by Edie Claire
He dropped her hands and took a step back. “Teagan,” he said roughly, “I’d be perfectly happy if Jamie never remembers that particular block of time, and I suspect she would be too. She wasn’t a happy person back then. Why push it? Why not let her remember what she wants to remember, on her own time?”
Teagan felt a rush of heat within her. Selfishly, she appreciated his resistance. She relished it more than she could say. But he didn’t understand what was at stake.
She caught his hands again and pulled him closer. “Jamie doesn’t have time. She doesn’t know this herself yet, but somebody tried to kill her, Eric. They bashed her in the head, rolled her bleeding body up in a bedspread, dumped her in the snow, and left her to die. Jamie may not remember him, but he remembers her. For all we know, he’s out looking for her right now, waiting for the chance to take another crack at her!”
Eric’s jaw muscles clenched. “I understand that she came out of a dangerous situation. But she’s safe here, as long as no one knows where she is. I don’t see how rehashing a bunch of stuff that happened five years ago is going to help anybody.”
“It wouldn’t,” Teagan agreed quickly. And please don’t try it. “But think about it—until she saw you, she couldn’t remember that period of time at all. If anything can speed up her recovery, it’s putting her in touch with the right catalysts—sights, sounds, even smells can trigger memories. Now that we know she went to Pitt, we might be able to kick start her brain into remembering something more current. If she was working her way through school, she might not have graduated until recently.”
Eric breathed out heavily. “So is that what you want me to do? Drive her around Oakland? See if anything looks familiar?”
Teagan smiled. “Yes. That’s all. Show her the classroom buildings, the apartments. She may remember places she’s lived in once she sees them. Or a landlord might remember her. If you could locate even one friend that she’s kept in touch with, that friend might be able to give the police a suspect’s name days before Jamie herself could remember it.”
Eric’s expression remained doubtful. “I don’t know, Teagan. It’s not that I mind spending a couple hours on a Saturday driving around my alma mater. I don’t. And I’d be happy to help any friend of yours, you know that. But…”
His voice trailed off uncertainly.
“But what?” she prompted.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. I think it’s going to bother you more than you think it will—and I don’t want to be responsible for that.”
Teagan’s heart melted anew. She moved closer. “It’s not going to bother me,” she insisted. “I trust you. It doesn’t matter whether I trust her or not.” Which is good, she thought ruefully, because I don’t. “I can’t very well abandon a good friend just because of one unfortunate coincidence. Not when I’m all she’s got.”
Eric looked at his wife for a long moment. Then he pulled her to him and kissed her thoroughly. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he said when at last he drew back. “I appreciate your trusting me. Thank you.”
Teagan smiled. “You don’t think I’m crazy?”
He laughed out loud. “A woman who intentionally sends her husband off alone with an ex, all because of some pathological compulsion to champion the less fortunate? Of course I think you’re crazy. But I knew that when I married you.”
Teagan moved her face closer to his. “Lucky for me, I have other qualities that make up for it.”
“Indeed you do.”
Their next kiss did not end quickly. The anxiety of the evening, having reached its unpleasant crescendo, at last began to dissipate, and Teagan felt herself falling gratefully into the warm, comfortable state of mind with which marriage to Eric had spoiled her. She was in the midst of this happy state—and deciding to let the dirty dishes wait until morning—when the repellent image intruded into her brain, sharp and ferocious.
Eric with Jamie. Kissing her, just like he was kissing Teagan. Holding her. Caressing her…
No.
Teagan clutched her husband closer. She would not let what happened in the past get to her, because it didn’t matter. Jamie was out in the apartment now. Alone. It was Teagan who held the cards; Teagan who held the man.
And Teagan who was going to keep him.
Chapter Ten
Jamie’s covers were tight. Way too tight. She tugged at them in one direction while attempting to shift her body the other. Nothing happened. Her hands grappled blindly for an end. She couldn’t see one, couldn’t feel one. The covers were all around her, her head, her feet, constraining her. Smothering her.
Her pulse began to thud within her ears. She cried out, but the sound was muffled; it seemed to go nowhere. She wiggled and pushed frantically against the heavy material that bound her, but nothing seemed to help. She was locked in a cocoon of cloth, the air too thick and pungent to breathe. All around her was a rumbling noise; a constant, droning vibration. She couldn’t see. Was she in her bed at all? Where was she? What was happening?
In an instant she was screaming and fighting against the cloth, desperate to reach the surface, the outside, some semblance of freedom. But the more she fought, the more she could feel her reserves dwindle. Her muscles ached. Her brain seemed fuzzy. She realized she had stopped struggling, and she tried to start again. But she couldn’t. Her arms were limp. She couldn’t move. She could barely even think.
She was dying.
“No!”
Jamie pulled herself upright in the bed, heavy gasps of breath rocking her chest. She stared at the ancient television set that rested mutely opposite her on an unpainted chest of drawers. The room was dim, but streaks of winter sun peeked around the blinds, heralding the morning. The apartment was calm. Quiet. Ordinary.
Safe.
That’s right. She was at Teagan’s house.
Jamie reached down and pulled the blankets from her legs. She was hot. She had been sweating like a pig.
What the hell was that all about?
She didn’t often have nightmares. The ones she did remember having were lame vignettes about being late for something or having her teeth fall out. Waking up in a sweat was hardly her M.O.—at least not when she had gone to bed alone.
She bit her lip tentatively. She felt different this morning. Her very manner of thinking seemed to have graduated to a more mature and sensual mode. Twenty-four hours ago, she wouldn’t have had such a thought. Her brain was indeed getting its act together—at a steady, if still not sufficiently rapid, pace.
By the time she drifted off the night before, she could recall most of high school with chronological clarity, but the years afterward still consisted of random flashes. Already this morning, without any urging, her first months of legal adulthood had fallen magically into place. She could smell the grease in the burger joint’s fryer as if she were behind the counter now, pressing picture buttons on the cash register and pushing plastic lids onto paper cups. She could see a guy with blond curls hauling a bag of fries out of the freezer and dumping them in the vat, his feet sliding along the greasy floor as he sang country music off key. He was cute and uncomplicated. He had been her first.
What was his name?
Damned if she knew.
She swung her feet onto the floor and stood up, but her legs were unsteady. She swore and sat back down.
Not even bittersweet memories of what’s-his-face could erase the funk such a claustrophobic nightmare had left her in. Why would she dream such a thing? She could believe it was her imagination’s way of telling her that she was caught up in her covers, except that she hadn’t been. The blankets were still tucked along two sides of the bed; she couldn’t possibly have done much thrashing. So why?
She didn’t know. Under ordinary circumstances, she might not care. But there was a difference this time. This dream had seemed real.
She took a deep breath and stood again.
Well, it wasn’t real. Get over it.
If her legs were still
shaky, she pretended they weren’t. She crossed to the small bathroom and treated herself to another long shower. The process went slowly one-handed, but she managed, still conscious of how good it felt to be out of the hospital and doing things for herself again. When her hair was blown dry, she fingered critically through the selection of zip-up hoodies and fleece jackets stacked on the dresser. Clearly, Teagan had been looking for things that Jamie could get on easily over her cast, which was fine. But Teagan’s fashion sense had improved only marginally since the days of the baseball cap. While the shirts fit Jamie’s generous form somewhat reasonably, Teagan’s own slim torso must absolutely swim in them, and the baggy sweats were far too big for either woman. How could a mind as sharp as Teagan’s be so clueless in such a critical area? Being thin and muscular was Teagan’s best asset, why not showcase it?
Never fear, she thought with a smirk, Jamie is here!
She could and would get Teagan looking better. It was, after all, the least she could do.
With some difficulty, Jamie managed to squirm one-handedly into the provided plain-Jane underwear (which appeared never to have been worn before) and stretchy sports bra (which stretched so much Teagan would probably never wear it again). She then shrugged on the least objectionable of the fleece tops and sweatpants and moved to the mirror to fix her face.
Jamie smiled. Aside from the yellow eyes, she didn’t look half bad this morning. She couldn’t do much with her hair because her scalp still hurt around the staples, but it looked windblown and clean and was still perfectly, naturally blond. She was grateful the hospital hadn’t shaved her bald. Guys liked her hair.
Joshua. Was that his name? Or maybe it was Jason.
The nightmare butted against her conscious brain, nagging at her to dwell on it. But she was determined not to. As she applied her makeup she focused on the fast-food job instead, trying to match her sensory memories with the concrete words and numbers that should go hand in hand. But her efforts were fruitless. She could remember that her erstwhile paramour had a moon-shaped scar on his abdomen, the result of a motorcycle accident. She could remember that he was allergic to shellfish, that he played bass guitar, and that he owned a pair of cowboy boots made of rattlesnake skin. But she could not remember his name.
Her stomach rumbled. Despite the day’s unsettling start, she was famished. Surely Teagan had some food in the house. She only wished she’d eaten more at dinner…
A dark cloud penetrated her thoughts. Eric.
She had forgotten.
She moved back to the bed and sank down on it. The nightmare hadn’t been a complete waste after all, had it? It had at least displaced her other one.
Damn. What had happened between Teagan and her husband last night after Jamie returned to the apartment? She had been too tired to worry about it then, too exhausted to contemplate her options. Had Eric told Teagan that he and Jamie were lovers?
She glanced at the digital clock on the microwave. It was almost ten o’clock. Teagan had said she would drop by before she left for work. Surely she must be gone by now. She hadn’t stopped in after all.
She probably never will again.
Jamie rose from the bed, her empty stomach feeling heavy. Maybe Eric hadn’t told his wife anything. Maybe Teagan had simply decided to let Jamie sleep. She was considerate about things like that; she was a good friend.
You mean she used to be.
Jamie ignored the internal pessimism. She slipped on her coat and headed for the door. She was not going to give up on Teagan, no matter how bad things looked. Maybe she had done that in the past—let friendships slip away—but it wasn’t going to happen this time. She wouldn’t let it.
The voice of one of her more annoying foster siblings popped mercilessly into her head. Don’t you have ANY friends?
Of course I do! Jamie had retorted. I have a best friend. Her name is Teagan, and we’re really more like sisters than friends. I spend every summer with her family at Indian Lake. Her parents are rich, and they let us go sailing, and waterskiing, and…
Jamie paused at the door, her hand on the knob. Teagan had no idea for how long—and to what extent—she had been Jamie’s rock. Letters or no letters, Jamie had clung to their friendship like a child to a teddy bear, from house to house, family to family, disappointment after disappointment. Her mother might be dead, but Teagan, near or far, in contact or out of it, was still alive—and that meant there was hope. As long as Teagan was still out there, Jamie knew that there was at least one person in the whole, stinking, rotten cold world who really, honest to God, loved her.
Some days, it had been the only thing that got her through.
And no damned guy was going to mess it up now.
Jamie braced herself for the cold and pushed open the door. It would be okay. Eric had no reason to say anything about her. Why would he? And even if he did, a little white lie could still fix it… he could just say they had dated, and leave it at that. She could explain to Teagan that whatever happened with Eric was a long time ago, and that she didn’t even remember it…
Jamie stopped short on the landing.
But she would remember soon, wouldn’t she? And if her sensory recall proved as astute as it did with the fry cook, she was in for one hell of a slideshow.
She shook herself and started down the stairs. Teagan could not know. She just couldn’t. If Eric was stupid enough to tell her, he was too stupid a man for Jamie to have become involved with in the first place.
She chuckled ruefully, her breath forming a visible vapor on the cold morning air.
Not even she believed that one.
***
“Are you sure about the name this time?” the detective asked, his tone openly skeptical.
Ordinarily, such rudeness wouldn’t make a dent in Teagan’s well-worn psychological armor. But this morning, she was in no mood.
“No, I’m not sure,” she snapped into the telephone receiver. “So if you have anything more certain, please feel free to use it. I’m giving you the name she used five and half years ago. As of last night, she hadn’t remembered anything more recent than that.”
The detective cleared his throat. “So she still has no memory of the events leading up to the attack.”
“None.”
“But earlier things are coming back?”
“Steadily.”
There was a pause on the line, and Teagan felt suddenly contrite. It was unlike her to be such a shrew; not only was it unprofessional, but she knew it would get her nowhere. What was she thinking?
“It’s only a matter of time,” she continued, modulating her tone. “At the rate she’s going, I think she’ll remember everything by tomorrow or Monday. But at least we know now that she was enrolled at Pitt under the name Jamie Meadows. Surely that can speed things up? I mean, every day that passes, this guy’s trail is going to get colder, right?”
“Right,” the detective murmured. It sounded like he was typing on a keyboard.
“Have you come up with anything else about the attack?” Teagan pressed. “Has anyone reported her missing yet? Any potential witnesses?”
The clicking stopped. “Still no missing person reports that match. As for witnesses, we’re not going to get any new ones stepping forward unless we involve the media—start circulating her picture and asking the public for help. We’ve been holding off on that because you said you knew her. But if this name’s a bust too—if she’s one of these people who’s constantly screwing around with aliases—we may not have a choice. We can’t wait much longer, not if we want to nail this guy. Memories fade. Witnesses move on.”
Teagan’s brow furrowed. “But couldn’t publicizing her situation feed information to the attacker about her condition, maybe even her whereabouts? Not to mention the amnesia thing making her vulnerable to any nutcase who wants to claim she’s his sister or his cousin?”
“That’s the risk we take, yes.”
Teagan closed her eyes, and dark images taunted her. Jamie�
�s face blue with cold. Blood from her lacerated head seeping into the snow. Her attacker watching the afternoon news, seeing a picture of her on the television monitor. Touching his beefy finger to the screen, tracing the line of her cheekbone with a fingernail…
“Let’s hold off on the publicity,” Teagan said. “I’m sure we’ll have an address to go with that name soon. She’ll remember everything herself in twenty-four hours. Maybe less.”
“Let’s hope so.”
Teagan hung up the phone. Acid churned in her stomach.
She had committed to helping Jamie get safely back where she belonged, and she was going to do that, no matter what. Her social work training had taught her the importance of relating to people without being judgmental—and she had not paid tens of thousands of dollars in tuition for nothing. Whether Jamie was her client, her friend, or both, the woman was in desperate, critical need, and Teagan’s concern for her wellbeing was sincere.
The fact that she felt an overwhelming urge to dump Jamie's picture-perfect ass at the nearest women’s shelter was immaterial.
She could hardly be blamed, could she? The woman had slept with her husband. Jamie might not remember much about that, but Eric sure as hell would.
Teagan stared at the phone. She wanted to call home, but she knew she shouldn’t. She had not only assured Eric that everything was okay, she had gone to great lengths to demonstrate it.
And everything was okay, really. What was the big deal with two people who used to date spending a couple of daylight hours together? Whatever Jamie and Eric had shared once upon a time was unquestionably over. Had they not broken up on their own, years before Teagan came into the picture?
Although just who had broken up with whom, Teagan didn’t know.
Her desk phone rang, and her hand swooped down at it like a lifeline. She was eager to keep busy. The last thing she wanted was to be alone with her thoughts.
Chapter Eleven
Jamie rapped tentatively on Teagan’s back door with her good hand. Her injured arm had begun to ache again, but she hesitated to take more pain killers. The previous dose had made her loopy, and the last thing she needed was an additional mental handicap. What she really needed was confirmation that Teagan was still in the dark about her husband’s prenuptial activities. Once that was settled, she could enjoy a good breakfast.
