by Lisa Jackson
“You remember her?”
“No,” she whispered, struggling not to break down. “I . . . don’t recall the accident . . .” Her voice strangled as she tried and failed to control herself.
“You’ll be better soon,” Eugenia said.
Marla turned to face her mother-in-law. “Promise?”
“No, but—”
“Then don’t give me any platitudes, all right. I have to get out of here, to do something. I need to talk to Pamela’s family. I want to remember all of you.”
Cissy blinked hard and sniffed, then turned away as if embarrassed.
Nick wanted to think that for some unnamed reason Marla was playing a game with them all, but she seemed incredibly sincere. He wouldn’t have believed it of her, of being capable of caring for anyone but herself, but then maybe she’d changed. Maybe when she’d lost her memory, she’d lost her manipulative edge.
Or else she was faking them out.
Alex grabbed his wife’s hand. “Why don’t you try to get some rest?”
“I will, but I have so many questions. What about my family? Where are they?” she asked. “My parents? My siblings? I must have someone? Do they live nearby or far away?”
“Oh, honey,” Alex said, sidestepping the questions. “There’s so much to tell you, but now isn’t the time.”
“Why?” she asked, her voice low. She seemed to steel herself. “Are they all dead?”
“No, no . . . just your mother, but your father isn’t well.”
“Oh.” Confusion crossed her features. Sorrow. Grief.
“We’ll discuss it all, go through pictures, visit your dad, anything you want. But not until you’re home and well, okay?”
She didn’t answer but seemed to shrink a little in the bed, become smaller. Insanely, Nick wanted to comfort her and tell her everything would be all right; but he reminded himself of his place. And this was Marla they were dealing with, she could handle herself. If not, she had a husband to do the honors.
It was time to end this agony. “Look, I’ll be shovin’ off,” he said to Alex and hazarded one last glance at the woman in the bed before striding out of the room. Away from his family. And Marla. God, he needed to get away from her.
He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity for her. Once upon a time she’d been young, vibrant and sexy as any woman on earth. Now, she was just another patient, lucky to be alive, and destined never to be the same.
Shit.
He jabbed the button for the elevator and the doors whispered open. He nearly bumped into a tall, broad-shouldered man with a trimmed beard, dark glasses and thin lips compressed into a hard expression. Wearing a parka, jeans and hiking boots, he brushed past Nick, walking with a slight limp past the open door to Marla’s room. Then he quickened his pace down the corridor.
For a reason he couldn’t name, Nick hesitated. Had the guy swept a quick look inside room 505, seen the family and decided to keep going? Or was he visiting someone else in the wing? He seemed familiar, but Nick couldn’t name why.
Not that it mattered. Probably his imagination working overtime.
On the first floor, Nick found his way through the general reception area and was out the doors to an evening where the first wisps of fog were gathering and the mist dampened his cheeks and forehead. He hazarded a glance up to the fifth floor and found Marla’s room. Cissy was still in the window, staring out to the parking lot, probably wishing that she, too, could escape. Well, he couldn’t blame her. He climbed into his pickup and glanced at his watch. He had a few hours to kill.
So maybe he should go take a look at the accident site, then check out the crashed Mercedes. He twisted the ignition and the old engine sparked.
As he looked over his shoulder to back out of his parking space, he caught a glimpse of a man running with an uneven gait through the fog, the same vaguely familiar guy he’d nearly bumped into outside the elevator just a few minutes before.
Nick followed the guy with his eyes, saw him climb into a dark Jeep and wondered why he’d gone up to the fifth floor only to come down again so fast.
“You’re borrowing trouble,” he told himself. “And you’ve got enough as it is.”
Two days later, she was getting ready to be released. Dr. Robertson had given her every test imaginable, seemed satisfied with the results and now she was just waiting for the paperwork and a ride when the door to her hospital room creaked open. “Mrs. Cahill?” a man said, poking his head inside. “I’m Detective Paterno. San Francisco Police Department.”
Her heart plummeted as he, dressed in dark slacks and jacket tossed over a casual shirt, eased into the room. He would be full of questions. Questions for which she had no answers. Her head was clearer, but the glimpses she had into her past were like the flame of a lighter running out of fuel; images would spark and sputter, flicker and die, leaving her with nothing. He flashed his badge and Marla’s heart sank.
“Sorry to bother you here at the hospital,” Paterno apologized. With a hound-dog face, deep brown eyes and a solemn, concerned expression, he seemed like a nice enough guy, yet Marla was wary. She couldn’t help remembering her daughter’s concerns that she might be charged with murder or negligent homicide or God-only-knew-what. And the police were masters at getting a person to say something they shouldn’t . . . Dear God, where did that attitude spring from? He was studying her with dark suspicious eyes that were at odds with his rumpled, I’m-just-one-of-the-guys attitude. “I’m helping with the investigation of the accident. A favor to the California Highway Patrol. I’d like to hear what you remember about what happened.”
“It won’t take long,” she muttered.
Ignoring her sarcasm, he placed a pocket recorder on the rolling table that held her water glass, a box of tissues, and the wire cutters, then flipped open a small notebook. “Tell me anything you recall.” He smelled of the rain that darkened the shoulders of his jacket and there was a faint odor of Juicy Fruit gum that he chewed slowly. His hair was curly and black with a few gray hairs visible. Short and thick, he had the start of a belly hanging over his belt.
“That’s easy,” she said. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Haven’t you already talked with my doctor?”
“Yeah, he mentioned you had amnesia.” Was there just a trace of disbelief in his voice? Another cynical cop.
“It’s true, Detective, and a real pain in the neck.” Shoving the sleeves of her robe over her forearms, she added. “Believe me, I’d love to help you, but I just don’t know much.” With a sigh, she glanced at her wrist where her plastic ID bracelet hung.
“You don’t even remember what ran out in front of you to make you swerve, if anything?” he asked.
“Nothing.” Marla tried to concentrate and was rewarded with a blinding headache.
“You were driving south on Highway 17 through the Santa Cruz Mountains. It seems from the skid marks, you saw something and hit the brakes. Maybe it was the truck, or a deer, or . . .” He let the sentence trail off, inviting her to finish.
“You don’t understand, Detective,” Marla said, trying to put a rein on her temper. “I don’t even recall my own name, or either of my children or my husband . . . nothing. Just . . . just every once in a while a little flicker of something, an advertisement, a jingle, a . . . scene from an old movie, but nothing . . . nothing real.”
The look in his eyes said, how convenient, but he didn’t remark, just moved his wad of gum from one side of his mouth to the other.
“Well, since I’m here, just humor me, all right?” He lifted a bushy eyebrow and she nodded. “You were with Pam Delacroix.”
“So I was told.”
“And you knew her from . . . ?”
“I, uh, my husband said she was a friend of mine. But . . .”
“You don’t remember.”
“That’s right.” She frowned, angry with herself. “I think I’m going to sound like a broken record.”
“Yes.”
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She reached for her juice and sipped as the detective went through a series of questions for which she had no answers. Outside the room, medication carts rattled, people talked, the bell for the elevator doors chimed. Inside 505, the feeling was tense and Marla didn’t like the detective’s attitude—as if she’d caused the accident and nearly killed herself intentionally. “You know, this feels a little like an inquisition,” she finally said. She fiddled with her straw, then set her glass aside.
“Just tryin’ to sort out everything.”
“I really can’t help you.” Her back was beginning to go up, she was tired and her head was pounding like crazy.
“You were driving Pam Delacroix’s car, right?”
“I . . . I guess so. That’s what everyone says, so I assume it’s true,” she said hotly. “Now, listen, don’t you have to let me talk to an attorney, Mirandaize me or whatever it’s called?”
“That you remember?”
“I told you . . . little strange things. Maybe I saw it on an episode of . . . of . . .”
“NYPD Blue? Law and Order?”
“I . . . I don’t know . . .”
He studied her through quick, intelligent eyes. “You really want to call a lawyer? I’m not here to arrest you, you understand.”
“I don’t have anything to hide.” At least nothing I can recall, she thought, but bit back the words. She just wanted this interview to be over, to close her eyes, to hope that her medication would kick in and fight the pain throbbing in her jaw and hammering at her skull. And she wanted to shake this feeling that her life was spinning out of control, that there were unspoken questions hanging in the air, questions that were somehow too evil, too incriminating to utter aloud.
“Okay.” Paterno chewed his gum furiously between his back teeth. “How about the semi careening toward you? It jackknifed, went off the far side of the road and the driver— Charles Biggs—is barely holding on in a burn ward at a hospital across town. We’re hoping he wakes up and can remember something.”
Marla went cold inside at the thought of the trucker. “The poor man,” she whispered, glancing out the window to the gray afternoon. Her fate suddenly didn’t seem so bad. She silently prayed that she hadn’t been the cause of the accident, that her negligence hadn’t killed her friend, a woman she couldn’t remember, as well as maimed a stranger she’d never met. A cloud of depression threatened to settle on her shoulders. How would she ever live with herself if it turned out the accident was her fault? Oh, God, please . . . no. I won’t be able to survive the guilt . . . Swallowing a thick lump in her throat, she gave herself a quick mental kick for this case of the “poor me” blues. “Why don’t you tell me what happened that night,” she suggested, deciding it was best to face the ugly truth rather than hearing what could very well be her family’s sugar-coated version. She impaled Paterno with her gaze. “I want to hear the facts.”
“Just the facts, all the facts and nothing but the facts?”
What was that, some kind of dumb joke? She lifted a shoulder. “I . . . I suppose.”
“It’s part of an old TV cop routine,” he said, and she realized he’d tried to gain a reaction from her. He was testing her to see how much she really did remember. As if what—he didn’t believe her? Why would she fake amnesia? Was there something she didn’t know about herself, something that would make him distrust her?
Paterno lowered himself into the single plastic chair stuffed into one corner of the room. “From what we can tell from the skid marks, you were driving Pamela Delacroix’s Mercedes south, presumably going to Santa Cruz where Pamela’s daughter, Julie, attended college. You rounded a corner going uphill and swerved. The truck, coming from the opposite direction, braked hard to avoid you or whatever it was you were trying to miss. It jackknifed and went through the guardrail on one side of the road, your car broke through on the other. Pamela wasn’t wearing a seat belt and was thrown out of the car. Her neck was broken and she died instantly.” Marla’s stomach tightened. Bile rose in her throat at the sheer horror and the guilt of it all. “The semi rolled down the hill through the woods before hitting a tree and exploding. Someone saw the fireball and called 911 just before the first witnesses, an older couple heading north, arrived.”
Marla closed her eyes, shaken, the images he sketched painted in vivid colors in her mind. Tears burned her eyelids and she felt suddenly ill, as if she might throw up. “I’m sorry,” she whispered clumsily.
“Me, too.” The detective didn’t sound as if he meant it, and when she met his eyes again she saw a hardness within their dark depths, disbelief and accusation shimmering just below the surface of his gaze. Another cop who’d seen too much.
Getting to his feet, he fished in his pocket and placed a card on the table. He snapped off the recorder and jammed it into his pocket. “That’s it for today, but if you remember anything, contact me.”
“I will,” she promised, then noticed movement in the partially open doorway. She’d been concentrating so hard on Paterno and the accident she hadn’t seen Nick arrive. She wondered how long he’d been there, how much he’d heard.
“Isn’t she supposed to have a lawyer present when she talks to the police?” he asked stepping into the room. His black hair glistened as if he’d been in the rain, his eyes touched hers for a heart-stopping second, then his gaze skated away to focus on the detective. Paterno flipped his notebook closed and dropped it into a pocket.
“Mrs. Cahill and I have already been through this. She hasn’t been charged with anything.”
“Alex said something about possible manslaughter.”
Her blood ran cold. Her head thundered. Was that possible? Prison?
“We haven’t ruled anything out,” the detective said, rubbing his jaw. “You’re not the husband?”
“No.” Nick’s voice was firm and he glanced at Marla for a second, sending her a silent unreadable message that even in that short instant made her realize that he was making a point. “I’m her brother-in-law. ‘The husband’s’ brother. Nick Cahill.” He offered the detective his hand.
Paterno’s fingers surrounded Nick’s larger hand. He gave it a quick, sharp pump.
“You’re from Oregon, right?”
“Devil’s Cove.” Nick didn’t bother to smile. “Don’t ask. I think it was named by a drunken lumberjack or sailor.”
“You come down just to see the family?”
“I was asked to. Business.”
“Not because of the accident?”
“That had something to do with it.” Nick’s face was a mask without emotion, his features set, his jaw beginning to darken with five o’clock shadow.
Paterno chewed his gum in earnest as he digested the answer. With a square finger, he tapped on the card he’d left on the table and glanced back at Marla. “Remember—if you recall anything, get in touch with me.”
“I will,” she said and meant it. As painful as it might be, she wanted to know the truth, to rid herself of the torment.
Once Paterno was out of sight, Nick closed the door completely, and the sounds of the nurses’ station and elevator suddenly disappeared.
“What’re you doing?” she asked.
“Insuring that we have privacy.” His eyes were dark, the skin stretched over his cheekbones tight.
Her pulse jumped and she caught the intensity of his gaze. “You act like I’m some kind of criminal.” She shoved a strand of hair from her eyes, her fingers grazing the spot where her hair was shorn close. “Or that you are.”
He sliced her a look, and the sterile box of a room seemed suddenly far too intimate—too close.
“I just want you to be careful.”
“Look, Nick, I appreciate your concern. But you can forget all these theatrics. I don’t have anything to hide.”
How do you know? He didn’t say it, but she read it in his gaze.
Tired, cranky, her head throbbing, she was sick of the questions, the hospital, the not knowing, the pain and the dam
ned wires holding her mouth shut. More than that, she was really, really irritated that everyone she talked to was a stranger.
“That’s what I thought.” Folding his arms over his chest, he leaned against the closet and stared at her with eyes that held secrets. “So, have you got everything you need to blow this joint? Alex said the doctor was releasing you today.”
She shook her head. “What I need now is an aspirin. One about the size of Montana will do.”
“I’ll see what I can rustle up,” he said, starting for the door.
“Wait,” she said, not wanting him to leave . . . not when there was so much she didn’t understand.
He paused, hand on the doorknob.
“Why is it that I feel . . . I don’t know . . . that you don’t trust me or that you know something about me that I don’t . . .” She paused. “I mean everyone seems to know more about me than I do, but with you it’s different.”
He lifted a dark brow and turned from the door. His expression had all the warmth of an arctic blast. “What do you mean?”
“You tell me,” she suggested. “Because you know and I don’t.”
He rubbed the day’s growth of beard with the thumb of one hand and sized her up, as if . . . as if he didn’t believe her. Slowly he said, “I just came here to check on you because Alex asked me to. I don’t think we should get into anything heavy.”
“Why not?”
“Because it serves no purpose.”
“Maybe I should be the judge of that.”
His jaw tightened and he studied her, as if weighing her reaction. “Okay, Marla, since you asked, I’ll give it to you straight.” His lips flattened over his teeth. “You and I, we were lovers.”
“What?” she gasped. No, no, no . . . this wasn’t right. It couldn’t be. She’d had an affair with her husband’s brother? And yet, deep inside she realized that a part of her found him attractive . . . even sexy.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s ancient history,” Nick added. “You threw me over for Alex.”
