by Sylvie Kurtz
"Why did you think Lieutenant Sloan would hurt you?"
Melinda's face blanched, her eyes grew impossibly wide, but she didn't answer.
"Then what did you do?" Desiree asked, her voice soothing.
Melinda's chest rose and fell in jerky motions. "After he caught me, I left. I couldn't stay. I couldn't watch."
"Watch what?"
"I don't know." She closed her eyes tight. "Something horrible. Something horrible always happens when the monster comes out. I wish this whole mess would disappear. I wish I could just vanish."
"Where did you go?"
"Away, just away..."
Large tears shone in her eyes, magnifying their dark beauty. Grady wanted to believe in the innocence he saw in them. He wrapped his fingers tightly around his biceps. But he couldn't. Not yet.
Desiree pulled a clean tissue from her purse and offered it to Melinda. She dabbed at the moisture and clamped the wet tissue into her closed fist.
Jamie had been beautiful, too. Bright and perky where Melinda was dark and mysterious, but beautiful nonetheless. They shared the same refinement, the same socially impeccable breeding. Her eyes and her tears had drawn him, too. And he'd let himself be lured into the honey of her voice, the soft tangle of her arms, the twisted web of her lies. He'd believed her, and she'd used him, lied to him.
Desiree's voice brought him back to the present.
"You're doing fine, Melinda," Desiree said. "The picture you drew, is that what you saw in the window?"
"I don't know." She shook her head slowly and lifted her arms in a helpless gesture. "Everything else is just like fog. I can't see through it. I can't remember being in the police car. I can't remember being put in jail." She wiped away the tears forming anew in the corner of her eyes.
Desiree retreated. "It'll take time and thinking to put all the pieces of the puzzle together. I want you to relax now, okay? I'll see what I can do about getting you home again."
"Thank you."
Desiree patted Melinda's knee. "It's important that you try and stay in the present. Try not to drift away." She pulled a business card from her purse. "This is my phone number. Call me if you want to talk again."
Melinda took the card and nodded.
A moment later, Grady met Desiree in the hall. Noises of the station filtered through the closed doors all around him. A burst of laughter erupted from the officers' locker room. The odor of coffee and Lois' cinnamon cake drifted from the briefing room. The squawk of a radio crackled from the communications desk.
"Well?" he asked unable to hold back his impatience.
Desiree blew back a stray strand of hair from her forehead. "When you found her, she was exhibiting massive dissociation. She'd stepped aside from herself and turned off the apparatus that allows a person to fully perceive. She saw you as a monster, that's why she fought you."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Why couldn't she remember what she saw in the window?"
"My guess is that it triggered something from her past that she couldn't deal with. She may have seen something, then repressed it, or seen it in an altered state and won't be able to retrieve it because it never fully registered, except maybe as fear and therefore something to avoid."
"How do I know which?"
"You don't."
"So how do I get her to remember?" Frustration hummed along his skin like the charge of electricity through a wire.
"She'll have to remember on her own." Desiree gave him a sharp look to emphasize her point. "Not everybody knows you as well as I do. To others you can come across as intimidating. You can't push her, Grady. It'll just delay the process because she'll be fighting."
"I don't have time to wait." He let out a long breath. A couple of cycles in an old-fashioned washing machine wouldn't have left him feeling as wrung out as he did at the moment. "Isn't there anything I can do to speed up the process?"
She shrugged. "There's hypnosis or Amytal."
"Can you do that?" He sensed he grasped at slippery straws.
"I'm not a psychiatrist. I can't prescribe. You can't try either without the patient's permission, and I doubt she'll give it to you. She doesn't want to remember." Desiree sighed. "You could try taking her back to the place where you found her and see if that triggers her memory. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't."
"What else can I do?"
She slung her purse over her shoulder and placed one hand on her hip. "My professional advice is twofold. First, I'd advise her to go to a good therapist and let them deal with her. Dissociation takes practice. It has to have happened before, which means there's something unpleasant in her background. Second, don't get personally involved. Let someone else handle the case."
"I can't."
"You have to. With Ely—"
"—I'm the interim chief. It falls under my duty."
"You'll get other chances."
"Not in this town."
She glanced at the oversized watch on her wrist. "I've got to go, Grady. I want to check on Angela's parents and I've got to go over my notes before I testify in court this afternoon."
"Thanks for your help."
"Any time." She gave him a light kiss on the cheek. "And get Doc Martin to look at that hand. Human bites are notorious for their infection rate." She took two steps down the hall and turned. "Oh, I forgot to tell you. Aimee got her own class. Herb Findlay finally found a job. They're moving to Mississippi. Rose had to give up her first-grade class. Aimee's taking it over. Isn't it great? She's been waiting so long to teach in her hometown."
"That's terrific!" He felt an ounce of genuine pleasure, and a touch of pride, for the first time that day. "We'll have to celebrate on Sunday. It's your turn to cook, right?"
"I cooked last Sunday. It's your turn. Aimee really likes that coconut cake you make. Keep me up-to-date on Melinda."
With a wave of her hand, Desiree bustled out of sight.
As Grady headed toward to the interview room, the telegraph-sharp click of heels drew his attention. He didn't need this now. But he turned anyway, and tried to present a pleasant front to Betty Brasswell, a regular busybody and general pain in the behind, not to mention Fargate's mayor. To give her her due, she did keep the town on its toes, and if something needed to be done, you could count on Betty to stir up the populace. Next to Seth, she was the most recognizable person in town.
Copper-colored curls bouncing, she clicked and clacked her way toward him.
"Grady, a moment of your time, please."
"What can I do for you, Betty?"
Her long nose twitched as she spoke, sniffing trouble, no doubt. When Betty was around nothing was sacred, and if her sharp ears or her news-sensitive nose got wind of anything, she investigated to protect her town. Abstract rotten tomatoes were tossed at her as often as flowers, but she didn't care. The town's welfare came first. Nothing else mattered.
"Is the young lady you brought in last night the perpetrator of this heinous crime the whole town is buzzing about?" Betty asked.
"I don't think so, but the key might be hidden in her mind."
"Then I suggest you retrieve that key immediately."
"She's suffering from amnesia."
Betty waved her hand in an impatient circle. "Amnesia, pah! That only happens in storybooks. I've dealt with all kinds of human beings in over thirty years of public life and I've never heard of a true case."
"She's Ely Amery's daughter."
Both Betty's eyebrows disappeared beneath the curly bang of her hairdo and her mouth dropped open. She soon recovered from her momentary surprise. "Has her father been notified?"
That was Betty for you—town image first and foremost. Amused, he fought the smile itching to form. She'd view it as insubordination. "I don't think so. We just found out."
"Then you must release her at once."
"I thought you wanted the key extracted."
She leaned in and tapped his chest with her stubby finger. "Grady Sloan, must I remind you your po
sition as interim chief does not hold my support? Your duty is to keep the peace. Do you know what kind of trouble Ely Amery could bring down on this town?"
"I'm well aware of it, ma'am," he said.
"I assure you we do not want that kind of attention. Unless you have a darned good reason to hold this woman in custody, I want her set fee."
She talked to him as if he were still the six-year-old who'd accidentally trundled right into her when he was learning to ride his two-wheeler. No wonder he got no respect; her memory was too long.
"Angela Petersen is one of ours," she continued. "It's up to us to make sure her murderer is apprehended and punished. I don't want to involve the State Police unless it's absolutely necessary. We don't want that kind of publicity. Do I make myself clear?"
"Crystal."
She gave one sharp shake of her head. "Then I suggest you follow my orders. Let Miss Amery go. Let her believe she won't be bothered anymore. Then use whatever charm lies hidden beneath that tough hide of yours and sweet-talk the key out of her. It works for an old civil servant like me. I'm sure it will work for an officer of the law, as well."
Mayor Brasswell turned on her heels and clicked away before Grady could comment. He reached for the interview room's doorknob.
Yeah, simple thing. Charm a beautiful lady out of her secrets. Should be easy. Except this beauty had been sired by a snake. Except he didn't enjoy subterfuge. Except the prospect of seeing more of Melinda Amery appealed to him about as much as facing a plate of broken glass for dinner.
Chapter 3
Grady drove Melinda back home in silence. The semicircle that made up Laurel Court stood on Fargate's easternmost boundary, out of his regular beat, but like all of the officers in town, he was familiar with every street. When he shut off the squad car's engine in her driveway, he knew his action had taken her by surprise.
She opened the door. "Thank you for taking me home." The dismissal in her voice sounded like a lady's to her servant, and rubbed him the wrong way.
"I want you to take a little walk with me."
Her gaze snapped up at him. "I thought you said I was free."
"You are. I'd just like you to show me the path you took last night."
She fiddled with the folds of her skirt. "I—I really need to take a shower and change, Lieutenant. Perhaps another time."
"You're here. I'm here." He smiled and cocked his head. "There's no better time."
They stared at each other, but even a lifetime of ordering servants about couldn't match the intense defiance of an underdog who dared look his master in the eye. As he'd expected, she looked away first. Her downcast lashes made a dark fan against the pale satin of her skin. The tiny victory rang hollow, but he cast the uneasiness aside. Finding Angela's murderer was more important than feelings—his or hers.
"All right." She sighed, slipped out of the car, and politely closed the door.
"Show me what you did when you came home last night."
She nodded and headed toward the front door. He followed, his mind cataloguing everything.
From the prim and proper way she'd sat beside him on the drive, he'd expected lace curtains on the windows, dark antiques directed in a stiff and formal fashion, and delicate doilies spread in strategic positions on the backs of velvet chairs. What he found jarred his preformed image.
Melinda had brought the outside in. She'd painted the walls the pale blue of a summer sky and left the trim around the five floor-to-ceiling windows and French doors white. She'd laid hand-woven carpet, in shades of green, over a polished wood floor. The furniture was rattan with cushions in a print of light green and terra cotta. Plants, in clay pots and baskets, in all shapes and sizes, decorated the floor, tables and even a pedestal or two. Windows unobstructed by curtains opened to a magnificent view of an enchanted garden and led the eye to the wide-open cow pasture beyond.
"I came home and went to the kitchen." As if she expected him to leave momentarily, she stood by the door.
He nodded absently and continued his slow, deliberate examination, wondering still at the odd return of her memory in fits and starts. If he played it cool, pretended it didn't matter, would her memory return faster?
After taking in the whole, he focused on the details. A cream-colored afghan lay haphazardly over a rattan footstool. A book was carelessly dropped on it. The imprint of her body still shaped the chair's cushion with delectable curves. A half-drunk cup of tea rested on the table beside the single chair. Garden and decorating magazines poked up from a basket on the floor. The smell of earth and flowers scented the air. This was a room to relax in.
Almost as startling as what he saw was what he didn't. No television sat in the room like the modern Buddha found in most homes. No pictures crowded the walls, or photographs clustered on the tables. A solitary chair.
No signs of a man.
She'd built a private world for herself. He sensed his intrusion in it wasn't welcome.
Every surface was neat and clean, except one. Rain had fallen through the open windows and pooled all over her expensive wood floor.
"Do you have a mop or some towels? If the water sits on this wood much longer, you'll have quite a repair job on your hands."
She hesitated and finally dropped her death grip on the front door's brass knob.
He followed her down the hall to the utility closet. She jerked it open.
"What's this?" Grady asked, spotting wads of crumpled paper tossed recklessly at the back of the closet. An odd place to keep trash in such an orderly little house.
"Nothing, just sketches I've been meaning to throw out."
"Can I have one?"
She shrugged, but her face had taken on an unhealthy ashen color. Fear—strong and barely controlled. Once again she gave him the impression of a deer poised for flight. Nothing indeed.
He squelched the pressing instinct to protect, to nurture. He couldn't protect her. Didn't dare. No, this time, he'd have to press and crack. He'd have to play the hunter even if it meant hurting the prey.
She watched him with her fearful dark eyes, her breath tense in her chest. He thought she'd burst. And she did. With a flash of movement she shoved the broom aside, snatched the mop and a bucket, and shot to the living room, brushing her arm against his in the process. A zing of pleasure shot up his arm. From his heightened awareness, a good cop's asset, he deduced; not from her.
Clearing his throat, he crouched to pick up a wad of paper and pressed it flat on his knee with the palm of his hand. The black streaks of pencil on the white paper startled him with their viciousness. On first viewing, they appeared like the mad slashings of an angry child. But as he kept looking, the lines below the slashes took shape.
He unfolded wad after wad to find the same mysterious layers of perception beneath the concealing front. And in every one of the pictures, hidden in the zigzags, he found a glinting knife held high by the indistinct shape of a human figure. Male or female? When had she drawn these? Did they relate in any way to the Petersen murder? What was she hiding? And why, always why?
Tucking a few of the sketches in his pocket, he couldn't get rid of the feeling they were a silent plea for help. He shook his head. Getting fanciful wouldn't solve his case for him. Miss Melinda Amery could buy all the help she needed, if she needed it.
If anyone needed help, he was the one, because, God help him, even with Jamie fresh in his mind, he couldn't stop his insane attraction toward this dark-eyed woman. But he'd learned his lesson. Her father had taught him well. Beauty and innocence didn't always go hand in hand.
This time, Grady wouldn't be the one to lose. Yet, as he straightened and went back to the living room, he couldn't escape the notion he'd missed something important in those fevered lines. Something crucial. About her. About the case.
"When did you draw these pictures?" He watched the soft curves of her cheeks, the contrast of black hair and white skin, the nuances shifting like night shadows across her still face. Absently he licked his li
ps. Would her skin taste as creamy as it looked?
She wrung the waterlogged mop into the bucket. Her hair cascaded down, hiding her face. "I don't know. I just found them there. I meant to throw them out."
"So you said. Why did you draw them?"
She paused, resting her hands on top of the mop handle. Anyone else watching her would have probably missed the slight tremble of her fingers as she grasped the wood. How long had fear been part of her life? How long had it eaten at her this way? And his questions, and his pressing, weren't helping her find the island of balance she so obviously had sought when she'd decorated her home.
Her chin lifted in a pulse of defiance. The dash of grit beneath the porcelain-perfect exterior sent a surge of excitement through his veins. She'd had enough—for now. If he continued pressing, he risked permanent antagonism. He didn't want that. The game had barely started.
He prized truth and honesty; there'd been little else to hang on to as he grew up. Mazes and puzzles had fascinated him from an early age. Finding the true path among the distractions brought a sense of triumph. Even now, nothing fired him more than solving a mystery.
"Unless you're arresting me," she said, "I don't think I have to answer any of your questions."
"Cooperation with officers of the law looks so much better, though."
"How far does cooperation go? I think I've done my share." Her smile didn't reach her eyes and her voice iced with polite civility. "Perhaps I should file a complaint for police harassment. How would that look on your record?"
"Is that a threat?" He matched her proper tone and rime-cold smile.
"Look, Lieutenant, I've had a bad night." A certain weariness crept into her voice. "I woke up in jail with no idea how I got there. You all but accused me of murdering my neighbor. And I came home to rain water all over my floor. I need a shower, a meal, and a good nap. I suggest you leave before I call your superior and complain."
He strolled about the room, looking but not touching, not wanting to press the issue, but knowing he had to, for Angela's sake.
"Fair enough, Miss Amery." He gave her his best smile. Her weariness swam to him in a long wave. It took a stiff shrug to dislodge the sympathy for her plight that suddenly settled over him. "But be warned. I'll be on you like a tick on a dog until I get the information I need from you."
