Shifting Shadows

by Sally Berneathy

  Happiness mingled with sorrow as she accepted this as the final proof that Elizabeth had never existed, Mama and Papa had never existed.

  She read Analise’s letter again, searching for more pieces of her life, but none came. Finally she put it aside, sorted through more items, picked up a large brown envelope and pulled a stack of papers from it.

  “In the Matter of the Marriage of Analise Parrish Ryker, Petitioner, and Phillip Dean Ryker, Respondent.” Reading the legal phrases, trying to make sense out of them, she clutched the paper so tightly it wrinkled.

  Phillip had not divorced her. She had divorced him. The only reason given was incompatibility.

  Dear God, what kind of woman was she to divorce her husband?

  A horrible, shrieking racket burst through the silence. She jumped, dropping the papers and looking frantically around her. The noise screamed on, incessant and demanding.

  Heart racing, she charged down the stairs, following the intensity of the sound to its source in the kitchen where smoke encompassed the stove.

  *~*~*

  Dylan heard Analise’s smoke detector shrieking as he stepped out of his car and started toward her house with the box of chocolate frosted doughnuts.

  What now?

  He raced down the walk into the morning mist. Her door burst open and she ran out holding her hands over her ears, trailed by a cloud of ugly black smoke.

  “Analise!” She looked up as he called her name, relief flooding her frightened eyes. “What’s on fire?”

  She didn’t answer, just shook her head. He thrust the doughnuts into her hands and raced past her into the house.

  The smoke seemed to come from a saucepan on the stove.

  He grabbed a dishtowel to use as a potholder, tossed the pan into the sink and turned off the burner then climbed on a chair and turned off the alarm.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw her sidle tentatively back into the house. He stepped off the chair and peered into the pan holding the still-smoking remnants of something black and foul smelling. “What in the world is this?”

  “Boiled coffee,” she answered, her voice weak. “What was that noise?”

  Boiled coffee? He studied her silently, trying to probe her mind, know what she was really thinking, what she was up to. Finally he pointed upward. “Your smoke detector went off.”

  She gave a nervous, embarrassed laugh, set the box of doughnuts on her cabinet, then sank shakily into a chair at the table. “Smoke detector. Of course. I’d forgotten.”

  He let that ridiculous assertion pass. “Analise, why would you make coffee in a saucepan?”

  “I didn’t feel up to figuring out that machine.”

  “So you put some water to boil in a pan. Were you planning to strain the grounds through your teeth as you drank it?” He wanted to tell her to give it up, that he didn’t believe she’d lost her memory, that he wasn’t going to disappear and leave Phillip and her alone.

  “You put in an eggshell to settle the grounds,” she explained. “Grandmother taught me. Why don’t you believe me?” She surprised him by the bold openness of her question.

  He crossed his arms over his chest, regarded her thoughtfully, then turned away without answering. “Come over here and I’ll show you how to work this machine.” He wasn’t sure if his offer of help was sincere or sarcastic. A little of both.

  She moved to the cabinet and stood beside him, gazing up at him, her eyes wide and trusting. And that was all part of the deception, he reminded himself sternly. He couldn’t let himself be taken in.

  He snatched up the coffeepot, leaned over the sink and filled it with water. “Pour it in the top,” he said, hoping she’d mistake the gruffness in his voice for irritation with her ploy rather than the irritation he felt with himself.

  Analise had to make a determined effort to concentrate on Dylan’s actions and words rather than on his closeness. He pushed out all thought, filled her mind as he filled the room. He was big, tall and muscular, dark and ominous, but something inside her was drawn to him in spite of the aura of danger about him...or because of it. Like the Ferris wheel. Like sitting at the top and rocking the seat, scary but exciting.

  He was talking, his voice low, but she didn’t hear the words. She focused on him, on the droplets of mist beaded on his raven’s wing hair, on his jaw squared firmly below his full lips.

  He reached around her to open the pantry then suddenly stopped, frozen, his face inches from hers, one arm around her as if in an embrace. His eyes widened then narrowed, dark wells burning from hidden depths. He didn’t move and neither did she. She couldn’t. Her body seemed bonded with his.

  She ordered herself to turn away, to cover her face and hide her shameful thoughts, but his gaze held her firmly in place as surely as his massive arms could hold her if he so chose. She felt stirrings and desires she knew she had never felt before, certainly not with Blake. Yet those desires seemed familiar.

  “Were we lovers?” she whispered, needing desperately to know the answer.

  Her words seemed to release him. He moved away, leaned with both hands on the counter and gazed out the window over the sink. His shoulders rose and fell as he took several deep, audible breaths.

  “No,” he finally said.

  For a moment she didn’t believe him. He’d been feeling the same things she felt. She knew he had. Yet the single word held no lies.

  Still, no matter what he said, no matter what the truth seemed to be, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d known him for a long time, shared a closeness with him.

  She moved away from him, from the desires she shouldn’t be feeling, and sat down at the table. She scooted her chair forward as though closing that space would somehow close Dylan out of her mind. But of course it wouldn’t. It didn’t.

  She felt his presence behind her and knew then that he had been at his window watching her that morning when she’d seen a curtain stir because she’d felt the same presence then.

  “You put a paper filter in the basket,” he said, his tone harsh.

  She turned to watch the movements of his big, awkward, tantalizing hands. “You spoon in the grounds, flip this switch and wait for it to brew.” From the cabinet he picked up the cardboard box he’d given her outside and tossed it onto the table in front of her. “Chocolate frosted doughnuts. Your favorite.”

  With stiff fingers she opened the lid, took out one of the sugary rolls and bit into it. He knew her favorite kind of doughnut. She’d divorced her husband, and this man had moved in next door to her. He watched her bedroom window from his bedroom window in the early hours of the morning. But they weren’t lovers. Could she believe that?

  “So, when’s hubby coming back?” He set two cups of coffee on the table and took a seat across from her.

  “Hubby?”

  “Excuse me.” Sarcasm oozed from the words. “Your ex, Phillip.”

  She heard both jealousy and enmity in his words, and she was unaccountably thrilled.

  “Oh,” she said. “He’ll be back this evening, after work.” She thrust away the feeling of entrapment the idea brought to her.

  She lifted her cup to her lips and drank. It was hot and sweet. He knew how she liked her coffee too.

  “Are you going back to work today?” he asked.

  Going back to work? Oh, yes. Analise worked. She owned the antique shop.

  “I suppose I should. Who’s been minding the shop in my absence?”

  “Your assistant, Lottie Timmons, I imagine.”

  Phillip had mentioned calling Lottie at the shop yesterday. A picture popped into her mind. “Lottie!” she exclaimed in delight, grasping at the memory. “Short, lovely white hair, glasses she won’t wear unless she absolutely has to, reads tarot cards, plots horoscopes and makes delicious chocolate fudge.” She almost sobbed from happiness. She’d remembered someone from this world, and the memory was a good one. She couldn’t wait to see the kind, older woman.

  Dylan nodded slowly, extracting
a doughnut from the box. “So you’re getting your memory back.”

  Again his voice held an urgent note in spite of the casualness of his actions as he chewed on the pastry.

  “Bits and pieces here and there. I think I should go to work. Maybe that will help me remember.” And I’ll be with someone I can trust.

  He nodded, his eyes narrowed, studying her. “Maybe.”

  “Could you take me there?”

  “Take you where?”

  “To the shop. I’m afraid I don’t know where it is.”

  “Take you to the shop. Sure, I can do that. I’ll let you follow me there, but you’ll probably want to take your car so you can come home when you want to.”

  “I have a car?” she asked in amazement. “I can drive an automobile?” A picture of herself herding a speeding automobile down the street with others zipping around her sent her heart racing, then, just as quickly, she relaxed. Of course she could drive. She’d driven since she was sixteen. She just couldn’t quite remember how. “If you’ll show me, I’m sure it’ll all come back.”

  A flicker of belief flashed through Dylan’s usual skepticism.

  “You don’t believe I’ve forgotten how to drive or who I am or how to operate the coffee machine,” she accused. “Why would I make up something like this?” In her frustration, her voice had risen almost to a shout.

  He picked up his coffee and sipped, set down his cup, raised his eyes to meet hers. She could see nothing in them. They were so dark that no light reflected from their depths. “Because you’re scared.” His voice was no louder than a whisper, but she could have heard his words from across the room.

  Because you’re scared.

  Of what? she wanted to shout at him. She didn’t, because he was right. She was frightened and wasn’t sure she wanted to know of what.

  “I’ll grab my jacket and be back to lead you to your shop on my way to work,” he said, sliding his chair away from the table.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, her energy completely drained. She stared after him as he disappeared out the door and down the steps.

  Because you’re scared.

  Of him? Of what he might do to her if he thought she remembered? Could he have pushed her down the stairs because of something she knew, something she could no longer remember? The mysterious papers she’d hidden in her office?

  She closed the door behind him and leaned against it, drew in a deep breath and tried to reason with herself. Since she’d only dreamed about falling down the stairs, Dylan couldn’t have pushed her. She was having enough trouble reclaiming her life. She didn’t need to start making up stories about helpful neighbors pushing her downstairs, about hiding journals in her attic and important papers in her office.

  Because you’re scared.

  His words whispered through her mind.

  She raced upstairs as if she could run away from them.

  In the safety of her room she concentrated on selecting an appropriate outfit from the clothes in Analise’s wardrobe. A cream-colored suit and emerald green silk blouse caught her eye, and she changed into them, reminding herself that, since she couldn’t find a corset, Analise probably didn’t wear one. No one probably wore them now. Like the bustle, it would be a thing of the past. And that was a good thing. Analise’s clothes were definitely more comfortable than Elizabeth’s.

  She started down the stairs then paused, thinking of the attic above her and her journal. The memory was so vivid, maybe she hadn’t made up that part. Maybe there really was a journal. She hesitated, looking longingly up toward the attic stairs. But Dylan would be arriving any minute. She could search tonight when she got home from the shop.

  She turned back to go downstairs when a glittering on the fourth step, on the ledge outside the bannister, caught her eye. She moved to the step, reached around and retrieved the item, nicking her finger in the process. It was glass—a small chunk of broken glass. Crystal, she thought, judging from the weight.

  Crystal with one edge broken and the other faceted like she’d seen on the lamp in her dream. But dreams didn’t leave behind real, substantial fragments.

  Chapter Five

  For a long moment she stared at the piece of crystal, searching its transparent depths, searching the opaque depths of her own mind. At least one part of her fantasies had a base in reality. A crystal lamp had broken on the stairs.

  The need to find answers—to discover what was happening, who she was—possessed her with renewed urgency. She lifted a hand to her forehead and pressed as if she could push away the darkness. But both the crystal and her mind guarded their secrets.

  A knock on the front door startled her, recalling her to the present, to the fact that Dylan was waiting to take her to her shop. What would he do if he knew what she’d discovered? She didn’t dare find out, didn’t dare let him know. With shaking fingers she stashed the shard in her handbag and continued downstairs on rubbery legs.

  Standing on her front porch in his dark business suit, Dylan almost looked like an ordinary businessman on his way to the office, an innocent, helpful neighbor. But his bottomless eyes weren’t innocent. The muscles beneath that jacket weren’t innocent. She’d been lifted and carried in those arms as if she were weightless.

  She shuddered as she remembered the feel of hands on her shoulders in her dream, the dream about a broken lamp. How easy it would have been for someone of his strength to push her.

  “Got your keys?”

  She realized he was speaking to her. “Keys?”

  “To the car.”

  He reached around her. She held her breath in fear of the murderous touch from the dream, in anticipation of the thrilling touch only a few minutes before when he’d been making coffee.

  But his hand remained a careful hairsbreadth away as he pulled the ring of keys from the hook just inside the still open door. Heart racing, she stepped aside, permitting him to close and lock the door.

  Without a word he turned and strode away through the mist to the white automobile sitting in the street in front of the house. She hurried to catch up.

  He slid a key into the door then motioned her inside.

  Tentatively she settled onto the soft seat in front of the steering wheel, searching in the chaos of her mind for the memory of driving. She knew it was there somewhere, but the piece of crystal in her handbag loomed so large it obscured all else.

  Dylan went around to the other side, got in and handed her the ring of keys.

  “Put the key in the ignition.”

  “Uh...” She knew where the ignition was, if she could just remember, if she could just stop thinking about the lamp shattering against the stair rail, leaving a broken piece for her to find....

  “Here.” She gasped as his hand suddenly covered hers.

  With a firm but surprisingly gentle grip, he guided her hand, showed her how to put the key into a slot beneath the steering wheel. “Turn it and give the car some gas. Put your foot on the pedal on the right.”

  She did as he said, twisted the key, shrieked and jumped when it made a grinding noise.

  He reached over and turned the engine off, then handed her the keys. “You’re in no condition to drive. I’ll take you.” He slid out of the car and slammed the door behind him.

  She had to agree with his assessment. She wanted to remember how, knew she could if only she could focus, but right now the thought of that piece of broken crystal in her handbag, of someone trying to kill her, filled her mind, pushed everything else aside.

  “Come on,” he said brusquely, holding her door open.

  She slid out.

  His car, parked in the street a few yards ahead of hers, loomed black and big and ominous...rather like Dylan, she thought. Though it was now familiar, she approached it with as much trepidation as the day before. When she was closed inside with him, she’d be entirely at his mercy. If he’d tried to kill her once, would he try again? Her heart pounded painfully against her ribs.

  Yet when he opene
d the door and stepped back, she slid in unresistingly, the way a prisoner might step up to the guillotine without protest, knowing there was no escape, resigned to his fate.

  She stared straight ahead through the windshield as he slid into the seat beside her. When he made no movement toward starting the car, she turned to look at him, expecting to meet his glowering stare. But he was regarding her curiously, the corners of his mouth tilted slightly upward in a sardonic smile.

  “You seem a little more comfortable about the prospect of riding with me today than yesterday,” he said. “You aren’t gripping the dash, and your knuckles aren’t white.”

  Almost against her will, certainly against her better judgment, she smiled back, a real smile, one she felt deep inside. She didn’t know anything about this man, had reason to doubt her safety around him, but she had a horrifying suspicion that he could compel her to ride to the ends of the earth with him if he so chose.

  He started the automobile and pulled away from the curb.

  “It must be tough, losing your memory, not knowing who you are, where you’re going.” Was he being sarcastic or offering an obscure apology for doubting her? Somewhere in between, she suspected.

  “It’s very disconcerting,” she admitted. “Actually, it’s terrifying.”

  He nodded, looking genuinely sympathetic for a moment. “Sometimes it’s harder to remember than to forget. You still don’t remember how you ended up on the floor, bruised and battered?”

  She clutched the edge of the seat, the tension returning.

  Was he asking if she recalled the broken lamp? The man in the shadows? Was he suggesting she had something she wanted to forget? Or that he himself wanted to forget something?

  “No,” she answered, afraid to say more for fear he’d hear the lie in her words.

  His jaw clenched as if he heard it anyway. “You don’t need to be frightened. If you remember something, tell me. I’ll help you. I’ll take care of you.”

  She bit her lip, wanting to clutch at the words, feel secure that he could and would care for her. But she forced herself to tamp down that desire. With the anger in his voice and on his face, his promise sounded almost like a threat...though she sensed that not all the anger was directed at her.