by Kendra Leigh
“You mean the accident.” It wasn’t really a question. If I was honest, the thought had crossed my mind many times. Of course, I’d always squashed it before it manifested enough for me to really consider it.
“Yes. It may be that your subconscious is trying to alert your conscious mind to what happened that day. The memory is in there somewhere. You might find the accident easier to come to terms with if you could recall it.”
“How can I do that?” I angled my head to look at him, my brow furrowing with the uncertainty of what he was alluding to. “Wait a minute. You’re surely not suggesting I see a therapist?” He didn’t answer, just gazed back into my eyes as if he wasn’t sure what he was suggesting. “It’s too late for a therapist, E, and besides, you really think, of all people, I’m going to trust a damned head doctor.”
“Not everyone’s like your father, Angel. And anyway, it wasn’t therapy I had in mind.”
“Then what?”
He hesitated a second before adjusting his position to give me more room. “Turn around.”
Oh shit, why did I have a feeling I wasn’t going to like this? Hypnosis and all sorts of other meddling and mind influencing techniques began running screaming through my mind. I turned around to face him, hooking my legs over his.
“You don’t have to rely on your memory. You could ask someone what happened.” He let that hang for a minute, waiting for me to absorb it. I shook my head in confusion. “My mom refreshed your memory by imparting real information, actual details and photographs, right?” I nodded. “So maybe you need someone else to tell you what happened.”
I laughed dubiously. “And who the hell do you suggest I ask, E? There was no one else there, apart from a bunch of strangers, and I’d have a hard time tracking them down; I have no clue who they even were.”
“No.” He paused, seeming to give great consideration to what he was about to say. “But there is one person who witnessed the whole thing. A person whose name we can find out.”
My eyes widened as it suddenly struck me exactly where he was going with this. “You’re talking about him. The guy who hit her.”
Edging forward, he took a grip of my hands. “Don’t dismiss it, baby. Just think about it.”
“You can’t seriously expect me to sit down and have a conversation with that man?” My voice was filled with incredulity.
“Angel, as far as we’re aware, he wasn’t at fault. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have been anyone.”
I felt a sudden, inexplicable surge of anger. “No, of course he wasn’t at fault, because that was me. I’m the one to blame. He was the one driving the car, but I’m the reason it hit her, right?”
“You know that’s not what I’m saying.” He shook his head as if trying to dismiss the hurtful remark, and I felt immediately guilty.
“I’m sorry, E.” I let out a sigh, my heart sinking with dread because I knew he was right. I promised him and myself that I would fight my damn demons and this was the next obvious step. “How? How do we find him?”
Chapter Twelve
“If you twirl that ring around your finger any longer, I swear it will drop off.” Jia placed a steaming mug of coffee on my desk and stared with disdain at my huge, sparkly engagement ring.
It was of course mock disdain. She couldn’t have been happier for me when I’d breezed into the gallery over two weeks ago with it practically weighing down one entire side of my body. We’d accomplished virtually nothing that day, apart from a couple of random sales in between me blowing her mind with the details of the weekend. Everything from our arrival at Ethan’s parents’ house, my mom, the photos, the proposal—everything. Well not everything. Obviously, the intimate stuff I kept to myself. By the time I’d finished she was suffering from a severe case of emotional whiplash.
“You’re just jealous,” I said good-naturedly.
“Damn fucking straight, I’m jealous. I have zero chance of anyone ever buying me one of those. What’s eating you anyway?”
“Nothing,” I said with feigned nonchalance. “Just psyching myself up for the rain.” I motioned to the wide, shallow windows, which were actually too high in the wall to look out, unless you stood on a chair. I’d planned to spend the day wandering the city with my camera, take a walk in Central Park to capture the wonderful essence of fall.
Jia stared at me as if I’d lost my mind. “It isn’t raining.”
“Oh. Well, good. I thought it looked like rain when I arrived.”
She scrunched up her seamless face. “Bitch, are you okay? You seem like a million miles away.”
Forcing a smile, I nodded to reassure her, but if truth be told, I wasn’t okay. Far from it.
Following our conversation in the bathtub the day we’d arrived back from his parents’, Ethan—with my full support—had arranged for a private investigator to track down the man who’d inadvertently knocked down and killed my mom almost twenty-three years ago. The PI had called this morning requesting a meeting to discuss his progress. Ethan had arranged the meet for four this afternoon. I’d decided to steer clear, preferring to hear the details from Ethan than from some guy I’d never met before. Hence my decision to spend the day doing what I do best, take my mind off the whole thing.
And it clearly wasn’t working. I picked up my coffee and took a gulp, grimacing when the scolding brown liquid seared the end of my tongue.
Jia shook her head. “Coffee’s hot.”
“Thanks for the warning, friend.”
She was about to make some smart comment when the phone rang, her demeanor adapting instantly to one of a complete professional. “Evoke Gallery, Jia Huang speaking.” As she listened, her eyes flicked to mine, her expression hardening with warning. “Mr. Sloane…” I rolled my eyes. “… No, I’m afraid Miss Lawson is still unavailable… As I’ve already explained, I’m unaware of the details, only that Miss Lawson is no longer able to commit to the contract and sends her sincere apologies… I will ensure she gets the message. Thank you for your call, Mr. Sloane.” She hung up, her eyes narrowing on a disapproving growl.
Closing my eyes, I lowered my head to my hands. According to Jia, Sloane had been calling on a daily basis since the Monday Ethan had informed him I wouldn’t be doing business with him. Well, I’m assuming it was something on those lines. Ethan hadn’t actually told me what he’d said, only that the matter was dealt with—which could mean anything. In turn, and for obvious reasons, I hadn’t divulged anything of Sloane’s persistent inquiring to Ethan.
“Why don’t you just sell him the goddamn pictures, already?” said Jia.
I held out my hands in disbelief. “Duh—have you even met my fiancé? Forget it, Jia.” I pushed to my feet, grabbing my backpack, and trying my best to ignore her, as she muttered something about a caveman clubbing me over the head and dragging me to his cave.
As Ethan frequently reminded me, I didn’t have to justify my business decisions to her. I usually did because I valued her input, but on this occasion, I decided he was probably right. She was scary, but I’d rather go up against her than Ethan any day of the week.
“I’m outta here,” I called over my shoulder as I headed out the door.
Fall in New York was breathtaking, especially in Central Park. The changing autumn leaves of maple, oak, and elm trees left a carpet of crisp, bright colors which crunched and crackled under your feet. The air felt and smelled cleaner, almost as though a fresh burst of oxygen had been injected in to the city, leaving you feeling invigorated and youthful. Fall was my favorite time of year.
While the hours whiled away, I snapped away, making best use of light and shadow and color. The lens captured the changing season, closing the door on the muggy summer and welcoming the freshness of autumn and the steady descent to a pure, crisp winter. As usual, my eye seemed to hunt down the images best fitted to my mood or current situation, and through the camera, I embraced the wild and wonderful changes presently occurring in my life. Just like t
he season, the change was fortifying and strengthening, preparing my defenses for what could potentially be a tough, austere slog. Oddly though, it didn’t seem to faze me. Because I knew that, despite the struggle, when I finally made it through, the sun would shine down on me again. Because now I had Ethan.
Hoping to push the thought of his meeting with the PI to the back of my mind, I’d consciously avoided checking my watch for the time. But by now, I knew enough about light to know it was time I headed home. Ethan would no doubt be there by now, waiting to give me whatever news he’d gleaned.
Emerging from Central Park onto 5th Avenue, I suddenly noticed a chill. Tugging off my backpack, I placed it on the ground between my feet while I pulled on my sweater, but the chill didn’t seem to abate. It was as if it had already crawled under my skin, wrapping around my bones before I’d had chance to prevent it. It was then that I took in my surroundings.
A peculiar sense washed over me, a sort of déjà vu experience, where everything about where I was standing, the proximity of the road, the angling of the curb, the building across the street, the amount of steps that I’d need to take to get there, all seemed overtly familiar. Sure, I’d walked this street many times before, but the chances of me ever having stood still in this very spot, to take in the details of everything around me, seemed incredibly unlikely. Unless…
An image flashed before my mind, the sound of screeching tires and a blind sense of panic, and suddenly I felt sick to my stomach. My head swam with unfathomable images, muddled and disorderly, and I didn’t know whether they were memories or splintered scraps of dreams. I shook my head, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes, hoping to dispel the intrusive suggestions from my mind.
I’d never known exactly where the accident had happened—along with everything else, I’d never wanted to—but something about this whole experience was telling me I was right there in the very spot.
Suddenly, I felt a hand on my arm. “Angel?” The voice seemed distant, tinny almost. “Are you okay?”
Looking up, my gaze took a while to focus on the face in front of me, but as the question was repeated and the murkiness lifted, I found myself gazing back at Dominic Sloane. “Oh. Mr. Sloane. Yes, sorry. Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”
I made to move, slinging my backpack over my shoulder, the action causing me stumble slightly. Sloane reached out again, his arm snaking around my waist and tugging me back out of the way of the pedestrian flow.
“Perhaps you should take a minute, you seem a little disorientated.”
“I’m fine, really. Just a headache,” I lied, trying to push away his confining grip.
“Is this where it happened?” The question was so direct and unexpected that for a moment, I wondered if I’d heard him correctly. My expression must have reflected my thoughts exactly, because he reinforced the question by adding, “The accident, I mean.”
I yanked myself free from his grip, my wide-eyed look turning into an accusing glare. “Are you following me?”
“No.” His answer was instant, his expression blank. “However, I did want to talk to you. I’ve left you several messages.”
“What do you want, Mr. Sloane?”
“It’s Dominic. And you know what I want. We entered into a contract. One which I paid you a sizeable deposit to fulfill.”
“It was a verbal agreement, Mr. Sloane, one which I believe my fiancé revoked. We didn’t enter into a formal contract and your payment was never cashed.”
“Fiancé?” His lip curled at the edge as if he was mocking me. “Oh, come now, you don’t have to continue with that charade when we’re alone. Wilde was marking his territory. I can’t blame him; he has a lot to lose.”
“What makes you think it was a charade?” His tone was pissing me off.
He hitched a brow like I’d asked a stupid question. “One vital thing was missing.” I frowned in confusion as he shook his head, laughing at my failure to catch on. He bowed his head leaning in real close, his lips almost brushing my cheek, my ear, as he added, “A ring?”
Fighting the smile that threatened my lips, I pulled back and raised my hand, splaying my fingers for emphasis. “What? You mean this ring?”
Something flashed across his face when he laid eyes on the sparkling gem, but it was gone before I could name it. Now he smiled an almost genuine smile, and taking hold of my hand closed his fingers over the diamond to conceal it before drawing my fingers to his lips to graze with a gentle kiss.
I watched in sheer astonishment before snatching my hand away. “Look, I don’t know exactly what it is you think you want from me, or how you seem to know so much about me, but let me reaffirm—our business is done.” I stepped to the side in order to walk around him, but he moved to block my path, taking a step closer until our bodies were almost touching.
“I can help you, Angel. Wilde?” He shook his head. “He’s no good for you. He doesn’t get you like I do. I can see your pain, feel it. Your mom died right here, didn’t she? I bet he doesn’t know that. He’s too busy telling you what you can and can’t do…”
He went on, but I’d stopped listening. I’d tuned out the second he mentioned my mom, his words getting lost, his voice blending in with the noise of the city around me. His close proximity, his warm breath on my face, his words, were prodigious, suffocating. The tears that burned my eyes fell onto my cheek and then his fingers were stroking my face, brushing them away, his arm folding around my back to bring me into a tight embrace. Horrified, I reached up, shoving him with brutal force in the chest and turned to hurry away from him.
Before I could progress, he’d grabbed my arm. “Wait. I’m sorry. It wasn’t supposed to… I didn’t mean to…”
“Leave me alone!” I hissed the words with as much connotation as I could muster. Then tugging my arm free, I disappeared into the streaming current of oblivious pedestrians.
I didn’t stop for breath until I reached the safety of the elevator in our apartment building. My mouth was dry, my heart beating frantically from my haste. Drawing in deep, replenishing breaths, I swiped at the smudged mascara beneath my eyes, pinching my cheeks to restore the color to the pale complexion staring back at me in the elevator mirror. I’d toyed with the idea of being upfront with Ethan about my confrontation with Sloane—for all of two seconds. I wasn’t sure what his strange… obsession was all about yet, but the last thing I needed at the moment was Ethan up on a murder charge. One thing at a time.
When the elevator slid to a halt on the penthouse floor, I braced myself for whatever news I was about to hear. Ethan was staring through the grand glass wall when I entered the lounge, a glass filled with amber liquid clutched firmly in his hand. He turned to face me, his expression unreadable, his eyes searching mine before narrowing in question. “Angel? What is it? What’s wrong?”
Who was I kidding to think I could successfully mask my emotions? Either he knew me too well, or I was wearing them with as much lucidity as Joseph and his coat of many colors.
I shook my head and shrugged. “Just nervous, E.”
“Course you are. Sorry, baby. Come here.”
Without pause, I moved across the room and into his embrace, his arms folding tightly around me as he lowered his face to kiss me softly on the lips.
“We have a name, don’t we?”
“Yes, baby. We have a name.”
Ernest Schrader lived in a 1940’s-built house in Hicksville, Nassau County. It had taken over a week to psyche myself up enough to make this journey, the name Ernest Schrader rolling around in my head like something I should be familiar with but wasn’t. I wasn’t quite sure what I’d expected when I heard the name for the first time. Perhaps I imagined I’d know the guy, to yell, “Hey, yeah that’s him, Ernie. I know Ernie.” But of course I didn’t. I’d never heard of him. The thing I guess I’d anticipated the least was to have an address. Somewhere in the part of my brain, which may have afforded some time to consider this man, had assumed he’d either be untraceable or dead.
Yet here I was, sitting outside his somewhat shabby property, with its neglected stucco walls and flaky window panes. The garden appeared to be the only thing that received any attention. It was small, but neat, with finely trimmed edges and a variety of rose bushes. For some reason, I hated rose bushes.
In my mind, I’d gone over and over what I was going to say, praying that I would hold it together, be polite, and remember Ethan’s words. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have been anyone. I’d pictured a large, balding man with an overhanging belly, his shoulders constantly hunched as he hooked his fingers into belt loops to hoist up his pants.
The sound of clattering garbage cans disturbed a neighborhood dog from his mid-morning nap while a teenage boy on a bike rode leisurely past the Bugatti for the second time, his perusal of the gleaming bronze vehicle ominously curious. Ethan leaned out of the open window, tilting his sunglasses to make a point to the boy that his interest had been noted. He pulled up his hood and rode swiftly down the road and out of sight.
I turned to meet Ethan’s gaze, warm with patience and reassurance, his hand reaching out and folding around mine protectively. Instinctively, I pulled it to my face, breathing in the scent of his skin, and thanked God he was mine and there to do exactly this—to hold my hand.
“We don’t have to go in if you’re not ready,” he murmured gently. “We could drive around for a while and come back. Or we could just go home.”
Smiling faintly, I shook my head. “No. I’m ready.”
The buzzer didn’t appear to work, so Ethan rapped gently on the front door. After a few seconds, the sound of a bolt sliding in its groove and a key rotating in its lock had my already frayed nerves feeling as if they were being torn to shreds. My pulse picked up its pace, hammering wildly in the dip of my collarbone, and my throat closed tightly around my windpipe.
The door opened, only a fraction at first, a gap probably designed to ascertain if we were welcome visitors or nuisance callers. Ernest Schrader must have decided on the former, as within a moment the door swung open and a pair of worn, brown loafers stepped forward.
