Dirty, Reckless Love - Lexi Ryan

by Ryan, Lexi

  He blinks at me, then shakes his head. “I read the doctor’s reports, but . . . You don’t remember me at all?”

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I don’t.”

  He shifts awkwardly, then pulls his badge from his back pocket and flashes it for me. “I’m Detective Ben Huxley, Jackson Harbor PD.”

  “Welcome,” Mom says. “Please, come in.” She waves into the house and leads us to the dining room, where we all sit and share the awkward silence of strangers.

  “I’ll be recording this conversation.” He positions a small black device in the center of the old table.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Anything to help,” Mom adds.

  “I bet you’re glad to be home,” the detective says to me.

  I nod. “No one likes to be in the hospital.”

  “It’s good to see you doing so well,” he says. “We were all so worried.”

  I study his face, wondering if he means that or if it’s just a nice thing to say. He seems so sincere. “Were we . . . friends?” Engaged to an addict and friends with a cop? That doesn’t add up.

  He grimaces. “You helped me buy my house.”

  “Right. I worked in real estate in Jackson Harbor.” I nod. “Mom told me that. Do you like it? The house, I mean? Did I do a good job?”

  He smiles, but I can see the worry in his eyes. It’s the same look on my sister’s face when she mentions some current event from the past few years, and I don’t get the reference. “Yeah, it’s great. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

  “Like I told the other detective at the hospital,” Mom says, “her memory isn’t—”

  “I know. I just need to go through these questions anyway. We never know when something will shake loose.”

  Mom nods, and the detective turns his attention to me. “Ellie, tell me about your relationship with Colton McKinley.”

  I blink at him. “Wasn’t he my fiancé?”

  The detective arches a brow, waiting.

  “I’m told he was my fiancé and the father of my child. The child I . . . lost.”

  “How did you meet Colton?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “When was the last time you talked to him?”

  I twist my hands on the table. After looking at my Facebook page last weekend, I can’t stop thinking about the people from my old life, but no one more than Colton. It feels like if I just try hard enough, I could dig him out of my memories, and if I could do that, maybe I’d understand why this happened. What set him off? Had he ever hurt me before that night? “I don’t know.”

  The detective drops his gaze to my wringing hands. “Are you scared of your fiancé, Ellie?”

  “Yes.”

  Mom reaches out and squeezes my leg, and I bite my bottom lip, trying to figure out how to explain this to a man who no doubt takes his memories for granted like everybody else.

  “It’s okay to be afraid,” he says. “Tell me more about what you’re feeling.”

  “I’m lucky to be alive. My child wasn’t so lucky. I don’t have any memory of the years I lived in Jackson Harbor or of the people I knew there.” Except Levi Jackson. I think I remember making love with Levi. I study the detective’s kind face for a beat. I should tell him everything I know, but I don’t want to share something I don’t understand. “I do know I was with Colton, that I was pregnant, and that Colton and I were supposed to be married.”

  “Tell me about that night if you can,” he says. “The night you were hurt.”

  I laugh, a dry, hollow sound. “What do you want to know? Two broken ribs, head trauma, bruises everywhere.”

  The detective nods. “I have your medical report from the hospital. What about what you remember?”

  “Nothing,” I whisper. “The doctor said even if the other memories come back, I may never remember the event itself.”

  “Yes, the doctor told me that too,” he says.

  Mom frowns. “So why are you asking?”

  “Just doing my job, ma’am.” He shifts his attention back to me. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  I take a deep breath. “I had a job working for an art dealer in Chicago. We were researching some lost art for a client.”

  Mom grins proudly. “My baby girl got an art degree from Loyola. She’s a very talented artist but she never believed it—went into sales instead. I can’t blame her for choosing glitz and glamor over the starving artist life.”

  “I didn’t see it that way,” I say softly. My cheeks heat. I don’t like talking about the truth—that I wasn’t good enough to create art of my own. “Curating private collections was a better fit for me.”

  “Yes, and you already knew what it was like to live without money.” She waves a hand around the dining room, and I try to take it in with fresh eyes. Sun-bleached wallpaper, the same pink carpet that was here when I was in grade school, now several shades lighter. Mom raised us alone, and the only reason she was able to keep this house was through the magic of bankruptcy court. We could barely make ends meet, let alone remodel. Not much has changed.

  “When was that?” Detective Huxley asks. “Your last memory?”

  “Three years ago.” I grimace. “My boss and I were at dinner talking about this collection, and . . .” And he was getting me drunk on wine and high on flattery while trying to convince me I should sell the paintings in my studio—replicas of priceless missing art. I meet the detective’s eyes and feel my cheeks heat. I wonder if I agreed. I painted those as a challenge to myself, and I think we were both surprised by what I managed to pull off.

  “And . . .?” The detective’s voice is gentle and coaxing, and I realize I need to say more.

  “We drank a lot that night, and when I woke up at the hospital, I thought maybe one of us had gotten behind the wheel and we’d been in an accident. But then the nurses told me that three years had passed, that I was suffering from retrograde amnesia.”

  “Have you been in touch with anyone from Jackson Harbor since leaving the hospital?”

  “She wants nothing to do with that life,” Mom says.

  I bite my lip and look at my mom, then back to my hands. I don’t have a tan line from the engagement band that sits in my jewelry box. I hadn’t been engaged long enough. But would I have put it on at all if I hadn’t planned to wear it forever?

  “Ellie?” the detective prompts.

  “I saw Levi Jackson a couple of days ago,” I admit.

  “He came to the door,” Mom said. “He and the sister. I sent them both away.” She reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “We’re starting fresh.”

  “I saw him after that.” I lift my gaze to the detective’s and avoid my mother’s. “He was at Brew Cats, and I talked to him.”

  “What?” She drops my hand. “You didn’t tell me? Why didn’t you just turn around? Run away, protect yourself?” Her voice is shrill, and I lean away instinctively.

  “I didn’t want to run.”

  Blotchy red patches bloom brighter on her face. “After all I’ve done to try to protect you from that life?”

  I lift my chin and meet her eyes. “You can’t protect me from my own life. I wanted to talk to him.”

  She looks out the window, and I wait, but she doesn’t turn back to me. I’ve hurt her.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I thought I was okay with pretending those years never happened, but I’m not anymore. I want to understand.”

  “Sonia,” the detective says calmly, “would you mind getting me a cup of coffee and letting me chat with Ellie privately for a moment?”

  “Fine.” She pushes away from the table. “Black?”

  Huxley nods, then watches her leave the room before turning back to me. “You saw Levi? Do you remember him?”

  “Not exactly.” I look down at the recorder and wonder just how much I’m willing to admit on the record.

  “Tell me what you do remember,” he says.

  I sigh heavily and shrug. “It’
s more like a feeling. Like he is—was important to me. And I had some flashes of memories. I think that’s what they were. But they were . . . intimate.”

  Huxley nods, as if this doesn’t surprise him. Or maybe he’s just been trained to have a great poker face. “The two of you were involved briefly. Have you seen or spoken with anyone else?”

  I shake my head. “I’ve been too afraid to go back.”

  Mom returns with a cup of coffee, obviously opting for pouring from this morning’s pot rather than making a new one and missing more of this conversation. “Here you go.” She sets it down in front of him. “I’m sorry if I seem irrational. But I already lost my grandchild. I can’t stomach the idea of losing my daughter too.”

  “It’s okay, Mom. I’m here, and I’m safe.”

  “May I stay?” she asks Huxley, but the challenge in her tone suggests she will regardless of what the detective says.

  Huxley looks at me, and I nod. “Sure.”

  He takes a sip of his coffee. “Tell me about Nelson McKinley.”

  I frown, recognizing the last name but not the first. McKinley? Is he related to Colton somehow? I want to pull my notebook from my purse and add this name to the list, but I suppress the urge. I can do it later.

  “Are you even listening to her?” my mother says. “She doesn’t remember the last three years. She knows nothing about that man.”

  I frown at her. “What do you know about him?”

  She avoids my gaze. “Not much.”

  With a sigh, the detective puts his mug down. “I’m sorry. I just have to ask the questions. Tell me what you think about the Nelson McKinley situation.”

  I shake my head. “I’ve never even heard his name before.”

  Detective Huxley sits back in his chair, and when he studies me now, there’s less sympathy in his eyes and more skepticism. “Both amnesia and no access to current events?”

  I look to my mother. She’s avoiding my gaze. “What does he mean, Mom?”

  “Nelson is Colton’s father,” she says.

  “Nelson McKinley’s been missing since late August. We suspected foul play, and we questioned your fiancé regarding the case. Unfortunately, he’s missing, so we can’t continue our interviews.”

  I turn to my mom again, but her gaze is zeroed in on her hands. She knew this, and she didn’t tell me? “I thought they were after Colton because of what happened to me.”

  “Well, that should be enough. Obviously he hurt you,” she says. “Why else would he be running from the cops like he is?”

  “Running from the cops?” The detective arches a brow and gives my mother a pointed look. “Ms. Courdrey, do you have a reason to believe your daughter’s fiancé is on the run, or is that just conjecture?”

  “It’s common sense,” she says. “Where else would he be?”

  “My guess is somewhere at the bottom of Lake Michigan.” Levi’s answer to this same question lingers in my mind.

  “Was Colton really so awful?” I ask Mom. We haven’t talked about my past beyond what she thought was necessary to keep me safe. I think we’ve both been too afraid.

  “Not on the surface.” She shrugs. “You brought him home a few times.”

  I bite my lip. I brought a drug addict home to meet my mom?

  “He seemed nice. He made you happy.” The smile falls from her face. “Until he didn’t.”

  “When . . .” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. “When was that? When did things change?”

  “Sometime over the summer. You didn’t talk about it, but mother’s intuition. I knew something was wrong. Something was different.”

  Something was different. Was it the pregnancy? Had news of an unexpected baby turned my formerly loving boyfriend into an abusive fiancé? You hear stories about that, though I’ve never understood them. Why would a pregnancy turn a man abusive?

  Or did the change have something to do with Levi Jackson?

  “Your people need to find Colton and lock him up for what he did to my Ellie.”

  The detective sighs heavily. “Ms. Courdrey, we’ve discussed this. There’s no warrant for Colton McKinley’s arrest, because there’s no physical evidence to suggest there should be. He’s a missing person, much like his father.”

  “How can you say you have no evidence when you saw her in the hospital?” Mom asks. “You saw her connected to all those machines. Black and blue.”

  “At this point, we don’t have any evidence to support that Colton was responsible. No one had seen him for days before the assault.”

  No evidence. The detective who interviewed me before didn’t tell me that. Maybe because they were still processing evidence? But why didn’t anyone tell me Colton had been missing days before the attack? Doesn’t that mean it’s unlikely he’s guilty? Why did my family let me believe the man I was engaged to tried to kill me? “You mean Colton might not be the one who hurt me?”

  “I respect your mother’s opinion on the matter and understand why she’d blame him,” Huxley says, “but at this point in time, we don’t know who was responsible for your injuries.”

  I’m so confused. Is anything I believe true?

  “She tried to leave him the week before,” Mom says. He flew into a jealous rage.” The tilt of her chin dares anyone to contradict her. “This happens with abusive men.”

  “I’d tried to leave him?” I ask.

  The detective shifts. “My understanding is that you broke up briefly, but you’d gotten back together not long before Colton disappeared.”

  “What else aren’t you telling me?” I ask my mother. How could she lie to me? All this time I’ve been terrified of a man I loved without evidence? “I know you’ve been keeping my mail from me. I know I have friends who have sent me cards, but you’ve pretended they don’t exist. You told my friends I wanted distance instead of letting me make that decision for myself.”

  “He almost killed you!” she screeches.

  “Did he?” I ask. “Are you sure of that, or does it just make you feel better to tell yourself you know what happened?” I don’t understand why, but now that this piece of “truth” that’s been delivered to me daily has been exposed as a theory, I want to defend Colton. “Didn’t you tell me repeatedly that Colton had a drug problem? What if someone from that part of his life broke in to take his stash or whatever? Maybe I got in their way or tried to stop them.” I look at the detective. “Did you find any drugs when you searched my house?”

  He shakes his head. “We didn’t.”

  “So someone could’ve broken in that night for drugs?”

  “We’ve explored that possibility, yes.”

  Mom opens her mouth to protest then snaps it shut.

  “Your friends from Jackson Harbor sent you mail?” the detective asks me.

  I nod. “When I saw Levi yesterday, he gave me an invitation to Ava McKinley’s wedding, and there was a note inside from a friend—someone named Nic. She said she’d mailed a card.”

  The detective looks at my mom. “I’d like to see any letters or cards that have been sent here. Not just from Jackson Harbor. Anything addressed to Ellie.”

  “I threw it out.” She glares at me, as if daring me to add this to my list of grievances. “I’m her mother, and if I can protect her from him and those people in the life who almost got her killed, I’m going to do it.”

  “But what if those people are my friends?” I whisper. “And what if Colton’s innocent and I don’t need protecting from him?”

  Mom shakes her head, her face stony. If she were judge and jury, Colton would already be convicted. Her mind’s made up. Whereas I . . .

  I close my eyes and see Colton’s face clearly, but instead of the image of him from a photograph, I see something new. Colton sitting on the floor, his head cradled in his hands.

  “I’m not good, Ellie. Not at all. But you make me want to be.”

  I’m focusing so hard on the fuzzy edges of the memory, trying to find more. Colton’s deep voice. T
he agony in his eyes when he lifts his head. What happens next?

  “Ellie?”

  I open my eyes and blink at him. “I’m sorry?”

  “I asked you to call me right away if you remember anything. Big or small. Even if it doesn’t seem related.”

  I nod, but my promise is already a lie. What I remember, I can’t tell Detective Huxley.

  If I want to protect myself, I can’t tell anyone.

  Ellie

  February 20th

  Two and a half years ago . . .

  Colton McKinley shuts the door behind us and stalks toward me like he wants to devour me. I love it so much when he looks at me like that. It’s hard to remember I was angry with him for being late to the fundraiser tonight.

  My apartment isn’t big, but with Colton filling the space, it feels more like a child’s playhouse than a grown woman’s home. Regardless, I love him here. I love the way he takes up too much room and makes this lonely new life feel full. I love that when I’m with him I can forget my troubles at home and find a reprieve from worrying about my mom, sister, and niece. They always need help, but since I’ve moved to Jackson Harbor, I’ve had less to offer—a fact that leaves me riddled with guilt.

  “I really wanted you to introduce me to your dad tonight,” I say, my tone flirting with the edge between disappointed and pouting.

  “I didn’t need to. I talked to him already,” he says. “He called your references, and I think he’s going to give you the job.”

  I gasp. “Are you serious? Oh my God, Colton, that’s amazing.”

  He grunts. “No job working for my asshole father could accurately be described as amazing, but I’m glad it makes you happy.”

  “It is amazing. Do you know what a rare opportunity this is?” I bounce on my toes, and my eyes burn with hot tears. When he didn’t show up at the party, I thought he’d let me down. “I owe you everything.”

  “It’s my father. He wouldn’t hire you if he didn’t believe he was getting the better end of the deal.”

  “Still. Managing an art gallery?” I squeak. I’m practically floating, I’m so excited.

  “Now aren’t you glad you’re with me and not Levi?” He stalks toward me.