by Sylvie Kurtz
"I don't think I like you very much," she said.
"Having you like me isn't part of my job description. Having you tell me what you know about Angela Petersen's murder is."
"Angela?" The name sounded familiar. Bits of shredded images rained across her mind. Soft blond hair. A quiet smile. They'd shared tea and scones in a garden. Whose? Where? She licked at her lips tasting the memories trickling in. Angela's husband, Tommy Lee, had left her two years ago for Dallas and a new life with a new wife. Angela Petersen. Her neighbor. More. There had to be more.
"Angela was the woman murdered?" she asked tentatively. If she'd felt cold before, she was positively icebound now.
"What can you tell me about it?"
"I don't know my name. I don't know where I work. I don't know where I live." She flung her head back and closed her eyes to intensify the bits and pieces popping into her mind. "I know I like Orange Zinger tea and a toasted English muffin with crunchy peanut butter for breakfast. I know I like the feel of the earth on my fingers. I know I like movies that require a box of tissues to watch." She almost laughed at the absurdity of her fractured recall.
Tears itched the back of her eyes. Her throat tightened. Her fingers rolled into fists. "But I don't know anything about Angela's murder. Don't you think I'd tell you if I did?"
The officer rose and dragged his chair around the desk. After he'd turned her chair around to face the mirror, he sat until their knees almost touched. The tip of his black cowboy boots rested a fragment of an inch away from her bare toes. She curled them protectively away.
A shaft of panic invaded her. He was too close, much too close. She was aware of the heat emanating from him, of the fresh scent of soap carried on those heated waves, and of him, and how much his physical presence disturbed her already shaky balance—of how much she needed to be held right now.
"I know how frustrating it must be for you not knowing who you are." A measure of warmth crept into his voice. "But it's important you give remembering a real good try. A young woman died, and you might have witnessed her murder."
"Witnessed?" She jerked in surprise. "You don't think I murdered her anymore?"
"Let's just say for the sake of argument that you didn't." He reached forward and placed a sheltering hand over hers. The warmth of his skin felt good on her iced fingers. The directness of his gaze, unnerving as it was, also reflected a clarity of character she wanted desperately to trust.
"I want to go home," she said. It was getting harder to breathe in the thickening air. She had to get out. But who could she call? Did she even have anyone who cared about her?
"Where is home?"
She lowered her lashes and sighed. "I don't know, but anywhere has to be less claustrophobic than this room."
He leaned farther forward. Anxiety snapped and crackled along her overloaded nerves, tightening her chest. "You don't like closed-in places," he said. "Is that why you were wandering outside in the middle of the night?"
Once more she allowed her gaze to meet his. She held it steady this time, not letting the piercing quality of it trouble her. "You could irritate a saint."
He shifted back again, his mouth curling into half a grin. "I've spent hours developing that quality. But I have a hunch you're no saint, so why don't you just make it easy on yourself and cooperate with me. I don't want to hurt you. I want to find Angela Petersen's murderer."
She removed her hands from the protective cover of his and crossed her arms below her chest, scrunching back as far as she could in the chair. "I don't know anything."
"I can protect you," he promised. Something deep inside knew she needed protection, but from what? Or from whom? "There's nothing to be afraid of."
Nothing to be afraid of. But there always had been something to be afraid of. A fear like a monster in the closet that banged to get out, that haunted her days and nights, year after year. What did it want? She didn't know, and wasn't sure she wanted to find out. But this fear had nothing to do with Lieutenant Sloan's investigation. This fear was far too old to be part of this fresh nightmare. It was a private one. One she'd have to deal with on her own. She lifted her shoulders and shook her head. "Why would I need your protection?"
A trace of irritation flickered in his eyes. His jaw flinched once before he spoke again. "Listen, it's very important that you—"
A knock on the door interrupted him. He got up to answer. Someone out of her line of sight offered him a piece of paper.
"Melinda Amery!" He said the name with such hatred she recoiled in her chair from the booming concussion of his voice. "Is she related to Ely?"
She couldn't hear the muffled reply. He skewered her with his narrowed gaze, and as he left, he slammed the door. Why did that name bring such hatred and anger out of him? What had this Melinda Amery done to him? Her heart thudded hard once. Was she Melinda Amery?
Melinda Amery. She turned the name over and over in her mind, but it struck no chords of recognition. With a sigh, she rested an elbow on the desk and propped her head on her uplifted hand. Her free hand traveled over the dried mud on her leg, tucking her feet beneath her.
She wanted to get out of here. She wanted a shower and a good long nap. She wanted to forget this episode. Tomorrow things would start falling back into place and she could resume her normal life as if nothing had happened.
Except that "normal" wouldn't be the same. Angela was dead. Angela who had been her neighbor. The image of moss roses, the sound of laughter flicked like wet paint onto the opaque canvas of her mind. The quiet companionship they'd shared was gone forever. And like dominoes, when one thing fell, others were bound to follow.
She knew without being told she had a lot of questions left to answer. And none of them would bring out Lieutenant Sloan's charming dimples.
Chapter 2
Grady paced the hall outside the interview-room door. Rage, hot and red, boiled deep. He swallowed the scream of frustration hovering at the base of his throat. Melinda Amery, Ely Amery's daughter! Of course, God forbid this case should be easy to solve. God forbid the past should stay in the past. God forbid he should get anything without a trial. But this situation was simply ridiculous. Why Melinda Amery, for heaven's sake? This town had thousands of other souls. Why lock away the key to this case in her mind?
Once "Daddy" got wind of where his daughter had spent the night, Grady wouldn't stand a chance in hell of discovering what she'd seen—or what she'd done. Her unfortunate breeding placed her back high on his Suspects list. After all, her father was the biggest snake in the state of Texas. No other human being, let alone any other lawyer, could match the lowliness of his slither. Why would his daughter have inherited better morals?
He fisted his hand, swiveled and punched the wall. His knuckles smarted and the blow reopened the bite wound on his hand. Great, just great! As he pressed the bandage back into place, a door opened down the hall.
Ely Amery was half the reason he distrusted his instincts. Ely Amery had used him, made a fool of him. He and Jamie had tarnished a reputation Grady had worked a lifetime to build. Now because of them, the city council doubted his merit. And with Ely back in the picture, he risked proving the city council right. He'd have to fight both sides of the battle to make sure Angela wasn't forgotten in the shuffle. Justice meant nothing to Ely. And the town council simply wanted the problem to go away—correct killer optional.
"Grady?" Desiree placed a comforting hand on his arm. "Are you all right?"
"What do you think?" He snapped away and slumped against the hall wall, trying to regain control of his arsoned emotions. This wasn't like him. "She's Ely Amery's daughter!"
"Take a deep breath. It's okay."
He shook his head. "This case has gone straight to hell, Des. Was she faking?"
Desiree matched his stance against the wall. "I saw no signs of alcohol detox, no shaking. She sounds intelligent, even if she is a bit mixed-up. She doesn't seem like she's tough enough to have fought with you last night."
"Well she did."
"I don't doubt it, Grady, but she has a sweet, old-fashioned quality about her. You could almost picture her dressed in lace, sitting in a Victorian parlor having afternoon tea."
"Looks can be deceiving. Don't the society pages describe Ely Amery as 'dashing' and 'charming?'" He didn't bother trying to disguise the puslike oozing of disdain in his voice. Anger was healthy, or so Des kept trying to tell him. But this anger didn't feel healthy; it felt vindictive and destructive. He didn't like the feeling, nor the intuition telling him if he didn't control himself, he'd lose everything he'd worked for since his parents had died. He focused on the red-and-white Exit sign and counted to ten.
"That's not the point," Desiree said. "Are you going to listen to me, or have you already made up your mind? You're the one who asked for this consult."
"Go ahead."
"After reading the arrest record, the incident report, and looking over the blood test, I don't think she's faking it."
"Then why can she remember some things, but not her name or what she saw?"
"Dissociation involves episodic memory. She retained all her knowledge and all her skills, but lost all consciousness of her life's events, the people she knows, and her personal identity."
"It doesn't make sense."
"Dissociative disorders are like that. Let me talk to her for a bit." She grinned up at him in that teasing way of hers. "And you can look from the other side of the mirror and practice those cop instincts you've honed for all those years."
Without introducing Desiree, Grady let her into the interview room. He took his spot in the observation booth.
The booth was dimly lit and crowded with two hard chairs, but he didn't sit. He wanted to pace, but there wasn't enough room. He needed to run until his lungs couldn't take one more breath, until his legs turned to rubber, until he left the betrayal behind. But he couldn't, so he leaned to one corner of the glass and observed his sister with his archenemy's daughter. He had to concentrate on the woman sitting on the other side of the mirror.
A hidden microphone carried and magnified every sound in the interview room. If he concentrated enough, he could hear the gentle intake of her breath, the rustling of her green silk top when she moved, the rich and elegant textures of her voice as complex as his feelings toward her.
Melinda Amery sat stiff-backed in her chair. Her carriage refined despite the dirty clothes she wore. Oscar, his partner, had been right; she was a lady born and bred. Unfortunately, her breeding didn't ensure the truth. Her father certainly didn't care one way or the other about it.
"You're related to Lieutenant Sloan, aren't you?" Melinda said. Once again the sweetness and purity of her voice struck him. It was velvet-soft and strong at the same time. Like her eyes. Like her mouth. Like the whole damned package.
"I'm his sister. How can you tell?" Desiree asked.
Melinda waved a long finger like a paintbrush. "The bone structure is similar, your coloring..." She dropped her hand back in her lap with finishing-school propriety. "Are you a police officer, too?"
"No, I'm a psychologist. Are you an artist?"
"I don't know." Her eyes rounded with a hint of fear before reassuming their dark, mysterious depth. "He's watching, isn't he?"
"You've been in a situation like this before?"
"Maybe." She turned, and with unnerving accuracy, intercepted his gaze. Involuntarily, Grady shifted his weight back, away from her direct line, then chided himself for his foolishness. She couldn't see him. "I can feel his gaze on me." She turned her attention back to Desiree. "Yours has that same keenness without the bite."
"He's the grouch of the family." Desiree had the nerve to giggle. "But his bark is definitely worse than his bite."
Melinda's head moved forward to hide the Mona Lisa-like smile on her lips. Her hair drifted forward in a graceful cascade, and even rain-dulled, it came alive with blue highlights. He couldn't remember ever seeing hair that black.
She was good. Too good. He wanted to believe her. Part of him already did. But he hadn't trusted that part of him in a while, and she was Ely Amery's daughter. No matter how haunting her dark beauty was, he couldn't let himself be distracted by her.
"Do you know what happened last night?" Desiree asked.
Melinda straightened and shook her head. The motion outlined her breasts against the water-stained silk. His next breath hesitated and he crossed his arms over his chest. Her gaze averted from Desiree's to her lap, then it snapped up as if she remembered something. "It was raining."
"It was. Try to tell me whatever bits come to your mind. Don't worry if it doesn't make sense."
She rubbed her arms with opposite hands. As if she were cold, her nipples pebbled beneath the silk. He forced his gaze to return to her eyes. "The rain. It came in through the screens and pinged on the patio table. It made an awful noise on the roof. I—I can't..."
Melinda shook her head, making light run through the black hair like blue ribbons. Where had this sudden memory jog come from? Was it just part of the act? The fear in her eyes, the halting motion of her hands as if she wanted to break the coming flood, seemed real. But then so had Jamie's tears. He'd believed her, and look where that had gotten him—labeled sucker of the year, and his judgment called into question.
"It's okay," Desiree said, in her warm, comforting voice. "Take it easy. Start at the beginning. You were on your patio, and it was raining, and…."
Melinda took a deep breath before she spoke. "I'd come back from work late because we'd made so many changes in the layout."
"What kind of layout?"
"For the catalog!" Melinda spoke fast, as if capturing the thoughts in flight. "A couple of suppliers couldn't meet our orders and we had to scramble for replacements. I run a gardening-catalog business with my partner, Dolores Flint. I design the catalog. She handles the business end." She smiled shyly, and the whole room seemed to brighten. "I guess I am an artist of sorts."
"What did you do when you got home?"
The room's fluorescent lights had paled her skin, but the returning memories drained all the remaining fragments of color. For a moment, he feared she would faint and stepped forward only to have the glass stop him.
"I opened all the windows to let the breeze in," Melinda continued. "It was hot, but I don't like the closed-in feeling of the air conditioner. I went to the kitchen, but I couldn't decide what I wanted to eat, so I made tea. Then the rain started and it wouldn't stop." Her fingers twined nervously on her lap. Their movement had him wanting to crawl through the glass and still them.
"You don't like rain?" Desiree asked, without judgment.
Melinda shrugged. "Most of the time I don't mind it."
"What was it about last night?"
"I don't know. It was so strong, and the thunder, and the lightning." Her hands moved in time to the staccato movement of imagined thunder.
"Thunder can be frightening sometimes. I usually turn the radio up loud so I don't have to hear it. Go back to your house, now. It's about eleven in the evening. What made you go outside?"
Melinda jumped up from her chair and moved about the room with the agitation of a caged gazelle used to running wild—graceful even in fear.
Quit! Concentrate on her face. You're supposed to be looking for the clues of a liar. Watch her movements. Listen to her voice. Find the person beneath the refinement and the silk.
"Something was going to happen. I could feel it." As if she were listening for a predator, she stopped for an instant. "The monster!" Her eyes grew wild. Her hands snapped to her chest, clutching the silk in her fists. "I couldn't breathe. The open screens felt like fortress walls." She resumed her restless pacing. "And I felt the crush. I had to go out. I had to leave."
"What monster?"
For a time he thought she wouldn't answer. Her eyes glazed over. Just as suddenly, they cleared again. He searched for signs of subterfuge, of calculation, and found nothing but the improbable impression that she was elsewhere
, reliving a nightmare.
"I thought if I went to the park to see the ducks swim—" her voice cracked with emotions "—I could forget. I could disappear. I'd be okay when morning came. The ducks, they like to swim, and watching them relaxes me." As she spoke, her arms twitched and jittered.
"What monster, Melinda?"
He had to strain to hear her whisper. "I don't know."
"You never made it to the park," Desiree said.
Melinda stood still like a gazelle who'd spotted the lioness trailing her. "Everything was black."
"Except when the lightning flashed. What did you see then?"
She shook her head in short, snappy strokes. "I had to run. I had to hide."
She still wanted to run; he could see it in the tautness of her body, in the way she held herself prisoner with her arms, in the fear he could smell even through the glass. She wasn't faking, but what did this fear, this imaginary monster, have to do with what she saw at the Petersen's?
"Where did you hide?" Desiree asked. "Retrace your steps."
"I ran to the shed." Melinda slunk to the chair. Her body rounded itself into a tight ball—the same position he'd found her in at the bottom of the woodshed. Again he got the impression that part of her was elsewhere, and he found himself believing in her unseen pain.
"The rain wouldn't stop. I couldn't see anything. I waited. I knew he'd find me. He always does." She rocked herself back and forth, and closed her eyes.
"Did he find you?"
"Yes!" Her eyes grew round with fear once more. Her fingers curled around the chair's seat until the knuckles turned ghastly white, as if she were trying to keep herself from fleeing. "I tried to get away. He caught me. I had to fight." One hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, no! That was the police officer, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"Oh, my! Oh, my! He looked like a dark blob, like the monster. I thought, I thought.... I thought he would hurt me."
