildered state didn’t last long.
Stepping close, he searched my face. Then he lifted his hand and brushed my blushing cheek. This time, I didn’t back away.
Meeting his gaze, I took in the rugged, clean-shaven look of him, appreciating the square strength of his jaw, the creases, and crow’s-feet. The scent of his aftershave was almost intoxicating. Swirling impressions began to flow over me, faint whispers of intimate moments in this bedroom, caresses and kisses and—
“Clare, before we go any further, I need to say something.”
“Yes?”
“Whatever happens in this room tonight, I don’t want you regretting it in the morning, because I’m not going anywhere. I’ll keep loving you, whether you remember your love for me or not. Even if you decide to end us, and kick me the hell out of your life, I’ll keep loving you, because I can’t do otherwise.”
It was at that moment, when he let go of all his expectations, that I felt a warmth blooming inside me. This wasn’t a feeling from memory. It was brand-new. And I wanted nothing more than to show him what I felt.
I started slowly, with a kiss. Not a peck this time, but a long, lingering taste of him. It seemed so familiar, yet everything else was completely new—his body, his responses.
Clearly, however, I was not new to him.
Quinn seemed to know exactly what I liked. His fingers and lips knew how and where to touch. Soon, we were so turned on, we could hardly stand it.
Then something changed. The empty frames were filling again, repainting the blank walls in my mind with years of experiences.
All along, as we kissed and caressed, Quinn seemed to be struggling to keep himself in check—being careful to go easy, take his time.
“It’s okay,” I finally gasped, breathless and ready. “Don’t hold back.”
His blue eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
With a smile I told him the good news. “I remember you.”
“What do you remember?”
“So much, Mike. And not just you. I remember us, and I remember the love.”
He switched our positions so fast, I thought he’d performed a magic trick. Now I was flat on my back, and he was smiling down at me.
“Let’s see what else you remember . . .”
NINETY
I awoke in the bedroom I knew, inside the duplex I loved, reaching for the man I adored.
Sadly, the bed was empty—even Java and Frothy had abandoned me. But the stimulating aroma of fresh-brewed coffee told me that Mike was in the kitchen, feeding the fur balls and anticipating my need for a caffeinated pick-me-up after all our nocturnal activities.
I threw off the blankets and discovered they were my only defense against the chill of the autumn morning. I quickly covered myself with a robe and hurried downstairs.
I was hoping for a strong embrace and slow, sexy kiss from Mike but was doomed to disappointment. My fiancé was sitting at the kitchen table with a rough-looking guy in a flannel shirt, worn jeans, and work boots. The young man was solidly built with a shaved head and an outer-boroughs accent.
“Hey, Coffee Lady,” the stranger called, smiling warmly.
“I know you, don’t I?” I said. “You came to my hospital room, right?”
My question was said in a friendly manner—but the young man’s face fell completely. I moved my gaze to Mike. He looked even worse.
“You don’t remember Franco?” he asked, voice tight.
“No, I’m sorry. He’s your sergeant, right? Sergeant Emmanuel Franco, isn’t it? Nice to meet you.”
Franco hesitated. He glanced at Mike, then back to me. “You and I have met before, Clare, many times. We’re good friends.”
Oh, no, I thought, dread gripping me. I looked at Mike.
His expression was close to stark fear. “Clare, do you remember me?”
“Yes! Of course! I remember everything about you—how we met and became friends, how you proposed. I remember everything. But I’m drawing a blank with Sergeant Franco. Why is that?!”
“What about your daughter?” Franco quickly asked. “What do you remember about Joy?”
I sat down at the table, closed my eyes. “She’s still a little girl to me. But I know years have passed. This will sound far too simple, but it’s like . . . I lost my front door key. I know I had it, but I can’t remember where I put it!”
“Calm down, Clare. It’s okay.”
Mike got up, found me a mug, and poured me some fresh coffee. I drank it down like an ailing patient desperate for a magic cure. Suddenly, I realized I was wearing a robe and not much else.
“Do you two want to talk in private?” I asked. “I could go back upstairs—”
“Stay,” Mike insisted. “Franco has been taking a hard look at Dr. Lorca. I think you should hear what he’s found. Go ahead, tell her.”
Franco nodded. “I started by looking at the other cases of sudden amnesia that Lorca treated, specifically Dana Tanner. Turns out, Lorca ordered one particular blood test, and then pulled the test results from her file. No biggie. It happens, I guess, but—”
Franco rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Last evening, Tony DeMarco flirted with a nurse in the records department of a different hospital. He got a date and a peek at the files from another of Lorca’s amnesia cases. Turns out, that same test was administered, and the results were also missing.”
“Tell us more about this blood test,” Mike said.
“It’s a version of the Serum Serotonin Level test administered to detect a tumor or chemical depression. Not to treat amnesia.”
My skin prickled under my robe. “Did he give that test to me, Sergeant?”
“We’ll know soon enough. We’re getting a warrant to grab your records along with a number of the other women who’ve reported similar symptoms. Those records will be reviewed by one of the medical forensic specialists who work with our OD Squad. If Lorca is trying to hide something, our guy will find it. Me and DeMarco have a theory but no facts to back it up yet.”
“Don’t make me guess, Sergeant. Tell me your theory now.”
Franco and Mike exchanged another look. Mike nodded once.
“Tony and me, we think Lorca is hiding the presence of some kind of drug, and we think that drug was used on you.”
“I was drugged?!”
“That’s what it looks like,” Franco said. “Hey, Coffee Lady, don’t look so upset. If it’s true, that’s good news. At least you’ll know you’re not a head case.”
NINETY-ONE
I downed a second cup of coffee while I absorbed Franco’s revelation, too stunned to do more than listen as the two officers talked.
Mike asked Franco to keep quiet about my return to the city. He filled him in on his appointment with a law firm later today. “Once we secure Clare’s legal protection, we’ll consider our next step—and we need a little more time for that.”
“My lips are sealed, but I won’t be around anyway,” Franco said. “Lorca is at his clinic upstate today. Me and Tony are going to take a drive and visit the doctor.”
“What’s your plan?”
The sergeant shrugged his big shoulders. “We’re calling it an initial background interview.”
“Good,” Mike said. “Get some responses on the record. If he gives you contradictory answers or makes false statements, we’ll have something to press him on—especially if the forensic evidence shows he’s lying.”
“Will do.”
“Good work, buddy. Keep it up. And thank DeMarco for me.”
“Sure.” Franco rose. “Good luck with those attorneys today. I’ll talk to you soon—”
“But not by phone. Check in when you get back, in person.”
Mike escorted Franco to the door. On his way, Mike’s phone buzzed and he answered the call. By the time he returned to the kitchen, the conversation was so intense that he hardly acknowledged my presence. Then the call ended and he faced me.
“I’ve got more upsetting news, Clare. I’m sorry. Stevens is being released.”
“What?! Why would they let him go?”
“There was no evidence to hold him on. Stevens had no GSR on his clothes or skin—”
“GSR? That has something to do with firing a gun, right?”
“That’s right. It means gunshot residue. Like I said, there was none on Stevens. No weapon in his possession when he was apprehended, and the Crime Scene Unit at the hotel has yet to find one in or around the parking lot.”
“Stevens could have hidden it, or tossed it out the window of his car!”
“He didn’t have a gun, Clare. The security camera footage from the parking lot clears him . . .” Mike continued to describe the footage, which showed a figure in a black rain poncho with the hood up approaching the dead man’s car. It appeared Mullins rolled down his window and spoke with the stranger before the shooter fired twice. Then the shooter reached into the car.
A moment later the shooter fled the scene.
“This all happened a good thirty seconds before Stevens even appeared. His arrival was immediately followed by a woman with blond hair and big glasses wearing a green rain poncho. She peeked in the car, then saw Stevens nearby and raced after him.”
“The police don’t know the blonde was me, do they?”
“Not yet,” Mike said. “And Stevens didn’t recognize you, either. He described the woman who chased him as a ‘nutcase.’”
“Great.” I folded my arms. “Do you think he was lying? I mean, if Stevens honestly didn’t remember me, that means he wasn’t following me. So what did he claim he was doing at the hotel?”
“Following the dead man, Toby Mullins. Turns out, Mullins is a licensed private investigator. But Stevens didn’t know that and neither did Victoria Holbrook. Both became suspicious of Mullins since he was lurking around the Parkview Palace, asking the staff questions. Victoria convinced herself that Mullins was involved in Annette’s disappearance. She ordered Stevens to find out if Mullins was hired by Tessa—and whether Tessa was responsible for abducting and possibly murdering Annette, since her young niece is the principal beneficiary in Annette’s will.”
“What about the late Toby Mullins?”
“Mullins was hired by Tessa to find her aunt—”
“So that’s why he was watching my hospital room?”
“Right. Tessa was highly suspicious of your loss of memory and asked Mullins to find a way to question you. Mullins was asking questions at the Parkview because Tessa was convinced Victoria was responsible for Annette’s disappearance.”
“Wait a second. If Victoria thought Tessa was guilty and Tessa thought Victoria was guilty, then it’s unlikely either was behind Annette’s abduction.”
“It looks that way,” Mike said.
“Here’s a question for you. What about the leather glove? The one I saw on Mullins’s dashboard. If it was mine, that’s proof he was involved.”
“We don’t know yet if it’s your glove. Forensics is testing for your DNA, but that takes time. And even if it is your glove, it proves nothing.”
“How is that?”
“Remember, the shooter reached into Mullins’s car. The police know he took the dead man’s phone, but the killer might have also planted your glove on the dashboard—to set Mullins up.”
“I understand. The shooter wanted to frame Mullins as a party to Annette’s abduction, and by extension Tessa Simmons. That seems logical. Is that the theory of your police investigators? Do they suspect the shooter is involved in Annette’s abduction?”
Mike shook his head. “The investigating officers are treating Mullins’s murder like a smartphone robbery gone bad.”
“But that’s crazy!” I cried. “Can’t the police pressure Tessa and Victoria? One of them must know something!”
“They’ve been questioned. Each suspects the other of being guilty. But there’s no evidence, and you can’t squeeze a square peg into a round hole.”
Square peg into a round hole.
For some reason, my mind held on to that phrase and even formed a picture of that geometry. Suddenly something extremely disturbing emerged from my memory. Square peg can’t fit, round hole. Can’t fit, round hole!
“Clare?”
Like a punch in the head
, this new memory was so powerful that I dropped my coffee, shattering the cup and scaring poor Java and Frothy into scampering away. Close to passing out, I sank into a chair—and started to slide off it.
Mike caught me before I hit the floor.
“Clare, what’s wrong?!” he asked, alarmed. He was holding me so close, I could feel his heart beating under his T-shirt. I think my lips moved, but no words emerged.
Before I knew it, Mike was helping me lie down on the living room sofa. But I had to tell him! I had to get it out, even though it was difficult to form the words.
“The room,” I rasped. “It had a round window, like a porthole, too small for me to fit through.”
“What room, Clare?”
“The room they kept me in, for days.”
“Who? Who kept you there?”
“The Grunting Men.”
NINETY-TWO
“THERE were two of them,” I told Mike, ten minutes later.
By now I was sitting up, a fresh mug of coffee clutched in both hands. Mike was beside me, his EMT jump bag beside him.
“In my head I named them the Grunting Men because that’s all they ever did to communicate with me. I don’t know if they were hiding their voices, their accents . . .”
“What did they look like?”
“I never saw their faces. They wore ski masks and gloves when they first grabbed me. But later, while I was trapped in that room, each wore a bandanna draped over his nose and mouth.”
“Anything else? Did they molest you? Assault you in any way?”
“No. They didn’t touch me.”
Mike nodded with relief. “That’s in line with the physical exams you received after you came back to us.”
“They were both big men and strong. I did make a rush to the door once, and the guy threw me on the bed with one arm, without even spilling the bowl of soup he was holding in the other.”
“You had a bed? Can you describe more of the room?”
“It was small but well furnished. Blue wallpaper and a tiny bathroom. It was a guest room, I think, because the dresser drawers were empty. One door led to a hallway. The Grunting Men were always struggling with the lock. And the only window was that tiny porthole.”