Chapter 1 #2
“Out in the country, in a small horse-farming community. Bucks County, I gather. We’re just on the other side of the river in New Jersey—it shouldn’t take you more than an hour to get home.
Depending on the traffic.” He took a step back, surveying her.
“It’s probably a wise decision,” he added.
“Despite the memory lapse, you’re perfectly well, and we try to get people out of the hospital as soon as we can.
The insurance companies don’t like paying bills any more than the rest of us. ”
She tried to smile at his attempt at humor, but it fell flat. “A wise decision,” she repeated doubtfully, half to herself.
He was already moving toward the door. “I’ve given your husband instructions, but I’ll repeat them to you. Don’t drink alcohol, don’t take drugs, don’t do anything too strenuous for a while. Try not to start smoking again if you can help it—it’ll kill you sooner or later.”
“I smoke?”
“Not for the past two weeks. Fortunately you’ve gone cold turkey already, so you shouldn’t even miss them. Just take it easy and give yourself time to mend.”
“There...there wasn’t any brain damage, was there?” she questioned nervously.
“None,” he said, his voice firm. “We’ll give it about a week. If the amnesia continues, or you have dizzy spells, anything at all after that, I want you to come straight back here. All right?”
She summoned up her coolest smile. “Of course,” she lied.
He hesitated. “You might as well get dressed, then. I’ll send the nurse in to help you. Your clothes should be in the locker behind the door.”
She dressed quickly, surprised by the clothing they insisted was hers.
The raw silk suit, the ridiculously high-heeled shoes, the leather purse.
They were hers—and yet she had no sense of recognition.
They felt both familiar and alien to her, as if they belonged to a different sort of person.
To that stranger who bore a distant resemblance to the woman in the mirror.
She tied the silk scarf around her neck with the ease of long practice, just as the nurse returned. “Is it cold outside?” she asked in a deliberately nonchalant voice.
The nurse shrugged. “About usual for the end of March.” She eyed her curiously. “You did know it was the end of March, didn’t you?”
She smiled at her. “I do now.” She glanced back at her reflection.
She was Mrs. Winters, tall and leggy and well dressed, suspected of God knows what, on her way to meet her handsome husband whom she apparently hated, on a day in late winter.
And she was leaving behind the only people she knew in the world.
“You know, things could be a lot worse,” the nurse broke into her troubled thoughts.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve got money. You’ve got your health, even if your memory’s a bit patchy. Even though he’s a bit older than you, your husband has to be one of the most gorgeous creatures I’ve seen in centuries. A few nights with him should put the color back in your cheeks.”
“I thought you said we hated each other,” she protested faintly.
“Well, sometimes it’s awfully hard to tell the difference between hate and love,” the nurse said. “Maybe you can spend the next few weeks finding out which one it is.”
“Maybe. I just hope it turns out to be the right one.” She was unable to make her voice sound overly optimistic.
“If it’s not, I’ll give you my address and you can send your husband to me,” the nurse said, straight-faced.
She finally found she could smile. “I’ll be happy to.”
“Oh, I nearly forgot. Lieutenant Ryker would like the pleasure of your company,” she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm, picking up the discarded hospital robe and heading for the door.
“Don’t let him scare you—he’s all bark and no bite.
Dr. Hobson’s told him to go easy on you, but I wouldn’t count on it.
Just don’t let him browbeat you.” She smiled. “Good luck to you.”
And then she was alone once more, staring down at the shiny green vinyl floor and wondering what ghastly crimes she had committed.
None. She knew that with an instinct both sure and comforting. Unfortunately she had no memory, no way to refute any accusations.
Maybe she wasn’t suspected of anything. Maybe she was just being paranoid. She looked down at her elegant clothes and considered her absent husband. Somehow she didn’t think paranoia was a major part of her difficulties.
lieutenant Ryker was more than happy to inform her what her difficulties were.
He was a middle-aged man, with sandy hair, sandy eyes, and a tense manner that was slightly intimidating.
Not the ogre that the nurse had painted, but no charmer either.
She sat across from him in the private lounge and crossed her ankles with a casual disdain that seemed to come naturally.
“Mrs. Winters, we’re releasing you into your husband’s custody today—against my better judgment, I might add. You must remember that you have given your oath that you’ll remain in his care until this matter is cleared up.” His eyes were faintly contemptuous.
“What matter?”
“Dr. Hobson told me you have a temporary memory loss.” He looked skeptical.
“How very convenient for you. To summarize briefly, Mrs. Winters, you were found in a wrecked car near the Jersey coast with a dead man beside you in the passenger seat. We finally got an ID on him, no thanks to you. George Andrews. You had a concussion that may or may not have been caused by the accident, and the autopsy showed that rather than dying from injuries sustained in the accident, your companion had been strangled. Now obviously you haven’t the strength to strangle a man of Andrews’s height and weight.
Obviously, also, you must have a good idea who did it. ”
“Why do you say that?” she countered swiftly. “How do you know that man didn’t knock me unconscious before someone showed up and strangled him?”
“Highly unlikely, Mrs. Winters. There were signs of a struggle—you had bloodied and broken fingernails, and there was no blood on Andrews’s body.”
“Blood? What about DNA testing...?” From somewhere in the recesses of her knowledge came the question.
“It was your blood, Mrs. Winters,” he said wearily.
“And the dead man isn’t your only problem.
There’s also the question of three hundred thousand dollars found in the trunk of your car.
Your fingerprints are all over that money, Mrs. Winters.
Yours and Andrews’s.” His voice was hard, implacable and furious.
“You have refused to cooperate with the police from the first moment you regained consciousness, telling us absolutely nothing, and you still refuse to do so. We know several of your companion’s aliases from a fingerprint check, but after that the trail gets cold.
We know he was a criminal, Mrs. Winters.
A petty, blackmailing criminal.” He shook his head angrily.
“Maybe your husband will be able to convince you to do the honorable thing.”
And maybe you can go to hell, she thought silently, maintaining an impassive countenance. “What was I doing with this man? Where was my husband?”
“I think you can answer that far better than we can, if you wanted to. All we know of your movements is that you left your husband five weeks ago, two weeks before you turned up in that wrecked car. Perhaps you’ve changed your mind and feel like enlightening us?” He didn’t look hopeful.
She shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t.” Despite the man’s hostility she wanted the same answers that he did, and she made an effort to smile politely. “I simply don’t remember. Not right now, at least. I should before long, or at least that’s what the doctor assures me.”
He snorted, his contempt obvious. He must have thought she was a spoiled, frivolous creature, and yet she didn’t feel very frivolous, except for this silk suit she was wearing. Had she got it from her handsome husband, she wondered, the one she’d run away from? Or from her dead lover?
“Is my husband here yet?” she asked, dreading the moment when she had to meet the stranger who would have so much control over her life, the stranger she had run from. There seemed no way to avoid it much longer.
Apparently there was. “He’s not coming,” Lieutenant Ryker said shortly. “He’s gotten a friend of his to come and get you. I don’t imagine his feelings toward you are any too charitable right now.”
“I imagine not,” she agreed faintly, wondering desperately what, besides a husband she hated, would await her when she arrived at her forgotten home.
The answers were there. The answers she needed, the reason she’d run.
But more than answers might await her. She couldn’t picture a place, or a person. But she recognized the familiar feelings that swept over her as she contemplated her return.
Longing.
And fear.