Wife With Amnesia

by Metsy Hingle

  “So your husband tells me.” His expression earnest, the detective removed a notepad from his inside coat pocket and withdrew a sheet of paper tucked between the pages. “Fortunately your car was parked beneath a streetlight, so the witness who saw you attacked, a Mrs. Williams, got a pretty good look at your assailant. Based on her description, the police artist was able to come up with a sketch of what we believe your attacker looked like. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to take a look at it and see if it sparks your memory.”

  Claire hesitated. While she’d been frustrated over her inability to remember even the smallest of things, the prospect of seeing the face of the man who had attacked her made her uneasy.

  “Red, you up to this?” Matt asked as he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  His use of the pet name, which she’d learned he’d dubbed her because of her hair color, combined with his gentle touch, eased some of the churning inside her. He was her husband. She still had trouble digesting that fact. Yet, since she’d opened her eyes two days ago, Matt had rarely left her side. Each time when she’d become frustrated or frightened at not being able to recall things, there he was assuring her that everything would be all right, that her memory would come back. And as though he sensed her uneasiness now, here he was once again offering his support. Lord, but the poor man must be exhausted, she thought as she tipped her head back to look at his face. Even with several days’ growth of beard shadowing his jaw and worry lines etched around his eyes, he was still incredibly handsome. And sweet. He’d been impossibly sweet and attentive. How on earth could she not remember being married to him?

  “Claire?”

  She clamped the lid shut on her wandering thoughts. “I’m okay,” she assured him, and turned her attention back to the police detective. Bracing herself, she reached for the sketch.

  Her first thought was that the man looked ordinary—like someone she might pass on the street or see in line at the bank or the grocery store. Early to midfifties, she estimated. The baseball cap covered his forehead and most of his hair, except for the straggly ends that hung around his too-narrow face. His nose was long, slightly crooked, and his lips curled into what she considered a cruel twist. Shifting her attention to his eyes, a chill chased down her spine. There was something about his eyes…something lifeless and cold in the way they stared up at her…that licked at the edges of her memory—and made her heart begin to pound with fear.

  “Does he look familiar, Mrs. Gallagher?”

  Claire yanked her gaze from the sketch to the detective. “No,” she said quickly and shoved the picture back at him. Rubbing her hands up and down her arms, she tried to shake off the fear that had raced along her nerve endings when she’d looked into those cold evil eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t recognize him.”

  “Are you sure? For a moment, I thought—”

  “She said she doesn’t remember,” Matt said, sliding a protective arm around her shoulders.

  “I’m sure,” Claire told the detective. She leaned against Matt, grateful for his presence after her reaction to the man’s picture. Noting the detective’s skeptical expression, she said, “I don’t recognize him. If it seemed otherwise, it’s because seeing his face and knowing that he attacked me shook me for a moment. But I honestly don’t remember him.”

  “Perhaps something will come back to you later,” the detective suggested. He tucked the notepad and drawing back into his coat pocket. “In the meantime, we’ll start circulating his picture on the streets, see if we’re able to get a lead on the guy.”

  “I want the man who did this to my wife behind bars, Detective Delvecchio.”

  “So do we, Mr. Gallagher. Unfortunately, due to your wife’s amnesia, we don’t have a whole lot to go on.”

  “You have an eyewitness and a sketch of what the man looks like,” Matt pointed out.

  “And we’re pursuing both of those leads. But even if we do come up with a suspect and are able to make an arrest, we’re going to need your wife to identify him as the man who attacked her.”

  “Which I can’t do unless my memory returns,” Claire said aloud as the full impact of her situation hit her again.

  “I’m afraid so, ma’am.”

  The neurologist that Matt had brought in had told her that her memory could come back tomorrow, next month or even a year from now. Or it may never come back at all. The thought of not being able to remember the bits and pieces that made up her life, that made up who she was, caused the ever-present knot in her stomach to twist a little tighter.

  “You’ve got to give yourself some time. It’s only been a few days,” Matt told her as though, once again, he knew exactly what she was thinking.

  “Yes. I’m sure you’re right.” But the few days already felt like an eternity.

  “Thank you again for your time, Mrs. Gallagher.”

  “You’re welcome, Detective,” she said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to be of more help.”

  “Like your husband said, it’s only been a few days. But if you should remember something, anything at all about what happened that night, I’d appreciate it if you would get in touch with me.”

  “I’ll do that,” she assured him, and took the business card he offered.

  He inclined his head toward Matt. “Mr. Gallagher.”

  “Detective.” Matt shook the other man’s hand, then ushered him toward the door. “I’d like you to keep me informed of any progress you make.”

  “Of course.” Detective Delvecchio started to leave, then paused. He rubbed at his jaw, and Claire could have sworn she saw speculation in the man’s hazel eyes as he looked from Matt to her and back again.

  “Was there something else, Detective?” Matt asked.

  “I understand your wife is going to be discharged from the hospital tomorrow.”

  “That’s right,” Matt replied. “The neurologist recommended she stay an additional night for observation, but she should be released sometime tomorrow. Why?”

  “I’m probably just being overcautious, but it might be a good idea if she isn’t left alone at home until we catch this guy.”

  “She won’t be. I’ll be with her. And when I’m not, my housekeeper or someone in my family will be staying with her.”

  “Is that really necessary?” Claire asked.

  “It’s just a precaution, ma’am. But I think it’s better if you have someone with you until we find this guy and put him behind bars.”

  Alarms went off in Claire’s head. “Why?” she asked, an uneasy feeling skittering down her spine.

  “Like I said, it’s just a precaution,” Delvecchio told her.

  Claire narrowed her eyes, stared at the burly police detective. “I wouldn’t think that sort of precaution is necessary in a mugging case. Is there something you haven’t told me, Detective?”

  “Red, you heard the man. It’s just a precaution.”

  Ignoring Matt, she pressed on. “Detective?”

  “Call it the gut feeling of an old cop. I just think it would be a good idea if you’re not left alone.”

  “She won’t be,” Matt said, and started to usher the detective out of the room.

  “Detective, wait. Do you think he’s going to come after me again?”

  He hesitated. “He shouldn’t. From all indications you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, the victim of a random mugging.”

  “Is that what you think it is? A random mugging?”

  “What he thinks doesn’t matter,” Matt insisted. “No one’s going to hurt you again.”

  Dismissing the angry look Matt shot the detective, Claire persisted. “Detective Delvecchio, I’m asking for your professional opinion—that gut feeling you mentioned. Do you think the attack on me wasn’t random and that he might come after me again?”

  “Right now I have no reason to believe it was anything more than what it appears to be and this feeling in my gut is just indigestion. If that’s the case, the guy is probably long gone and won’t
bother you again,” he informed her.

  “But?” Claire prompted.

  “But on the off chance that I’m wrong, and my gut is right, this wasn’t a random mugging, I’d rather err on the side of caution and make sure that you’re protected.”

  Claire could feel the color drain from her cheeks. She fisted her fingers in the sheets. A shudder ran through her as she thought of those cold eyes in the police sketch. “But you said he stole my wallet. What makes you think his goal was more than robbery?”

  “Delvecchio, why don’t we discuss this outside?” Matt suggested.

  “No,” Claire returned. Ignoring Matt’s scowl, she said, “I’d appreciate an answer to my question.” When he didn’t answer, Claire said, “Detective Delvecchio, I may have lost my memory, but I haven’t lost my brain or my ability to think. Since I’m the one who was attacked, I believe I have a right to know why you think I might still be in danger.”

  The detective sighed. “To be frank, ma’am, I find it strange that this guy would attack you as he did and just take your purse. According to the report from the hospital admitting clerk, you were wearing some pricy jewelry when they brought you in—jewelry that could have been fenced for a nice chunk of change. If fast cash was his motive, why didn’t he take it?”

  “Maybe he was scared off. You said that this Mrs. Williams witnessed the whole thing. Or maybe he didn’t have time to finish the job because she surprised him.”

  The detective scratched at his head. “That’s the other thing that’s been puzzling me. The man attacked you beneath a bright streetlight, where he could clearly be seen. Yet he made no attempt to conceal his face with a mask or a stocking. I’ve checked out the crime scene. It would have made more sense for him to make a grab for your purse before you reached the car. There was less chance of him being seen that way, and you were clearly more vulnerable.”

  “Maybe you’re dealing with a dumb crook,” Matt offered.

  “And maybe we’re not dealing with a crook at all,” Claire suggested. “That is what you’re suggesting isn’t it? That my attacker’s motive wasn’t robbery?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The truth is, the Gallagher name is fairly well known in the New Orleans area because of your husband’s family’s restaurants and the family’s social prominence. You folks are mighty visible. There’s hardly a week that goes by without some member of your family having their picture splashed across the society pages or on the TV news at some big to-do in the city. From where I’m standing, that makes any one of you a prime target for kidnappers.”

  “Kidnappers,” Claire repeated, stunned by the idea.

  “It is a possibility,” the detective replied. “One that I don’t think we should rule out. Maybe the reason this guy just grabbed your purse and didn’t go for your jewelry or your car was because it was really you that he was after. Maybe he intended to kidnap you and hold you for ransom, but was scared off when Mrs. Williams showed up. Hitting you and taking your purse might have just been a ruse to cover what he was really after—you.”

  “Oh, my God,” Claire murmured, both appalled and frightened by the scenario the detective had just outlined.

  “I’ve had about enough of your theories, Delvecchio. All you’re doing is upsetting my wife, so I’d appreciate it if you would leave and go find the man who attacked her,” Matt said, his voice clipped, his expression deadly.

  The detective didn’t argue. After exchanging a look with Matt, he nodded and left the room.

  “Hey, it’s all right,” Matt soothed as he sat on the bed beside her. He caught her by the shoulders. “Look at me, Red.”

  Claire tipped up her chin, stared into those compelling gray eyes filled with concern, with worry.

  “Listen to me. Even if Delvecchio’s cockamamie theory about an attempted kidnapping is right, and I’m not at all sure that it is, nothing is going to happen to you. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you ever again. All right?”

  Claire nodded, but inside she had this sick, uneasy feeling. Was it possible that someone had actually tried to kidnap her? Suppose they decided to try again? Panic paralyzed her for long seconds as she realized that if someone did try to kidnap her, she wouldn’t even know what number to call to let someone know she was being held for ransom.

  “Claire.” Matt gave her a gentle shake. “Sweetheart, I know how hard this must be for you. You don’t remember me, the love that we shared. But I do love you. More than you can possibly imagine. All I’m asking is that you trust me. Give me a chance. Give us a chance. Will you do that?”

  “I’ll try.”

  He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, drew his finger gently along her cheek. “That’s all I can ask.”

  But it wasn’t all that he wanted. Desire still shimmered in his eyes as he caressed her jaw, stared at her mouth. A flutter of feminine heat flickered, spilled slowly through her system. While she might not remember Matt or her life with him, on some level her body remembered him.

  “Trust me,” he murmured, and pressed his lips gently against her own. He drew back a fraction, looked her in the eyes. “I know this is difficult for you, but promise me you won’t dwell on anything Delvecchio said.” When she nodded, he continued, “That’s my girl. I want you to just concentrate on getting better. Tomorrow, when I take you home, everything won’t seem so unsettling as it does now.”

  But how did she tell the man she was married to that it wasn’t just the detective’s kidnapping theory that had the nerves knotting in her stomach? It was the prospect of going home with a husband who was for all intents and purposes a stranger to her.

  He was walking a thin line, Matt conceded as he turned the wheel of the Mercedes and headed down the street toward home. And that fine line he’d been treading since he’d made the decision not to tell Claire that they were separated seemed to be growing even finer now that he was bringing her home. He’d managed to move back into their home the majority of her clothing and essentials out of the apartment she’d lived in during the past six months. For all intents and purposes, it looked as though she’d never been gone.

  And he felt as guilty as sin for the deception.

  His intentions weren’t all self-serving, he reasoned in an effort to lessen the foul taste that deceit left in his mouth. If Claire knew the truth, she never would have agreed to come home with him today. Memory or no memory, she was still the same maddeningly independent person she had always been. She would rather walk through fire than ever admit she actually needed anyone’s help. Matt sighed as he recalled what a problem that had proven to be for him in their marriage. Growing up in a close-knit and loving family, he’d always known he could turn to his family for help—be it financial, physical or emotional. After all, that’s what family was all about, sharing good times and bad. It had taken him a long time to understand that Claire’s refusal to share her burdens with him had been born out of her fear of being rejected and not out of distrust.

  Claire needed him now, he told himself. Someone had to take care of her, and the fact remained that she had no one else. Who better to fill the job than her husband? Because despite their separation, he was still her husband—at least for the time being. Taking care of her was his responsibility. But more than that, it was what he wanted to do, what he needed to do. He wanted to be there for Claire. To show her that he wasn’t like everyone else she’d cared about in her life—ready to abandon her and forget her. Most of all he wanted to prove to her that she could count on him, that they could make their marriage work because they belonged together.

  And when her memory comes back? What then, Gallagher? Suppose this little plan of yours blows up in your face and she walks out on you for good?

  There was the distinct possibility she would do just that—walk out on him—because she would be furious when she found out what he had done. No question about it. But it was a risk he had to take, Matt decided as he drove the car to a stop in front of their house. Because unless he could win Claire’s love a
nd trust again, he didn’t have a prayer of winning her forgiveness and a second chance.

  “This is where I live?”

  Matt snapped his attention back to Claire. Wide-eyed, she stared at the house as though she were seeing it for the first time. Giving himself a swift mental kick, he reminded himself that in a sense she was seeing it for the first time. If she didn’t remember him, she probably didn’t remember the house, either. “This is where we live,” Matt told her, and felt the prick to his conscience at the half-truth.

  “It’s so beautiful.”

  “That’s what you said the first time I brought you here,” he told her. And it was true. Nestled between ancient oaks, the old Southern charmer of stuccoed brick had been painted to look like sandstone block, and the front porch had been done in a shade of soft white. The lush green lawn sprawled from the front door to the sidewalk. And the carefully tended gardens were bursting with the yellow day lilies and white roses Claire had insisted on planting when she’d moved in after their marriage. He’d fallen in love with the old house when he’d first seen it five years ago and had taken great care to restore it. But it had been Claire who had made the place a home. He decided against parking in the garage for now, so that Claire had the benefit of entering the house through the front entrance. Exiting the car, he came around to the passenger side and opened her door. “Trust me, it didn’t look nearly this good when I bought it.”

  “The gardens are lovely.”

  “Thanks to your green thumb,” he told her.

  “I did the gardens?”

  “Sure did. And you oversaw restoration of the courtyard.”

  “There’s a courtyard?”

  “Right over there,” he said, pointing to what looked at first like a second entryway.

  “Oh, I can’t wait to see it.”

  “Why don’t we get you settled first, and then I’ll give you the grand tour?”

  “I’d like that,” she said with the first real enthusiasm he’d seen her exhibit since he’d arrived at the hospital to take her home. Carefully swinging her legs around to the side, Claire started to get out of the car when Matt scooped her up into his arms. “What are you doing?” she demanded, her body stiff even as her arms circled his neck.