Forgotten Lullaby

by Rita Herron

  Chapter Eight

  Blood thundered in Grant’s ears. This couldn’t be happening. Faye’s death had haunted him for years and now, when his wife was in danger, the police wanted to dredge up the past. Why? What could Faye’s death possibly have to do with the threats to Emma?

  “I don’t understand, Detective,” Grant said. “Faye died five years ago. She has nothing to do with Emma, so why bring it up now?”

  Warner shot Emma a look of regret, rubbing one hand over his balding spot. “I understand you were questioned about the Simmons girl’s death.”

  Grant sat down beside Emma and gestured toward the opposite chair for the policeman. “Yeah, everyone at the homecoming party was questioned.”

  “But Ms. Simmons was driving your car when she wrecked. She ran the car off into the river.”

  Grant shuddered. He remembered the scene too vividly. The broken bridge, his car nose-dived into the muddy banks of the river, Faye’s limp bloody body, her tangled wet hair, the cold iciness of her skin when he’d touched her.

  Grant forced the images to the back of his mind and glanced at Emma, wondering how the detective’s questions would affect Emma’s already shaky trust in him.

  “Mr. Wadsworth?”

  “Sorry,” Grant said. “I don’t understand what that accident has to do with Emma. Besides, the police covered this years ago.”

  Warner cleared his throat. “Yes, but with your wife in danger, we investigate all the family.”

  “Including me?” Grant asked.

  Warner nodded. “Everyone. As a matter of fact—” his direct gaze was intimidating “—most times the spouse is the prime suspect. The fact that Ms. Simmons was killed in an automobile accident seems a little coincidental in light of your wife’s suspicious accident.”

  Grant bolted off the sofa, his anger boiling through his veins. “I don’t like what you’re implying, Detective. I asked you to help find the person threatening my wife, and you come into my house and insinuate it’s me!”

  Emma’s shaky breath filled the strained silence. Warner linked his hands together, his face rigid. “I told you, Mr. Wadsworth, we have to look at every angle. Now I’m not saying you’re guilty, but it would help clear things up for me if you’d simply answer my questions.”

  Rage still tore through Grant, but he took a deep breath, gauging the strength of Emma’s doubts by the wariness in her eyes. Or was it sympathy?

  “All right,” he finally said, settling back on the sofa. “I went over this a dozen times as I’m sure you read in Faye’s file, but what do you want to know?”

  The detective removed a small notepad from the pocket of his denim shirt and flipped it open. “I believe the report said the accident happened around midnight.”

  “That’s right,” Grant confirmed. “I lent her my car to drive home.”

  “How did you plan to get home?”

  Emma was watching him with avid curiosity. Of all the details he’d like to share with Emma about his life, this particular evening’s awful events were not among them.

  “Mr. Wadsworth?”

  “I was going to get a ride with one of the other girls at the party.”

  “I see. You had a date other than Ms. Simmons?”

  “That’s right,” Grant explained. “She and I were acquaintances…” He shrugged. “Friends, but that’s all.”

  “So you didn’t have a sexual relationship with her?”

  “No,” Grant said, his voice clipped. Emma’s big dark eyes revealed none of her thoughts, but she’d clenched her hands on her knees and scooted to the far end of the sofa as if she didn’t want to touch him, even accidentally.

  “And why did Ms. Simmons borrow your car? Didn’t she have her own transportation or date?”

  Grant frowned, trying to remember the details of the evening. “She came to the party late with a girlfriend. She was upset when she arrived. She’d had a fight with some guy she’d been seeing.”

  Emma’s eyes remained glued on him. He softened his tone, wanting her to realize he’d been sensitive to Faye’s problems. “Anyway, she said the guy had ditched her earlier and she wasn’t in a partying mood. But she didn’t want to spoil her friends’ night.”

  “So you gave her your keys?”

  Grant bristled at the implication. “Sure, I felt sorry for her—she was crying. I let her drive my car. She claimed she was going back to the dorm.”

  “But she didn’t return to the dorm, did she?”

  Her blood-splattered face flashed through his mind. “No, she didn’t,” he said in a low voice. He studied his fingernails, fighting the sense of guilt that tugged at him every time he remembered that night. If only he’d offered to drive her home, insisted she stay and talk things through. If only she hadn’t just discovered she was pregnant…

  “You had no idea she’d taken sleeping pills before she got behind the wheel of the car?”

  “No,” Grant said emphatically. He gave Emma a beseeching look, praying she believed him. Her dark lashes fluttered over creamy cheeks, and his gut clenched. God, he didn’t want his wife to doubt him. And he didn’t want her to end up like Faye….

  “You didn’t see anyone slip drugs into Ms. Simmons’ drink that night?”

  Grant shook his head. “We partied, but none of us were into that kind of stuff. We didn’t do drugs, Detective. Just had a few beers, a little cheap wine.”

  Warner nodded, then snapped his notebook shut. “And you told the police everything you knew about that night, right?”

  “That’s right,” Grant said, his voice stronger.

  “You admitted you knew the girl was pregnant?”

  A soft gasp escaped Emma’s mouth. He fought the instinct to touch her and reassure her. “Yeah, she told me about the baby,” he said, his voice strained.

  Warner arched a gray eyebrow. “You weren’t the father?”

  “No, I told you we weren’t sexually involved. We were just friends.”

  Warner cleared his throat, his gaze never wavering. “Didn’t she tell you who the father of the baby was?”

  Grant swallowed his emotions, then answered the same way he had three years earlier, hoping the detective would let sleeping dogs lie and move on with the search for the person after his wife. “No, she never told me.”

  Emma listened to Grant’s comments with an uneasiness that threatened to break her calm. Her palms were perspiring, and she brushed them on the side of her sweats, her insides quaking at the desolate expression on his face. She noted the fine tremble of his fingers, the way his chin quivered slightly when he spoke, the way his hands started to move toward her, then retreated to fists at his sides. Either Grant was telling the truth or he was a great actor.

  But why was the detective so curious about this young woman’s death? Had she also known this girl named Faye?

  “Mrs. Wadsworth, you still haven’t regained your memory?” Warner asked.

  Emma bit down on her bottom lip. “I’m afraid not. I don’t remember anything of the past four years.”

  Warner made a clicking sound with his cheek. “What about this Ms. Simmons? Did you know her?”

  “No, she didn’t,” Grant answered automatically, earning a suspicious look from the detective.

  “I don’t remember if I knew her or not,” Emma said, her own patience flailing with the strain of the inquisition.

  “Emma and I hadn’t started dating yet,” Grant clarified.

  “Had the two of you met?” Warner asked.

  Emma shrugged, feeling helpless. She would have to rely on Grant to fill in the detail—and trust him to tell Warner the truth.

  “We met through Emma’s sister, Kate, a year later. She attended UNC. Kate and I had a couple of classes together.”

  “Hmm,” Warner mumbled. “Did you ever date Emma’s sister?”

  Grant shook his head. “Not really. We went to a couple of movies together, a few ball games, but we didn’t really date.”

  “You went
out with Kate?” Emma asked in surprise.

  “Not on a date. A whole group of us hung around together,” Grant explained.

  “So Emma’s sister introduced you and Emma?”

  “Yeah. Emma came to visit for the homecoming weekend.” Grant tilted his head back in thought. “But Kate wasn’t too keen on me dating Emma at first.”

  “She didn’t want us to go out?” Emma asked.

  “Did she have a crush on you, Mr. Wadsworth?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. Kate like me?” Grant laughed wryly. “She didn’t think I was good enough for her—or you, Emma.”

  “You don’t remember any of this?” Warner asked, his face angled toward Emma.

  Emma shook her head, frustration pounding at her temple.

  “And nothing about the accident?”

  “She already answered you,” Grant barked.

  “You seem agitated, Mr. Wadsworth,” Warner said, narrowing his eyes. “Is there some reason you don’t want your wife to remember the past?”

  Grant’s expression turned thunderous. “Of course I want her to remember. But I don’t like the way you’re making her doubt me! I’m her husband, for God’s sake.”

  The pain in Emma’s head intensified. She rubbed at her forehead, spots dancing before her eyes, then sighed when Grant’s broad hand cupped her neck, massaging the tense muscles. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

  “I’m getting a headache,” she whispered, noticing he’d lowered his voice to a soothing pitch.

  “Detective, I think we’ve had enough,” Grant said calmly. But Emma saw his shoulders go rigid. “Now, did you find anything on McGuire?”

  “Nothing. So far his business looks legit.”

  Emma remembered the strange phone calls. “Detective, there is something else I need to tell you.” She explained about the phone calls, relaying the message word for word.

  “I heard him,” Grant assured Warner. “He called a few minutes before you arrived.”

  “So the voice was definitely a man’s?”

  Emma hesitated, searching her memory. “I’m not sure. The voice sounded very hoarse and faraway.”

  “She’s right,” Grant said. “I thought at first it was a man’s voice. But when I think about it, it was so muffled it could have been a woman’s.”

  “Well, we should have the voice on tape. We’ll have it analyzed. Should be able to at least tell if the voice belonged to a man or woman.”

  Emma blinked against the pain in her temple and lay her head back.

  “I hope you find the creep who’s doing this soon,” Grant said.

  “I’m working on it. That message may be our best clue so far.”

  “What do you mean?” Emma asked.

  “Whoever’s doing this may be someone close to you, Mrs. Wadsworth. Someone who has a personal problem with either you or your husband.” He glanced at Grant. “And for your wife’s sake, Mr. Wadsworth, I hope you’re telling the truth.” Then he strode toward the door and let himself out.

  Grant swung around and faced her, studying her for so long she began to tremble. His voice was hoarse when he spoke, anger burning his cheeks red, “Emma, you don’t think I would do anything to hurt you, do you?”

  EMMA’S SLIGHT HESITATION slashed into Grant’s hopes like a knife tearing through his skin. He sank down beside her on the sofa, despair filling him. “Emma?”

  “No, I don’t think you would hurt me,” she finally said, her voice a throaty whisper.

  His breath tumbled out and he cupped her shoulders with his hands, then pulled her to him. “You can’t imagine how bad I felt when that girl died. She was driving my car. I kept thinking if only I hadn’t lent her my car…” He dropped his forehead against hers, his breathing labored as the memory of Faye’s dead body and Emma’s injured one mingled in his mind. Thank God Emma was alive. “I’ve wished a thousand times that I could go back and change that night, that I’d offered to drive her…”

  “Shh, it’s okay,” Emma whispered against his neck. “It wasn’t your fault, Grant.”

  Grant squeezed his eyes shut, the guilt he’d thought he’d buried long ago erupting. “I should have offered to take her home. I knew she was upset. She shouldn’t have been driving, just like I should have been driving the night you had your wreck—”

  Emma pressed a finger to his lips. “Grant, you couldn’t have known she’d taken some pills or that she was going to have an accident.” Then she gently lifted a lock of his hair from his forehead, an intimate gesture that pained Grant, for he remembered all the other times she’d completed the same sweet loving gesture and knew she did not. “And you couldn’t have known I was going to have a wreck, either.”

  Grant shook his head miserably. “I would have died before I’d let you get hurt,” he said in an anguished whisper. Then realizing she was in his arms, knowing she’d offered him comfort, he couldn’t resist having her, if only for a moment. He had to taste her, to know she was real, still alive in his arms, still his wife.

  He swept his hand gently down her back and around her waist, then lowered his mouth and sipped at the rose-petal corners of her lips, tasting, teasing her until she parted her lips and let him inside. Tenderness, passion, raw heat swirled through his body, dancing through his fingertips as he massaged the curve of her hip and felt her subtle response become bolder.

  He asked and she gave, she moaned and he nearly came apart, devouring her hungrily, making love to her with his mouth. Her hands found their way into his hair and he groaned, the tender way she drew his head down for more plundering exciting him beyond reason. Then he threaded one hand into her silky gold mane and sank into oblivion. He tilted her head back and nibbled at her ear, tasting the sensitive skin on her neck, laving her with his tongue.

  She clung to him, her hands digging into his arms, her small moans encouraging him to do more. He accepted her invitation and kissed her neck, brushed her face with gentle but hungry kisses, her shoulder, then lower until he nuzzled his face in the crevice of her breasts. Her nipples puckered and hardened beneath her light cotton sweater, and his hand inched beneath the fabric, moving slowly upward until he connected with bare skin. She groaned and cupped his head with her hands, her breathing shallow and unsteady. He curved his hand over the fullness of her breasts, aching to do more, but an image of her in the mangled car tore through his need and he was afraid he would hurt her. He gently flicked his thumb over the nipple while he angled his mouth and kissed her again, whispering sweet nonsense words of yearning to her as he loved her.

  Unable to stand the torture, he lowered his head and nibbled at her breasts through her sweater. Slowly he pushed up the fabric and sought her with his mouth. Easing the edge of her lacy bra away with his teeth, his tongue flicked over her nipple, and she groaned, dropping her head forward and hugging him to her.

  “Grant, no…” she whispered.

  He suckled the rosy tip, then nipped at her other breast. His groin surged with desire, his lips gorging themselves on her warm delicate flesh.

  Emma’s hands wrestled in his hair. “No, Grant, please, we have to stop.”

  Her soft plea invaded his urgency, and he paused, his hand gripping her sweater with trembling fingers, then smoothing it back in place. God, what was he doing? Acting like a sex maniac.

  Or like a husband who wanted his wife. Emma had once welcomed his hungry sexual advances, but now…now she wanted him to stop.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a tear-filled voice. But instead of pushing him away, she hugged him to her breasts. “I’m so sorry, Grant. I need more time.”

  He let his hands linger at her waist, then lifted them to stroke her arms, his face buried against her. “Shh, it’s okay. I shouldn’t have rushed you.” Then he lifted his head and saw the misery in her eyes, the confusion, and his heart nearly broke. She needed more time. He’d have to give it to her. He’d do anything not to make her cry. So he raised his finger and wiped at her tears, then said good-nigh
t.

  THE NEXT FEW DAYS, tension hung in the air, blanketing Emma with a weariness she couldn’t escape. Grant wanted more. She could see the yearning in his eyes every time they passed in the hallway, shared a meal or simply cared for Carly. When their hands brushed or he kissed her good-night, sensations stirred within her, making her want more, but a dull ache settled in her chest when she thought about the threats to her life. The calls had continued to come, more of the same, never long enough to trace, never offering more information, just menacing enough to keep her on edge. Each time she told Grant about one of them, his jaw tightened and his blue eyes flickered angrily.

  But Grant didn’t press her for sex, and she grew more anxious about her memory loss, frustrated that she hadn’t even had a small glimpse of her former life. Kate came daily and drove her to therapy. Martha baby-sat Carly so Grant could work at the office a few hours a day. She wondered if he spent more time working simply to avoid her.

  Her physical progress had been steady. She had finally graduated from crutches to a cane, and the doctor had said she could drive again when she was ready. To an outsider her family routine might appear normal. She and Grant shared a home, a child, and were cordial with one another. But Emma sensed their relationship was a time bomb, ready to explode at any second. Emma patted Carly’s back, humming the lullaby Grant had said was Carly’s favorite. She loved her baby. Whether she remembered her or not, the sweet precious child in her arms had stolen her heart. But Grant?

  She wasn’t sure how she felt about him, she thought, as she carried Carly to her crib and tucked her in. She wanted to be the woman Grant loved. But she still couldn’t remember him or their relationship, and her physical therapy served as a definite reminder that she wasn’t the same woman he’d loved before the accident. With each passing day her doubts escalated. She watched the videos of their wedding and a few of their family excursions over and over, hoping to trigger her memory. Each time she was touched by the scenes, but nothing clicked in her mind. She’d looked naive and young and sweet in the pictures. She wasn’t that innocent young woman now. She had scars, both inside and out, and she was afraid she would never be the same.