by Sylvie Kurtz
He made her feel like a freak with his reminders of the black holes in her memory—blanks spots which had plagued her ever since she could remember; dark voids she associated with primal fears. Shouldn't a normal person want to find what monster filled the blanks? Shouldn't a normal person want to exorcise those hidden demons? Maybe she should accept that she wasn't normal. She had no desire to uncover the past. It was dead and done.
Dead?
She shuddered.
Willing the aspirin to hurry up and work before she went crazy, Melinda spun out of the bathroom into her room.
To make the situation worse, Grady's overwhelming presence made her question her choices. She'd seldom felt lonely before. She'd been content with the quiet life she'd made for herself. Shrugging, she jerked her closet door open. Okay, so maybe she'd envied the lives of other women her age—their marriages, husbands, children—but never for long. And never had she felt this burning need, radiating up from some place deep inside her, for something she wasn't quite sure how to label and didn't dare examine too closely.
Something like a woman's desire for a man.
Shaking her head, she snatched a skirt from her closet and pulled it on as she walked toward the bed.
With a sigh, she dropped to the foot of her bed. To Grady, she wasn't a woman; she was a suspect. To her, he couldn't be a man; he had to remain the law. If he didn't.... She shivered. Her insides churned in turmoil.
Closing her eyes, she willed the internal chaos to ease. How long would it take for the nightmares to fade this time? She'd been free from them since she'd defied her father and started the catalog business with Dolores.
Until two nights ago.
She didn't want to deal with the past. She'd spent most of her life perfecting living in the moment.
Feeling safe.
Until Angela's murder had reopened all the closed wounds of fear.
Now, the peace she'd earned vanished. Nothing would ever be the same.
The past had come knocking. Soon she'd have to decide if she'd open the door. Not for Angela, not for Lieutenant Sloan, but for herself.
She wasn't ready. Not yet. She needed a plan. Time to think one through. Her soul was at stake. She needed a little more time to deal with the consequences lighting the dark might entail.
If she told him so, would Grady understand?
Probably not.
He was strong, solid, rooted in reality. What would he understand of monsters of the past, of stolen childhoods, of scarred souls? Pressed and starched as he was, what would he understand of broken hearts and trodden feelings? An officer of the law, he certainly couldn't understand the necessity to hide.
Melinda let herself fall backwards on the bed and stared at the ceiling, gathering strength with long, slow breaths.
Maybe if she took long enough, he'd just leave.
* * *
Twenty-five minutes after Melinda had disappeared into the back of the house, she emerged. Grady hadn't been sure she would. He'd felt her turmoil in a tangible way; felt it touch him, touch his heart. He told himself he didn't care. But he did. And he didn't like the idea of caring for Ely Amery's daughter. Didn't like the idea of caring for someone who reminded him of Jamie in so many ways.
The same, yet so different.
Melinda seemed to float into the room like a cloud. She wore a wheat-colored, sleeveless T-shirt over a broom skirt seeded with a wildflower pattern. Her feet were bare. Nothing restrictive, Grady noted. Everything flowed like a breath of wind.
"You're still here." Without giving him more than a quick glance, she grabbed a handled basket from a wicker shelf unit in the living room and headed for the kitchen.
"We haven't finished our discussion." Even her hair flowed freely, as if binding any part of her body would keep her from rapid escape. What was she so afraid of? Why did it matter?
"I thought I made my position clear." She grabbed a lunch-size paper bag from the fridge and made her way outside.
"You did. Now I need to find out why." He followed her onto the covered porch.
"I thought I made my position clear on that point also." She picked up a weed popper, a spade, pruners, a garden fork, and a bag of bulb fertilizer from a battered white table, and added them to her basket.
"You did, but I'm not satisfied."
She turned to look at him then, and he sucked in air as if a black star was absorbing him. Below the placid surface of her dark eyes lay a deep whirlpool waiting to be explored and drowned within. Disturbed by his thoughts, he looked away, falling back on his habit of analysis.
Satisfied. Two days ago, he would have said he was perfectly satisfied with his life the way it was. Now, a murder and an amnesiac witness later, he wasn't sure how to define the word.
The clinking of Melinda's tools in her basket and the thwack of the screen door announced she'd moved outdoors. He dogged her footsteps, breaching her space, reminding himself with every step he was the authority and her mind held the key he needed. He couldn't afford to see her as a woman.
In the wilds of her yard, her outfit looked like camouflage. Grady tore his gaze away from her to regroup. What was wrong with him? Had all his honed skills disappeared with Jamie's betrayal? Why couldn't he concentrate on the task at hand? This wasn't like him at all. Maybe he should talk to Desiree. He forced his attention back to his surroundings.
Stepping into her garden was like stepping into a fantasy world. Wildflowers and native plants grew as if they followed no rhyme or reason, inviting relaxation. Grady steeled himself. He couldn't relax. He had to focus. Details. Look, listen, and learn.
In one corner, a waterfall gurgled over rocks and splashed into a small pool where a pair of koi swam. A giant pecan tree, heavy with nuts, acted as a centerpiece, shading the more fragile flower specimens. A bird feeder swayed softly in the breeze from its lowest branch. Pipe wind chimes tinkled in the breeze from the corner of her porch not far from the single hammock chair swinging an invisible occupant.
What did he need to know about her to solve his case? How could he do it without getting involved? His position represented justice. He had to follow the law to the letter; only then could he get his just reward.
Dissociation takes practice. It has to have happened before, which means there's something unpleasant in her background. Desiree's words came back to him. You get too personally involved. It's your strength, Grady, but it's also your weakness. You're asking for trouble.
He had to find Melinda's "monster." To do that he'd have to earn her trust. That meant getting involved—getting in trouble. He could only hope this time the price wouldn't be his future.
As the minutes ticked by, he found his gaze seeking her once more. She crouched beside a flowerbed, pulled at imaginary weeds, airing the soil with a garden fork as she went, totally oblivious to his presence.
Her delicate features invited thoughts of fragility. But fragile things and fragile people broke. Melinda had bent and adapted to whatever unpleasantness had plagued her life. The bending had left its mark, but it also underlined her strength. Looking at her garden, he understood she still believed in dreams. She'd bent, not broken. Which only made his task harder.
No gloves covered her hand, and for a moment, he envied the soil. Holding her close to him earlier had left him craving for more. Lust for her was against the rules. He sneered silently. Her father would have a picnic if he had an inkling of Grady's desires. Never mind the raking Brasswell would feel obliged to give him.
Melinda's shoulders relaxed degree by degree. The standoffish impression she'd presented at her office vanished in the magical presence of her garden. The stress lines across her forehead smoothed, transforming her into the picture of serenity.
And in a minute, he'd shatter that tranquility.
Bracing himself for the task, he approached her and crouched beside her. Get straight to the point. No sense dancing around the issue. He didn't have time for gentler ways.
"What are you afraid of, M
elinda?" Miss Amery seemed too formal for the invasion he had to make. Melinda rolled off his tongue much too intimately. What had happened to his perfect balance? She had him feeling like a boat in a storm, listing first to one side then the other. Maybe the city council had been right to mistrust his abilities.
Her fingers kept moving, but tension rode her shoulders up little bit by little bit. "I have bulbs to plant."
"I'll help you." He reached for one of the brown bulbs in the bag.
She jerked the basket away. "I'd rather not. I plant by instinct."
Grady shifted to look more closely at her face, but her long lashes hid her eyes. He didn't want to admit she intrigued him. But she did. The soft strength, the quiet fear, the dark beauty. They all stirred his senses in a way that wasn't mere curiosity, in a way he couldn't afford to explore. "It hasn't been cold enough to plant bulbs yet."
"What do you know about gardening?"
Enough to understand that each plant in her garden had been sowed with a mixture of love, sorrow, and hope. "More than you think."
Her head snapped up. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Their gazes met—hers animated by a thousand feelings clipping by so fast, he felt sorry for the agitation he had to cause. But he had no choice.
She returned her attention to her garden, each gesture now complicated by nervous flutters.
"Is this where you bury your memories?" he asked, continuing to batter her wall while he could.
"Pardon me?"
When she looked up at him wide-eyed, he knew he'd found the right thread to pull. "The things you can't bear to remember, do you work them into the soil?"
She dug her spade into the ground, making a hole much too deep for the bulb she planned to plant. "I don't know what you mean."
"Something is scaring you, Melinda. You live alone in this house for one. What are you hiding from?"
Her mind seemed to drift when his message skirted toward the negative, giving Grady the impression he wouldn't ever quite reach her. Despite his resolve to break her, a strange tenderness wound its way around his heart.
"I'm sure you're mistaken." She spoke quickly, breathlessly. "I had a perfectly lovely childhood. Horseback riding lessons, piano lessons, art lessons. I've visited the world. I lacked for nothing. There's nothing to bury."
Oh, yes, he'd found the right thread. "It would be a shame to dig it all up."
"What?" Confusion added another layer of animation to her dark eyes.
"The knife. Did you bury the knife missing from your kitchen under all those pretty flowers?"
She stared at him long and hard. As she held her breath, the scalloped edge of her shirt shivered to the rapid beat of her heart. Dumping her tools abruptly, she stood up. "I don't have to answer your questions."
Grady followed her up, slowly, steadily. "Would it make you feel better if I came back with a warrant to search the grounds?"
Frustration crinkled her brows. "What do you want from me, Lieutenant Sloan?" she pleaded. "I don't know what it is you're expecting from me. I didn't kill Angela. I didn't bury any knife."
"I want the truth. Nothing but the truth."
"And I've already told you all I know. Why can't you leave me alone?"
"Because Angela was a living, breathing person, and someone savagely murdered her. And because it's within your power to help me find the murderer."
Her eyes were clear and deep, not simply surface mirrors to hide deceit. As she shook her head and mouthed a silent "No," he could almost feel her pain slicing his breastbone. He didn't want to feel compassion for the hurt child hiding somewhere in the woman's body. He didn't want to feel anything at all for her.
"You've told me what you want to remember," Grady said. "Now I need to find what you've chosen to lock away."
She shivered, bowing her shoulders like a protective buttress against a cold wind. Grady had to hold himself back from gathering her into his arms to warm her.
"What if I can't?" she whispered.
"The Amytal or hypnosis could help."
"I—I..."
Suddenly he understood. The Amytal and the hypnosis would put her under someone else's control. He looked around her yard. She'd worked hard to feel in control, to feel safe. He'd have to find another way.
Tentatively, he reached out to touch her arm. "Then talk to me, Melinda. I won't hurt you."
"Yes, you will." The accusation flared sharp in her eyes. He understood the knowledge came from experience, from pain. Who else had hurt her? "Don't make promises you can't keep."
He moved away, giving her space. He found himself near the wind chime at the corner of her porch and pulled the heart-shaped striker, setting it in motion. The chimes' soft melody filled the quiet yard. "Tell me about yourself, about your family."
She stood rooted like a prisoner awaiting execution. "What does that have to do with Angela's murder?"
"Maybe nothing." He shrugged, then tweaked the chimes into action again. His fingers itched to touch her soft skin again. "Maybe everything. Talk to me. I want to hear your story."
"It's rather boring."
"I very much doubt that." Their gazes met and burned until the collar of his shirt seemed too tight. "Tell me everything."
Her sharp laugh held no mirth. "You don't have enough time."
He eased himself into the hammock chair. "I have all the time in the world." He sensed her calculating her options. Her expressive eyes signaled the moment of her surrender.
"I grew up with all the advantages money can offer." She turned away from him and ambled toward the old pecan tree that served as a centerpiece to her yard, shading the more fragile flower specimens. As if she could draw from the tree's strength, she leaned against its trunk. "My father was successful. He worked hard and played hard. He expected a lot from everyone." She glanced over her shoulder. "How am I doing?"
"Fine."
And just as quickly, she looked away.
"Your father expected a lot even from you?" Grady continued, pressing, pushing, demanding.
"Especially me." Her head bowed down with the weight of failure. He'd let his own family down enough times to recognize the gesture.
"Why?"
"I'm an only child. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps. Study law. Become his partner."
As he set the hammock swing into motion, the cotton strings creaked and groaned a muffled protest. "You didn't want to?"
"No. He gave me every opportunity to succeed." In profile, he saw her sad smile. "Unfortunately, that didn't extend to fantasy. You see, I wanted to be an artist."
Her voice was soft, yet strong. It made him want to lean forward to catch every word even though she spoke clearly enough that he could hear her across the yard.
"How does he feel about your job?"
"He thinks it's below me. My awards and my successes aren't valid because they're so small." As if protecting herself from a blow, she flinched.
"How do you feel about your job?"
"I love it. Everything about it." She smiled sheepishly. "I'm rather good at it."
The love she'd poured in her garden, in the sketches tacked on her office walls, proved it. "I can see that."
She moved her head and her hair cascaded from her shoulder to hide her face, but not before he saw the pink of a blush on her cheeks. Shy? Melinda? Interesting.
"My father's done a lot of good."
How could someone who specialized in freeing criminals be considered as having done good work? All Ely's power, money and social standing made him impervious even to the law of the land. People like Ely didn't do good. People like Ely abused good for their own ends. The sour taste in Grady's mouth made him want to spit.
"He's helped so many people with his charity work," Melinda said with pride. She batted a curling tendril of hair away from her temple. "The women's shelter in downtown Fort Worth, the Angel's Gate home and school for pregnant teenagers, the help hotline for abusers and those being abused."
Sh
e turned slowly, shifting her position against the tree so she could see him. "Don't get me wrong. I don't think Daddy's perfect. I know about the rumors. I hear what some people say about what he does. But he's a good man. All he's ever wanted for me was the best."
Good and Ely Amery simply didn't add up. Seeing no point in pursuing this line of conversation, Grady shifted topics.
"What about your mother?" He rocked the swing with one foot. The other rested on his knee.
Melinda straightened off the tree, eyes darting about as if she were looking for a lost object. "What about her?"
"What do you remember about her?" Her sudden agitation set off flags of alertness. Another thread to explore.
"I was young when she died." Melinda stooped to pick up her tools and her basket. "She was wonderfully loving. I don't remember much else." The bag of bulbs fell from her hands, spilling its contents in a semi-circle around her. "Do you remember your mother when you were eight?"
"Some days I remember every detail as if it were yesterday."
His father was gone, trudging somewhere south, selling some sort of machinery. His mother, unable to deal with the long absences, sought refuge in cheap red wine. His sisters, two and five, hair in knots, dressed in dirty clothes because no one had done the laundry, scrounged through the lower kitchen cabinets for nonexistent food. He remembered eight only too well. And ten. And seventeen. How helpless he'd felt, how scared, how angry. You're the man of the house while I'm gone, son. Take care of your mother and your sisters. And he had because there had been no one else to do it. And every action, every decision had filled him with doubt. And now the doubt he'd tamed galloped back, full and strong.
"Well, good for you." With an anger mirroring his own, Melinda launched each bulb she retrieved into the bag. "Does this discussion have a point, Lieutenant? If not, I have work to do."
"Everything I do has a point."
"I figured as much," she mumbled. As she whipped around for an errant bulb, she knocked over her basket, tumbling the garden tools onto the ground. He rose. The swing shook behind him.
Sensing something was about to erupt like a boil in need of lancing, Grady pressed. "How did she die?"
