Книга - Remembering That Night

Remembering That Night
Stephanie Doyle


Greg Chalmers knows when someone is lying. That's how he ends up helping the police with an unusual case. A woman is found covered in blood, claiming she has no memory. Is she lying? He doesn’t think so. But for the first time, his attraction to her could be clouding his judgment!Despite his intentions to stay aloof, he can’t resist helping Eliza Dunning…especially when she becomes the prime suspect in a murder investigation. As they work together to uncover the details of her life, Greg finds himself in deep. And it’s even more important to prove her innocence….







Who’s that girl?

Greg Chalmers knows when someone is lying. That’s how he ends up helping the police with an unusual case. A woman is found covered in blood, claiming she has no memory. Is she lying? He doesn’t think so. But for the first time, his attraction to her could be clouding his judgment!

Despite his intentions to stay aloof, he can’t resist helping Eliza Dunning…especially when she becomes the prime suspect in a murder investigation. As they work together to uncover the details of her life, Greg finds himself in deep. And it’s even more important to prove her innocence….


“I’m not a liar!”

At her words, Greg was off the couch and walking toward her as if to settle her again. But Eliza didn’t want to be settled.

“I’m sick of this, Greg. I’m sick of being mistaken for some victim. I want this to end. I want all of it to end.”

“And it will. Once we find out who was in your house today. Once you get your memory back.”

His tone was gentle and reassuring. She didn’t want gentle and reassuring. She didn’t want a lecture by Dr. Chalmers on how everything was going to be okay when clearly it wasn’t.

She wanted to feel something different. She wanted to be the person controlling her fate. She wanted…

Taking two determined strides toward him she lifted her arms around his neck. “This,” she whispered against his lips. “This is what I want.”


Dear Reader,

I’ve had the idea of a human lie detector as a character for some time. Guys like the one in The Mentalist whose powers of observation—because, really, that’s all that skill is—are just better than anyone else’s. Almost like a modern-day Sherlock Holmes. I knew Greg was that character. I mean, what better skill to have as a psychologist than the ability to really “see” the person you’re trying to help?

Until it all goes wrong for Greg, of course. It was at his lowest moment when I had to imagine the heroine who might come along and save him. A heroine who needs a little saving herself. I thought, how does a woman keep her secrets from a man who can see everything about her? The answer was simple. She couldn’t have any secrets. So I made her a blank slate.

This is my amnesia story, and while maybe it’s been done before, this is my attempt. I hope you enjoy Greg and Liza’s story.

I’ve lived with these characters who have ties to the Tyler Group—One Final Step (October 2012), An Act of Persuasion (March 2013) and For the First Time (October 2013)—for so long that I wasn’t quite ready to leave them. So I’ve written two novellas with some of the secondary characters: Elaine, Chuck, Sophie and Bay. Look for the digital book with both stories available now!

I love to hear from readers. Feel free to reach out to me at www.stephaniedoyle.net (http://www.stephaniedoyle.net) or on Twitter, @StephDoyleRW (https://twitter.com/StephDoyleRW).

Happy reading!

Stephanie Doyle


Remembering That Night

Stephanie Doyle




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Stephanie Doyle, a dedicated romance reader, began to pen her own romantic adventures at age sixteen. She began submitting to Harlequin lines at age eighteen, and by twenty-six her first book was published. Fifteen years later, she still loves what she does, as each book is a new adventure. She lives in South Jersey with her cat, Lex, and her two kittens, who have taken over everything. When she isn’t thinking about escaping to the beach, she’s working on her next idea.


Contents

Prologue (#u4a9d671a-9702-5734-a579-604d9e5c88e9)

Chapter One (#u46718473-d719-5719-9333-6320c1e172b4)

Chapter Two (#u07accd81-0f59-5cb7-b61c-71a599d2ae3e)

Chapter Three (#ua58d9129-9c3c-548f-a12f-946a2efcd8aa)

Chapter Four (#uefa3f2fd-38d6-54b0-9255-30c8f67ae2a2)

Chapter Five (#u19ca8940-1d89-5106-b7c2-8467677ef610)

Chapter Six (#u8cb6fcfb-2230-54a4-a07f-45cfce9b3944)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)


PROLOGUE

“ALL IN.”

Greg looked at his opponent across the table. He watched the man’s eyes drop to the table. Watched him slow his breathing. Watched him try to erase every visible tell.

A regular poker player with years of experience no doubt. The old man had to be nearing seventy if he hadn’t already gotten there. His face was weathered. His teeth a hard yellow from years of smoking. Yeah, Greg was fairly certain this wasn’t his opponent’s first time in Atlantic City. It probably wasn’t even his first time putting what amounted to over ten thousand dollars up for gamble.

If Greg folded his cards, he would still leave the table up several thousand dollars. If he called and lost, he would lose both his stake and his day’s earnings. How many hours of play time was it? Ten? Twelve? He’d lost track at some point, but it sure would be a shame to have wasted all that time for nothing.

If he called and won then the world was his. At least for a moment.

Greg reached for his glass and took a shot of the subpar Scotch the casino provided. At one time in his degenerate life he would have insisted on only the best. Given his faithful patronage, the managers would have seen to it immediately. Plus they would have comped him a room and a meal, as well. Back in his Vegas days.

Before they’d figured out who he was. Before they’d ejected him.

Now AC was his last remaining haunting ground. The Grande was the last casino he could still play in. Once it ended for him here—and it would end because it always did—he would have to find Native American reservations nearby or private high-stake games.

Pathetic.

“Well? Are we doing this?”

His opponent was getting impatient. The man had asked the question with a laconic ease. Not a tremor in his voice. Not a measure of fidgeting in his body to give away his thoughts. No, he’d done a good job controlling his body language.

It was a shame he’d never really had a chance. Not against Greg.

Because Greg didn’t fold and walk away. Greg didn’t call and lose ever. Greg only ever called and won because Greg knew the outcome of the game before he placed the bet.

The man was bluffing.

“Call.”

Then it happened. The man’s lip twitched, his nostrils flared. He turned over one ace, which paired the turn, giving him a pair. His other card was a valueless ten.

Greg turned over his pocket jacks which wouldn’t have won had there not been another jack on the board. Trips beat a pair every time.

The dealer acknowledged the cards, pushed the chips toward Greg and there it was. That feeling of satisfaction.

It didn’t come from winning. Or from the money. It came from knowing that he’d been right. Again. That was his only thrill. That was what kept him coming back, day after day.

Tired of sitting and playing, Greg figured he’d had enough for one day. He piled his chips into a plastic holder. “Nice hand,” he offered his opponent, but the man only sneered at him.

He cashed in his chips and bundled the large bills into a roll he shoved into an inside pocket in his leather coat. He left the poker room, found the elevator to the parking garage and as he traveled up to the second level he wondered what time of day it was.

What time had he started? In the morning but not so early. It had to be night. Not that it mattered. He’d go home, shower, maybe sleep for a few hours and then do it all over again. Whether he did that during the day or at night wasn’t a concern.

It was quite a ritual he’d carved out. He’d make the drive from Philadelphia to AC. Find a table of players. Then read them until he could tell when each one was lying. In poker once you knew someone was bluffing—really knew it—all you had to do was wait for the cards to fall your way and then take them.

He wouldn’t call it cheating. Poker was a game of skill after all. If a person could defeat Greg’s particular lie-detecting skills, then Greg would lose. So far that hadn’t happened.

What a freaking awesome life he had.

Greg put his head down and hunched his shoulders slightly to diminish his height as he made his way to his car. AC wasn’t a safe city but the casinos prided themselves on keeping the criminal element out of their rooms and garages. As long as you didn’t venture out onto the streets or to the dodgy end of the boardwalk you were as safe as you would be in any major city.

Still, a man with over ten thousand dollars in cash in his pocket couldn’t be too careful and anything he could do to keep from standing out was smart. Despite keeping his head down, though, he kept his ears open. It’s why he heard the clicking sound of shoes hitting cement and felt the hair on the back of his neck rise before someone called his name.

“Mr. Chalmers? A word with you please.”

Greg pulled out his keys and hit the lock button. Two rows up he could see his car lights flash on. He drove a black Porsche 911 because a man had to do something with all his winnings. Sadly he knew he wasn’t going to make it to the car. Two rows away was probably one row too far.

The clicking shoes sped up and in an instant two men were standing between him and his escape. Two very large men with thick necks and beefy hands. He’d met their type before. At the Bellagio and the Wynn in Vegas.

At the Borgata in AC and the Golden Nugget just last week.

“Guys, it’s been a long day. I just want to go home.”

Thick Neck number one stepped forward. He had a short forehead, buzzed hair and a nose that had been previously broken. He wore a black suit and a tie that looked as if it struggled to maintain its hold on his bulging neck.

“Sir, my name is Victor Lario, I run the security for this establishment. It’s come to my attention you had a pretty good night tonight.”

“Yep. Great night. Great service. Love the buffet. I’ll be back.” Greg tried to step around him, but both men repositioned themselves to block his path.

“Sir, it’s our understanding that you have a good night every night you are here. Never down. Always up.”

Greg sighed, falling back on a familiar answer to explain his success. “It’s poker, not blackjack. I play the people and I win.”

“Yeah. It’s poker. That’s what I thought, too. I thought maybe you were one of those World Tour guys, you know. So I looked you up.”

Ah yes, Greg thought. ’Twas the price of needing a casino complimentary card for the extra perks, like free access to the all-you-can-eat buffet. He’d been required to provide identification. When he’d handed over his ID he’d felt that moment of panic, but the girl issuing him the card hadn’t been inspired to do any kind of background check. Probably because Greg looked more like a psychologist in his sweater and jeans and less like a professional gambler.

When she’d handed him back his license a few days ago with the card and a wish for good luck, he told himself this time would be different. He’d promised himself this time he would keep his head low. This time he would spread out his visits to not attract attention.

He’d failed. Just like he had the last time. And the time before that.

“Seems Vegas kicked you out of every casino on the strip not even a year ago. Then I checked with a buddy of mine at the Borgata and you’re not wanted there, either.”

“I know. You can’t imagine the complex it’s giving me being so unwanted.”

The two men stepped forward in the ominous way thugs have of silently delivering the message that they didn’t appreciate sarcasm.

Greg held up his hands. “If I agree to go peacefully and never come back, can we end this now?”

Victor cracked his knuckles. So cliché, Greg wanted to tell him.

“I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible, Mr. Chalmers. It’s important you understand how seriously we deal with the matter of cheating at our establishment.”

“It’s not cheating.”

It was the last thing he was capable of saying as Victor drove his beefy hand into his midsection.

This, Greg decided, was not going to end well.


CHAPTER ONE

“WE DIDN’T KNOW WHO ELSE to call. We’ve never seen anything like this before. We saw your name in the paper regarding a case you worked on with the Philadelphia P.D. We figured maybe you could help us, so we reached out to Ben Tyler.”

Greg was standing in the lobby of what was the Brigantine Police Department thinking he was less than fifteen minutes away from Atlantic City. So close he could smell the salt in the air from the ocean. A cold sweat broke out on his brow and he considered how lucky he was that no one would notice with almost 90 percent humidity in the air.

The Jersey Shore, even in the waning days of summer, was no joke.

“How do you know Ben Tyler?”

The sheriff shrugged. “Everyone in law enforcement around here knows Tyler. He has resources that can be helpful for any number of cases. Also we recently worked with a former colleague of his on a cold case, Mark Sharpe. You know him, too?”

“Sad to say I do.”

Ben Tyler was the head of the Tyler Group, a troubleshooting organization that pulled together some of the best minds in many different areas, including political strategy, criminal investigation, law, computer technology and well...him.

Tyler was Greg’s boss, for lack of a better word. Ben offered him various different jobs and Greg had the option of which ones he wanted to take. Which were all of them because they paid his bills. As for Mark, Ben’s former colleague in the CIA, Greg tried to avoid him as much as possible, which wasn’t easy because Mark and Ben seemed to be actual friends now.

Anytime the two of them were together, Mark would ask Greg to play poker with him because he wanted to see if he could bluff him. Nobody could bluff Greg. It was why the police had called him.

“Greg, are we doing this or what?”

Greg turned and found his roommate, Chuck, the man he credited with keeping him gambling sober for the past year, leaning over the lobby’s counter trying to flirt with the young woman seated behind it. He was pointing to things on her computer, no doubt trying to enlighten her on more efficient ways to use the equipment.

Greg had told him dumping computer knowledge on women wasn’t the best way to impress the ladies, but it was the only game Chuck had. Greg had to admit it actually worked sometimes. Lately, Chuck had had his fair share of female company.

Apparently computer nerd was the new hot.

Greg had asked his roommate to come along for the ride so that, in case his willpower faltered, someone would be there to back him up. He wasn’t sure if Chuck’s impatience had to do with the girl’s lack of interest or if he was concerned on Greg’s behalf.

Even Ben admitted he had hesitated before calling Greg for this particular job. He’d mentioned the case. Mentioned the location. Mentioned his concerns. Then asked, actually asked, if Greg thought he was up for it.

Up for it?

Screw that. He hadn’t gambled in over a year. He could freaking handle a trip to the beach even if it was one town over from AC. He’d snarled at Ben and told him yes he could handle it. Then he’d hung up the phone and told Chuck to put on some real pants. Chuck preferred spending his days in their waterfront loft that overlooked Penn’s Landing in clothes he referred to as his comfy-womfies. His assertion: a man who spent his life mostly on his ass in a chair in front of a computer needed to be comfortable. So pajamas, sweats and the occasional stretchy pants he referred to as men’s yoga pants, were the norm. Some of them actually had small animals on them.

Since Greg refused to be seen out in public with him like that, anytime they went anywhere together he forced Chuck to wear jeans. While Chuck insisted they pinched—although at five foot six and barely a hundred and fifty pounds, Greg didn’t know what the jeans were pinching—he usually agreed to put them on. Greg also tried to tell him that women didn’t have sex with men who wore comfy-womfies in public.

“Can I see her?”

The sheriff nodded and escorted the two men back through a room that hosted a bunch of cubicles. They reached a door that led to a short hallway that ended in another door. No elaborate two-way mirror for a small town sheriff’s office. Just a window that looked into a small room furnished with a stark wood table and two folding chairs.

The interrogation room.

Sheriff Danielson pointed to the door and Greg walked over and stooped a little to look through the window.

She was sitting in a chair, her shoulders slumped, her eyes dull, her demeanor defeated. Long, nearly white blond hair almost touched the table in front of her. Despite her posture, Greg could determine she was young, maybe late twenties early thirties, and slim in a charcoal-gray short-sleeved dress.

She might have been really pretty had it not been for all the blood.

“Okay, tell me the situation again. Ben gave me the details you told him, but I would like to hear them from you directly.”

The sheriff nodded. “Officer Hampton was out on his normal patrol. He spotted her walking along the highway in the early morning. As he approached her he could see she was covered with blood. He pulled over, assessed that she wasn’t injured, but when he asked for identification she couldn’t provide it. When he asked her name, she said she didn’t know it. When he asked her what happened—”

“She couldn’t remember it,” Chuck said, finishing the sentence for the sheriff. “Cool.”

Greg gave him a severe look. “You want to wait outside?”

“I’m bored.”

“Play a game on your phone. I’m working.”

“Fine. I’ll stay here and be quiet. But no more than an hour. You need to be in and out. You follow?”

“Yes, Mom.” Chuck was like a mother hen. And he’d brought him along for exactly that reason. Despite the fact that his roommate was younger than him by seven years, he had a way of grounding Greg that was beneficial to Greg’s continued gambling sobriety. He was almost like a sponsor, except as far as Greg knew, the only thing Chuck had ever been addicted to was hitting on women.

“You want me to talk to her and tell you if she’s lying.”

“It’s a start. I don’t really have any grounds to hold her on. She wasn’t carrying a weapon. There is no crime that we know of, except someone is walking around without a lot of blood. For all we know that might be a deer she hit with her car. If you tell me she’s lying, I’m going to come up with something to hold her for at least another twenty-four hours. Otherwise I don’t know what I’m going to do with her.”

“The hospital would be a good start.”

“But she’s not hurt.”

“Sheriff, if her brain is not working, she’s hurt.”

He seemed to consider that. “True. Man, you don’t think this is one of those bumps to the head that caused this?”

“Since bumps to the head that leave the victim this physically functional rarely cause memory loss, I’m going to say no.”

“Maybe we should hit her on the head again and see if her memory comes back. You know like...what was that show? Was that The Brady Bunch?” Chuck asked.

“Gilligan’s Island,” Greg corrected. “And that idea is as ridiculous now as it was on the show. But thank you for your insightfulness.”

“Dude, she’s got amnesia. That’s totally cray-cray.”

“Chuck. You’re almost thirty. It’s time you stop talking like a teenager. It’s only crazy if she’s telling the truth. Which she most likely isn’t. Sheriff, I don’t know how much you know about memory loss...”

“Nothing. Which is why I called you here.”

“It’s highly unlikely. True memory loss like you’re describing is usually associated with a traumatic brain injury. As I said, if she’d suffered such an injury it’s unlikely she’d be upright and walking along a highway. Hysterical amnesia, which could be caused by a traumatic event, is most likely what she’s trying to emulate. However, in most cases this form of amnesia is temporary and only affects one’s memory of a particular period surrounding the traumatic event and not a person’s whole life. Like a rape victim who forgets the attack, or a child who suppresses abuse.”

“You think she’s faking it?”

“Until I talk to her I can’t be sure of course, but my guess is most likely. Which, if she’s covered in blood, means it’s a good bet she’s hiding a violent crime and you should consider holding her.”

“Hiding a crime by walking down a highway on a Sunday morning in a bloody dress? That’s not exactly covert.”

“She could already be strategizing a defense.”

“Dude, you are so cynical,” Chuck noted. “Sheriff, please understand my friend here doesn’t believe anyone, ever.”

Greg considered the veracity of that statement. Chuck wasn’t exactly wrong. “Only because I know they are lying. Okay, let me talk to her. We’ll see how good of a show she can put on for me.”

“Will it matter?” the sheriff wondered.

Greg shook his head. “Nope. Pathological liar or a great actress. None of it will fool me.”

* * *

THE DOOR OPENED AND SHE looked up. Another face. A man, a tall man with a kind face and dark curly hair that was too long and a bit ruffled. He wasn’t wearing a uniform.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Greg Chalmers and I would like to talk to you, if that’s okay.”

No, it wasn’t okay. He was going to ask her questions. Questions she didn’t know the answer to. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe. She knew slow deep breathing was supposed to help. It was supposed to calm her.

She didn’t know how she knew it. She just did.

He sat down, or more accurately folded himself into the chair across the table. She could see that his smile, while gentle, was wholly insincere. She didn’t blame him for that. She was as skeptical as he was. This wasn’t happening to her. This wasn’t possible.

She couldn’t even look down at herself because the bloodstains were still there and they were starting to make her nauseous. They’d given her a washcloth to clean her hands and her face, but the smell was still there. Also that hint of metallic flavor on her tongue as if some had gotten in her mouth. No matter how many glasses of water she consumed, it was still here.

Maybe that was what she was. A vampire. A hysterical idea, except it wasn’t any crazier than what she actually was. A woman with no memory.

“Don’t,” she muttered before he could start. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want to ask you some questions.”

“I know. I know this is a police station. I know this is blood on my dress. I know this. I don’t...I can’t...It’s like...I can’t even explain it.”

“What’s the first thing you remember?”

She closed her eyes. “The sound of the siren. I heard a siren and I thought to move out of the way. Then I realized I wasn’t in a car. I was walking. I stopped and the officer got out of his car and approached me.”

“He asked you for identification.”

“I didn’t have my purse.”

“Normally you do, though?”

“Of course. I carry a purse. I can’t ever find my keys in it. It’s big. I have a big purse and the keys are always at the bottom. I know that. I know that’s true.”

She couldn’t see the purse in her head. She could only recall the sensation of digging in it with her hands. The jingling sound of keys. She struggled to latch on to that. Willed herself to see something, any picture in her mind of her purse or her wallet and where they might be. But there was nothing. Just this small room and this man with the eyes that didn’t match his face. They were brown, but they weren’t nice. Not like his smile or his casual attire or the way his body relaxed into the chair. It all suggested he was a laid-back person. A nice guy.

But his eyes weren’t nice. They were...cold.

She started hyperventilating.

“Hey, calm down. Deep breaths.”

She nodded. She felt like that phrase had been her mantra at one point. “Deep breaths,” she repeated. “Deep breaths.” She tried to take one after each time she said it. Her lungs slowed.

“Okay. That’s better. Now can you remember anything else? Any detail. Like your big purse or maybe a favorite place. Any small detail might help us find out who you are.”

She looked at him then. At his eyes that were pinned on her face and then moved to her hands, then back to her eyes.

“You don’t believe me.” She couldn’t say how she knew, but she did. It was as if he didn’t care about the answer she gave, only how she said it. “You think I’m a liar.”

“No. I’m only trying to help you.”

She shook her head. There was no help in this room. The officer wanted to help her. When he found her on the side of the road he was worried she was hurt. Worried she was in pain. She knew what it felt like to have someone want to help her.

“You’re lying.”

He shifted then as his lean body worked to find a more comfortable position in the chair. “Why do you think so?”

“Because your eyes are...mean. I’m sorry if that’s harsh. But you’re sitting there like you’re relaxed, but your eyes don’t match. They’re almost cruel. So I think you’re lying. You think I know who I am. What happened.”

After a moment, he shrugged. “Yeah, I do. I think amnesia is very rare, especially to the extent you’re claiming.”

Amnesia. It was a ridiculous word. A word from daytime TV and silly sitcoms. Bad fiction books.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t really be happening to her. “I agree with you. That isn’t possible.” This was just a temporary lapse. A crazy event that would be reversed in a minute when her life and her name and this morning came back to her.

“Then tell me what your name is.”

He said it so gently. As if he was helping her to say the thing she really wanted to say. And she really did want to say it.

My name is...

My name is... And I’m from...

My name is...

She closed her eyes and pushed her brain to function. She did math in her head. Odd numbers she added together easily. Multiplication tables. Eights. Nines. Twelves. She knew that without effort. She thought of books. She knew who Harry Potter was. He was a wizard. With friends. The books were about magic.

Movies. The Sound of Music. When Maria finally kisses the captain. She knew that was her favorite scene.

My name is...I like The Sound of Music and Harry Potter.

She met the man’s eyes, the scary ones, and shook her head.

“I don’t know it. I don’t know my name. Please help me. Please, please help me.”

* * *

GREG SHUT THE DOOR BEHIND him carefully, silently. The sheriff’s eyebrows were almost off his head waiting for his assessment.

“Well?”

“Yeah, what’s the word, Cruel Eyes? That’s totally your new nickname, by the way.”

Chuck was laughing at his own joke, but Greg didn’t think it was funny. Mean and cruel. He’d never had those words associated with him before. He’d spent his life making people comfortable with him, getting them to open up to him. He’d been a support and comfort to people for years when he’d been a psychologist.

Only he wasn’t a psychologist anymore. Now he was a cynic. A cruel one, apparently.

“I don’t know.”

“What? I thought you were an expert in this stuff,” the sheriff complained.

Chuck snorted. “Come on. You know she’s lying. You said it.”

“No, I only think she’s lying. And that’s based on the statistical improbability of her condition. However, physically she showed no signs of it.”

Chuck let out a whistle. “But that’s almost impossible to do, isn’t it?”

“It is. Unless she’s a sociopath or so completely delusional she doesn’t believe she’s lying. Which is, statistically speaking, also unlikely.”

“Buddy, I don’t care about the damn statistics. Does this girl not know her name or what?”

Greg turned and looked through the window again. She was still sitting the same way. Only, if anything, she looked even more defeated. Because when she’d asked him to help her, he’d gotten up and left her instead.

He didn’t help people anymore. Except the need, the physical need, to spend more time with this woman, to dig deeper into her brain, was almost as strong as the pull of the casinos not fifteen minutes down the road.

In fact it was stronger.

Did she know her name? Could she have done something no one else had succeeded in doing before? Fabrication was easy. Controlling a physiological response to it was not.

“What’s your gut say?”

Greg turned to the sheriff, struggling a little to take his eyes from the woman on the other side of the window. It wasn’t conceivable. It wasn’t likely. But he couldn’t ignore the evidence because he didn’t like it. Because it didn’t fit with what he expected.

Instinct, intuition. Greg hated these words. While psychology was a difficult science it was still a science. Greg relied on it and the body’s physical response to stimulus. Based on the data, he could only come to one conclusion.

“She could be telling the truth.”


CHAPTER TWO

“TELL ME AGAIN WHY WE did this.”

Greg and Chuck sat outside the treatment room in the only hospital in Brigantine. A small facility, it mostly responded to severe sunburns, stomach irritations from too much cotton candy and the unexpected illness or accident that happened while families were on vacation. Brain trauma was no doubt outside their specialty but Greg thought their mystery woman should at least be looked at by a physician. Just because she was speaking with ease and moving without restriction didn’t mean there couldn’t be the possibility of some type of brain event. He’d volunteered to take her and the sheriff gratefully allowed it.

The truth was the small-town sheriff had no idea what to do with the woman. Especially given no crime had been reported that he knew of. Even though they couldn’t charge her with anything, she did volunteer to have her fingerprints taken, if only for the hope of identification. If she was a teacher she would be in the system.

Or if she was a criminal.

She also agreed to let them cut a small piece of her bloodstained dress. That way she could leave wearing it, and if the police needed to they could get a blood type and DNA from the cloth. Greg thought a lawyer might object, but she had willingly agreed to whatever the sheriff wanted.

As if it didn’t occur to her that she might be guilty of anything.

“It’s a Sunday. We’ve got nothing else to do,” Greg said in response to Chuck’s question.

“Dude, speak for yourself. I could be working. Programming my next app. Making my next million.”

“The world does not need another ‘Shoot the Squirrel’ update.”

“That’s the point of apps. You don’t need them. In my next version I was thinking of making the squirrels rabid. So if you don’t shoot them in time, they attack with foam coming out of their mouths.”

“Awesome. Please let me pay ninety-nine cents for foam-mouthed squirrels.”

“Don’t hate the programmer, hate the game.”

“It’s the nice thing to do,” Greg said trying to convince himself there was nothing more going on between him and this woman than a chivalrous act. It wasn’t as if he was trying to save her or anything. Just maybe...help her. A little. Which he didn’t really do anymore, but he was making an exception for her.

Why her?

Annoyed with himself, Greg stood. “She’s lost, helpless. You’re never going to get anywhere with women if you don’t recognize that when the needy, helpless ones come along, you have to step up your game.”

“Hey, I get everywhere with women. I have no problem with you stepping up and playing knight to this damsel in distress. If you think she’s really in distress.”

“She might be,” Greg said ambiguously.

“See, that’s my point. You are never on the fence. Why are you now?”

“Because hysterical amnesia is really hard to accept, but her body wasn’t conveying the tells normally associated with someone lying.”

“Do you hear yourself? You sound like a politician.”

Exactly. He wasn’t willing to commit to an answer. He didn’t want to say she was telling the truth only to look ridiculous for having bought into such an incredulous story. However, he couldn’t say she was lying when he didn’t see any evidence of it.

He suddenly had a new appreciation for politicians. Saying something without saying anything wasn’t easy.

Chuck was staring at him. Greg could feel it, but he didn’t want to acknowledge it. His roommate’s hazel eyes were like beacons of suspicion.

“You’ve got the hots for her.”

Greg closed his eyes. “Why does it always come down to sex with you?”

“Because I’m a man. Hey, I get it. She’s smokin’. Or would be if she wasn’t rocking the Carrie look, but seriously, man, do you really want to go there with a babe who has issues like she does?”

“You are ridiculous,” Greg stated unequivocally. “I refuse to comment further.”

It was at that point that she—because they had no other name for her—emerged from a hallway and walked over to them. She gave a little wave as if she appreciated that they’d waited for her. As if they were her friends. Which, considering that the number of people she knew in the world had been reduced to the officer who found her, the sheriff who questioned her and them, wasn’t all that wrong.

Greg met her halfway. “Well?”

“They took a CAT scan but didn’t find any evidence of a bleed. No bumps, either,” she said pointing to her temple. “And they gave me a concussion test, you know, look up, look down, that kind of thing. The doctor seemed to think I was fine physically. I didn’t know which day of the week it was, but I know who is president. Which is weird.”

Greg nodded. So it was back to hysterical amnesia, most likely brought on by an event. Given that she was rocking the “Carrie look,” as Chuck had previously pointed out, the odds were it had been a fairly traumatic event.

“Did he have any suggestions?”

“There is a specialist at Thomas Jefferson he wants me to see. He said he would call and see if he could get me an appointment tomorrow. It’s a hospital in Philadelphia....”

Her voice trailed off and Greg could see the panic start to take over as the ramifications of what she was saying sunk in. She had no car, no money, no identification. She had no way of getting herself to Philadelphia without hitchhiking.

She didn’t even have a change of clothes. Or a way to clean the ones she had.

“We’ll take you.” The words were out of his mouth even as her breaths grew faster and shorter.

She looked at him. “Why would you do that? You don’t know me.”

“I can’t wait to hear this,” Chuck said coming up behind him.

“Being a good citizen isn’t enough?”

Her suspicion was evident. What was less obvious was the bone-deep fear she was trying to keep at bay, but Greg could see it. “I think I should go back to the police. If they find something out about me...”

“Listen, the sheriff doesn’t have any place to hold you unless it’s in a cell. They already took your prints to run them through the database. If anything hits they will let me know. You trusted us enough to get in a car with us to take you to the hospital. If we were going to hurt you we could have done it then. You need a free place to stay, a shower, a change of clothes and a meal.”

“And you’re going to give me all that? For no reason?”

“Not for no reason. I can’t fully establish if you’re lying or not. If you are, then you’re doing so because you committed a crime and you should be watched by someone. If you’re not, then you’re a fascinating case I would like to explore some more.”

“I’ll bet.” Chuck snorted.

Greg slapped him upside the head.

She looked between the two men. “You’re asking me to trust you when you don’t trust I’m telling the truth. That doesn’t make sense. To go back to your place with you...”

“Both of us,” Chuck interrupted. “We live together.”

Her lips firmed and she shook her head. “I forgot my name. It doesn’t make me an idiot. Going to your home is different than getting in a car when the sheriff knew I was with you.”

“I’ll call the sheriff again. Do you have any choice?”

“Maybe you could drive me around. Back along the highway to Atlantic City. Maybe I’ll see something or remember something.”

“I’m not going to Atlantic City,” Greg told her. He’d pushed it enough as it was. Not that he was fighting any serious urge to gamble. She had become enough of a distraction to take his mind off that. But he was definitely feeling on edge. With her, with the situation. Even with what he was offering.

He could tell himself she was just a lost person he was trying to help out. A nice gesture. Something anyone might do for a fellow human being in need.

It was a lie. He wanted to know if she was telling the truth. He wanted to know where the blood came from. He wanted to know what type of horrible event might have overcome her to the point of erasing her mind. Her memories.

If that was the case, he wanted to cure her and he hadn’t cured anyone in a really long time. Intellectually, he told himself he should resist the temptation. He didn’t cure people anymore. Instinctively, he couldn’t help himself.

“Do either of you know a woman you could call?”

Chuck snorted. “Babe, there are plenty of women I could call. Like on a dime. Drop of a hat. I hit some digits and bam, next thing you know my doorbell is ringing.”

She looked at him skeptically, and then turned to Greg. “Someone you know well. Someone I could ask about what kind of people you are. I have nothing to go on but my gut here. So if I could talk to another woman, have her tell me what kind of men you are, then it would ease my mind.”

Chuck was shaking his head but Greg nodded. He took out his cell and went to his favorites page. Mark’s wife, JoJo, was his first choice. While Mark might be a thorn in his side, his wife had become one of Greg’s favorite people. He hit her number and waited.

“Yo, what’s up?” she answered.

“You in the middle of something?”

“No, Mark and Sophie and I were about to put on a movie and gorge ourselves on popcorn. Why?”

“Who is that?”

Greg could hear Mark asking in the background.

“Tell him it’s your lover,” Greg said wanting to do anything that might push Mark’s buttons.

“You want to get shot? You do remember he’s former CIA.”

Greg knew. It was a risk he was willing to take. “Tell him anyway.”

“I will not. I like you too much,” she teased.

“Listen, I have someone here. A woman. She’s in trouble and I’ve offered to help her out. But she obviously doesn’t know me or trust me. She would like to talk to someone I know.”

“Oh, this sounds promising. Put her on.”

Greg handed over his cell phone. “Her name is JoJo. She and her husband are people I’ve worked with.”

She took the phone and said hello. “Mostly I want to know if I can trust him and his friend Chuck.”

It sounded to him as if JoJo was doing a lot of explaining. He could hear her talking on the other end of the phone but couldn’t distinguish exactly what she was saying. Greg figured it would be a yes-or-no answer, but apparently JoJo felt she had to say more.

“And his friend Chuck?”

Greg watched her frown and could only imagine JoJo’s take on Chuck. They had a met a few times through different events at Ben’s house. No doubt Chuck would have introduced himself by hitting on JoJo before realizing she was married. Hopefully, JoJo would have seen through it and concluded that Chuck was all talk and a decent guy at heart.

Which was mostly true.

Finally, she said thank-you and handed the phone back to him.

“Did you tell her what a knight in shining armor I am?” Greg asked JoJo.

He was teasing but there was a pause for a second and then he heard a small hiccup. JoJo had turned into such a sap since she and Mark had married. “Yeah. I did. Because you are. You try not to be, I know. But I’ll never forget what you did for me. So yeah, I told her she could trust you.”

What he did for her? A few conversations. A few walks in the park. It wasn’t as if he’d given her therapy to help her overcome the tragic death of her sister and her subsequent split with her family. He didn’t do therapy anymore. All he’d really done was listen.

Not long after that though, she was ready to move on in her life with Mark. Who, beyond all reason, made her ridiculously happy. Go figure. Sometimes there was no accounting for taste.

“Thanks.”

“You’re going to call me or Mark tomorrow and tell us what’s going on, right?”

Mark and JoJo worked as private investigators. Mostly they specialized in criminal cold cases but he imagined they would be tempted to take on something a little more current if it meant giving him a hand.

First he had to know if a crime had occurred. Second, he needed to find out who she was.

“I’ll let you know when I know something. I promise.”

Greg shoved the phone in his pocket. “Satisfied?”

She nodded. “She said I could trust you.”

“And me, too,” Chuck chimed in, “right?”

The woman smiled shyly. “She said you were a bullshit artist and I shouldn’t believe half of what comes out of your mouth.”

Chuck’s jaw dropped. “I thought JoJo liked me.”

“She also said beyond the bullshit was a sweet guy.”

“Sweet?” Chuck groaned. “I hate being sweet!”

Greg laughed. “But you are sweet. Okay, let’s ditch the hospital. I’ll call the sheriff and let him know you’re staying with me.”

Greg started to turn but she reached out and grabbed his arm. “Why are you doing this? Really?”

“Really? I have no flipping idea. But it’s not like I had anything better to do on a Sunday.”

* * *

SHE LOOKED IN THE STEAMED-UP mirror. “Amanda. Amy. Alice. Alison.”

The names triggered nothing. She tried again. “Beth. Betty. Barbara. Bonnie.”

Maybe if she had one of those baby books. She could go through it alphabetically and wait until something jumped out at her. Then, once she remembered that one critical piece of information, everything else would fall into place.

She took a step back from the mirror and looked at her body. Despite her lack of memory it didn’t feel foreign to her. The three oddly placed moles on her chest actually looked familiar. She touched them and drew a line between the one in the center, the one that hovered over her right breast and the one that hovered over her left. As she made the triangle, it was something she felt she’d done before.

Her very own body art.

She’d already checked for any scrapes or wounds. There was nothing she could see. Twisting around in the mirror she didn’t detect any obvious marks on her back. That gave her relief. At least she wasn’t the product of some type of abuse. Not a victim.

Then why did whatever happen to you take your memory? Your life?

“Excellent question,” she muttered. But at least she was starting to understand the way she thought about things. She was cautious in nature. Which again felt right. Cautious women were smart women. They didn’t jump feetfirst into unknown territory. They were thoughtful and patient and wise.

Even standing naked in some strange man’s bathroom, she felt she’d handled the situation as best she could. She was at the mercy of human kindness with no memory, no identification and no money.

Greg Chalmers had offered to help her, but she hadn’t just accepted it. She’d questioned it. She’d gotten a reference from a woman.

This made her careful. She liked the idea of being a careful person. It soothed her and gave her back a little of her control.

Glancing at the toilet, she looked at the jeans and T-shirt she had placed on the lid. Greg’s clothes that he suspected would fit. The jeans had her a little worried. Yes, he was taller than she was, but he had no hips.

Staring back in the mirror, hers weren’t anything to write home about, but even a woman with no hips sometimes found herself stuck in boy jeans. However, the option of putting her own clothes back on wasn’t available. They were being washed, including her panties and bra. She’d never been so happy to strip out of clothes as she was when she arrived at Greg’s apartment.

A knock on the door startled her. She jumped then, checked to see that she’d locked it, which she knew she had because after she’d locked it, she’d tested it twice.

“How are you doing in there?”

Greg. He sounded worried. Maybe she had spent an overly long time in the shower, but the need to feel clean, really clean, had pushed her to stay under the hot stream of water until it had run lukewarm.

“Okay.”

“You must be hungry. I’m making spaghetti.”

At the mention of food her stomach rumbled. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Good.”

She scrambled into his jeans and gave a sigh of relief when they buttoned and zipped. Her butt was snug but that was to be expected when the owner of the jeans didn’t have one of those either. The T-shirt was a thick cotton and navy blue. She tucked it in and bloused it a little to create a loose effect. Satisfied she didn’t scream “here are my boobs, please look at them” she was ready to leave the safety of the bathroom. She’d already used a comb to untangle her hair and tie it up into a knot that would hold as long as it was still wet.

The two men were already in the kitchen. Greg was using prongs to dish out pasta and then handing Chuck a big bowl of what appeared to be sauce and meatballs. A green plastic container of cheese and a basket of white square bread she was pretty sure came out of a plastic bag sat on the table amongst the dishes.

This was wrong. Dinner was not being served properly. Instinctively, she knew that.

“You know if you pour the pasta back into the pot where the gravy is cooking, it will take on some of the flavor. Then you can serve it already mixed together.”

They looked at her for a moment as if she was an alien, but then Greg nodded. “That’s a good idea. We’ll try that next time.”

She approached the table and sat down. She wanted to be grateful. She was grateful. The shower, the clothes, the feeling that there was a place in the world for her to be. She owed these two men everything.

But, seriously, how could they call that tasteless white stuff that Chuck was spreading an inordinate amount of butter on bread?

Greg piled some pasta on her plate and handed her the gravy. She took two big meatballs, what she imagined was a hunk of sausage, and mixed it in with her pasta. She sprinkled the cheese from the container on top of her plate, disappointed that the powdery substance didn’t melt properly.

Without expressing her dismay, she ate. It didn’t matter that it was fake cheese and sauce from a jar. It was food. They were kind to be giving it to her. She would never forget this meal for as long as she lived.

Silence reigned over the table as the two men dug in. They both ate as if they were starving and, given how thin they were, maybe they were.

She looked to Greg and the thought popped out of her mouth before she could think better of it.

“You’re one of those tall, lean men who can eat whatever you want, aren’t you?”

He nodded around a mouthful of pasta.

“And Chuck, I bet you eat junk food all day long but never gain any weight.”

He smiled as he bit into his butter-covered bread.

She smiled and stood up, leaving the napkin she’d placed on her lap on the table. “Do you have a spoon?”

Chuck’s eyebrows rose. As he cut his pasta with a fork and knife, he shook his head. “What do you need a spoon for?”

“Third drawer over from the sink,” Greg offered.

Taking his direction, she found the utensil she was looking for and sat down again. With precision born of practice she lifted the pasta onto the fork, braced it against the spoon and twirled it until it was a perfectly neat bite.

After a few mouthfuls, Chuck got up from his seat and also found a spoon. Greg, she noticed did not, preferring to brace the fork against the plate and spin it. She might have protested if it was china, but the everyday dishware was made of sturdy material.

You used to eat pasta off of china.

The thought was the barest whisper along her brain.

Think! When? Where? With whom?

“We need a name for you.”

The question startled her out of her thoughts.

“We can’t keep calling you ‘hey, you.’”

She tried a faint smile. “I’m fairly certain ‘you’ is not my name.”

“What about Jane?” Chuck proposed. “You know, like Jane Doe.”

She frowned. “Jane. A little unoriginal, don’t you think?”

“Would you rather be Bunny or Cherry or something?” Chuck asked.

“No. I choose not to sound like someone who made her living dancing with a pole.” She stopped herself then. “That sounded really snobbish, even to my ears. I don’t know why I said that.”

“Maybe you know girls named Bunny and Cherry and they are strippers,” Greg allowed.

“I hardly think I spend my time around strippers.” She was offended. Then she realized how snobbish that had sounded, as well. For all she knew she was a stripper. Maybe it was the only way she could afford to make rent, pay for food and take care of her child.

Oh my God! Do I have a child?

“Stop with the what-ifs,” Greg told her. He reached over and grabbed her hand. “Your breathing is accelerated, your pupils are dilating. You’re in a mild stage of panic. Stop wondering about what you can’t answer. Take five deep calming breaths and then concentrate on eating.”

It was the way he said it. As though he was a doctor ordering two aspirin and a follow-up call in the morning. She did as he directed without thought and then went back to her bland pasta meal.

“For now we’ll call you Jane.”

Jane sighed and felt tears well up. It wasn’t her name. She knew it. Instead, she worked on her breathing and forced down her tears. “It doesn’t feel right.”

Greg nodded, and it wasn’t until then that she realized his hand was still resting warmly on top of hers. He made her feel safe, just with his touch. That was quite a gift.

“Okay. Then we know two things about you. Your name is not Jane....”

“What’s the other?”

“You’re the daughter of a wealthy Italian-American family.”


CHAPTER THREE

HE WATCHED AS JANE SCRUNCHED her face in rejection.

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“You said the name didn’t feel right.”

“Yes, I know my name isn’t Jane. It’s the other part you can’t know. Look at my hair.” She unraveled the wet knot that was now partially dry and it dropped to nearly her waist. Long shimmering strands of blond on blond.

“Genetics is a crazy thing. I didn’t say you were southern Italian, only that you came from an Italian family.”

“Oh, here he goes.” Chuck groaned. “He’s about to Sherlock Holmes you.”

“What?”

“Follow,” Greg began. “You refer to the sauce as gravy, as do most Italian-Americans. You tried not to, but you winced at the bread and the container of cheese, which means you’re used to finer Italian cuisine. You instructed us on how to properly prepare it, which means you have some expertise with Italian cooking. Your back isn’t touching the chair and the paper napkin was spread on your lap in a manner that suggests you’re used to using cloth. Also, you got yourself a spoon, which indicates you were raised in a house where manners were important. Manners are traditionally more important among upper-middle-to upper-class homes. Why I say you’re wealthy is that you looked at me while I twirled my fork against my plate, and then you studied your own plate as if you were concerned for the surface. That suggests you eat on finer dinnerware, potentially china, and china for everyday eating suggests wealth.”

Jane gasped.

“I know,” Chuck said. “It’s freaky. But he’s usually right.”

Greg watched her face, as she assimilated all the information he’d given her. Eventually, she nodded. “Okay. I guess that makes sense. I had the same thought about the china, too. And I hope you don’t think I’m not thankful for the meal...but the white bread was a little off-putting.”

“You just need to put a lot of butter on it,” Chuck suggested as he reached for another slice.

“It’s all just pieces, Jane. Put enough of them together and eventually they will start to paint a picture. When you see the picture it will make more sense.”

She nodded and reached again for her fork and spoon.

Greg’s cell phone went off and he pulled it out of his back pocket. Only a number registered, but he recognized the area code.

“Excuse me.”

He got up and walked as far away from the kitchen area as he could. The place he and Chuck inhabited was basically one large open space that comprised the kitchen and living area. Off that space were two bedrooms and a spiral staircase that led to a loft where Chuck kept all his technical equipment. By Philadelphia standards it was big and luxurious and something they never would have been able to afford without Chuck’s squirrels.

Unless Greg walked into his bedroom and shut the door, there wasn’t a lot of privacy for this type of conversation. He didn’t want his actions to seem suspicious, but he was afraid he had no other choice. He had a fairly strong inkling who was calling.

Closing the door to his bedroom, he finally answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Chalmers? This is Sheriff Danielson. That girl still with you?”

Greg imagined Jane might take exception at the description of “girl.” She might not know her birthday, but she certainly knew she was a grown woman. For that matter, so did Greg.

“Yes. She’s still with me. I told you I would watch over her.”

“Well, you’re going to need to bring her back in for questioning. We’ll need her clothes, too.”

“What good is questioning her going to do if she doesn’t remember any of the answers?”

“She’s going to need to try harder.”

Greg picked up on the ominous note in the sheriff’s voice that implied he knew something. He wished the man would skip the dramatics and get to the point. This was probably the most excitement the sheriff had had in a long time. “Why is that?” Greg asked.

“There’s been a reported murder. In Atlantic City. Witnesses report seeing a woman with long blond hair walking away from The Grande Casino early Sunday morning, covered in blood and wearing a gray dress. It’s a pretty good bet that’s our girl.”

“Who was killed?”

“See, this is where it gets interesting. You ever hear of Hector D’Amato?”

Greg’s stomach clenched. Sure he’d heard of Hector. The last time Greg had been in A.C. D’Amato’s thugs had invited him—in a memorable way—to never come back. In one respect, he was grateful to them because that last beating put him over the edge. The pain of it had been nothing compared to the humiliation.

Besides owning and running one of the largest casinos in AC, D’Amato was rumored to be involved in drugs and prostitution. Only no criminal charges against him had ever been able to stick. D’Amato’s assertion had always been that he was clean and his only crime was running a successful casino and having an Italian last name.

“Yeah, I know who he is.”

“He’s our victim. Found dead in the alley between his casino and the Plaza. A bullet through his skull. Lots of blood.”

“You suspect our Jane Doe.”

“That’s the thing, she’s not a Jane Doe anymore. Her name is Eliza Dunning. The witnesses who saw her walking away from the hotel knew her. She was an employee of The Grande, but the people we talked to implied there was more between her and D’Amato than that, if you get my drift.”

Greg did and didn’t like the feeling that came with it. A mobster’s mistress? He couldn’t picture it. Although, if she was present at his death—whether as a participant or a mere witness—it would be a pretty good basis for a traumatic reaction that could bring on hysterical amnesia.

If she was telling the truth.

“You’ve been with her all day. Do you still think she’s telling the truth about not remembering anything?”

Greg thought about her reaction in the hospital. Then what she’d looked like coming out of the bathroom, clean of blood and wearing fresh clothes. He had seen relief. Because she felt like she was getting away with murder? Or because her hair was no longer coated with blood? It was hard to know.

“I can only tell you I can’t detect any subterfuge. No physical signs of lying, anyway. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean she couldn’t be the best liar there ever was.” Good enough to fool even him.

She wouldn’t be the first. Tommy, one of his former patients, held that tragic honor.

“You need to bring her back down.”

“To AC?” That wasn’t going to happen. Greg was never going back there. Ever. Chuck could go with her if she needed someone to take her.

“Yes. It’s their case now. I let the detective know we found her and where she was staying. He’s okay if you want to bring her down tomorrow. If she doesn’t come willingly, he’ll issue a warrant for her arrest and have the Philadelphia P.D. pick her up.”

“She’ll come down, though I’m not sure how useful the questioning will be.”

“How useful does it have to be? She knew D’Amato. D’Amato was plugged in the face. She was covered with blood and found walking down a road twenty miles outside of Atlantic City. Seems pretty clear to me that she knows something about it.”

Damn it. It did to Greg, too. “Okay. We’ll have her there in the morning.”

“Thanks. And, Chalmers, I would appreciate if you don’t give her a heads-up about what will go down tomorrow. The ACPD deserve to be able to question her without advance warning, if you know what I mean. I can remind you, since we called you in, that you are a consultant to the police force...”

“You don’t have to. I’ve got the message.”

Greg ended the call and stared at the phone in his hand. D’Amato...really? He didn’t see it. There was something in her face that was too open. Too unguarded to have survived being associated with him. Of course, that was assuming the rumors about his criminal behavior were true. To date no one had proved anything. Was she playing him? Had it all been a perfectly executed performance? A way to set up her defense when she was brought to trial? Hysterical amnesia. Greg wasn’t sure how that would help if the evidence of her guilt was compelling enough. He should cut his losses now. Call the PPD, have them pick her up and hold her overnight. They could transport her to AC in the morning and the most he would have to do was give his testimony, if it even went that far.

So why was he hesitating? Simply put, he didn’t think she was lying. There was nothing in her actions, words or expressions that suggested she was playing a game. No physical signs that her amnesia was anything but real.

If he was being played, then it was because she was a master. And if he was being played by a master, he intended to beat her at her own game. Greg had been wrong once, but since then he’d rededicated himself to perfection.

But if he wasn’t being played, then the woman who just taught Chuck how to eat pasta with a spoon might need his help.

He wasn’t sure what was worse. Keeping her with him so he could study her, or keeping her with him because he wanted to be some kind of hero. Greg didn’t do hero. Not anymore.

Speaking of heroes, an antihero type came to mind. Someone who might be able to unravel the mystery of Eliza Dunning’s past. Interesting that Dunning wasn’t an Italian name after his original assumptions about her and her presumed connection to D’Amato. Of course it would be stereotypical to assume that anyone affiliated with the mob had to be of Italian heritage. The organization was so much more inclusive these days. All they cared about now was having hardened criminals willing to do bad things. Greg knew enough about D’Amato to know even he wasn’t fully Italian. His mother had been Puerto Rican.

Greg hit his contact list and tapped a name. He waited until Mark answered.

“Yo.”

“I need a favor.”

“Awesome. I’ve been waiting for this moment.”

“Why?”

“Ever since you helped JoJo deal with her past I feel like I’ve owed you. I hate owing people.”

“Wouldn’t it be JoJo who owes me since she was the one I helped?”

“She already paid you back today by vouching for your character. Which, had I known, I would have advised her against, if only to make it more difficult for you. I can only assume you’re calling about the same woman? We’ve been waiting to hear this story. Anyway, JoJo’s debt is my debt, too. It’s a married kind of a thing you wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh, really. And you’ve been married for what, three weeks?”

“Three amazing weeks...hey, is that it? Are you ready to follow in my footsteps? Do you need me to do a background check on your Match.com date?”

“I so wish I had called JoJo right now.”

“She would have told me, anyway. Fess up. What’s going on?”

“I need you to find anything you can about an Eliza Dunning and Hector D’Amato.”

“I know D’Amato by reputation. He owns The Grande in Atlantic City. Rumors are he’s connected.”

“Was connected. He’s dead.”

“Holy shit. Are you telling me the woman staying with you is involved?”

“Up to her eyeballs. Eliza Dunning. Everything you can find out about her, her past and any connection she had to D’Amato, as fast as you can get it to me.”

“Do I need to be worried about you and Chuck being alone with a woman who may potentially be dangerous?”

“Do you really think Chuck and I can’t handle a woman?”

“Is she hot?”

Freaking Mark. He should have called JoJo.

“Your hesitation assures me she is. Which means that Chuck definitely can’t handle her. You, maybe not, depending on how much she needs you. Does she need you, Greg? Because you strike me as the type to be helpless against a woman in need.”

Greg had to swallow his first answer for something less inflammatory.

“It doesn’t matter if she does or not,” Greg said, trying to sound blasé when he felt anything but. “I’m not in the business of helping people anymore, remember? Hardened cynic, lie detector. That’s all I’m good for these days.”

“Yeah, I wish I could believe that—I would be less worried about you and the damsel in distress. I’ll get to work. I trust you and Chuck can hold it together for...how long?”

“She has to go in for questioning tomorrow. ACPD wants to talk to her.”

“You going with her?”

“Probably not.” Definitely not. But he didn’t want Mark to know that the idea of returning to Atlantic City sent him into a near panic.

“Do you care enough to make sure she has a lawyer?”

Greg winced. “Hell, I would care enough about you having a lawyer if you were going to be questioned by the ACPD. They’re not exactly warm and fuzzy with murder suspects down there.”

“Can you blame them?” Mark asked. “How would you like to be a cop in a city of vice? You should call Elaine.” Mark disconnected the call and Greg considered his advice. He was already there.

Elaine was going to be his next call. Elaine Saunders worked for the Tyler Group on a contractual basis, helping out when Ben needed legal assistance. However, she also ran an independent practice for criminal cases. With the money she made working for Ben, she could afford to take only the cases that struck her fancy.

Elaine was a crusader who believed more in fighting for justice for the innocent, than making sure the guilty had access to legal representation. If she looked at this case on the surface, he couldn’t see her jumping on it. The amnesia would make her skeptical.

That was the problem with amnesia. It was an easy thing to lie about, because it couldn’t be medically determined, so no one ever believed it was real.

Greg attributed it to the fact that at some point in everyone’s life they had consumed too much alcohol, done something stupid and then lied about remembering it when questioned. Hell, he’d spent four years in college avoiding girls who wanted more than one-night stands with his patented, “Oh wow, did we hook up last night? I totally blacked out.”

Which made him an ass back then, but he certainly wasn’t alone in the crime of faking a blackout.

Amnesia, however, was slightly more complicated to pull off than a blackout. Greg telling Elaine he didn’t see any physical signs that Eliza was lying might intrigue her. That he was going to ask her to take on the case as a personal favor would seal the deal.

The people who worked for the Tyler Group were an eclectic bunch. Together they had lots of talent in lots of different areas. But they all had one thing in common. At some point in each of their lives they had fallen on hard times and Ben, the leader of their group, had been there to pick them up. It created a bond among them. They all knew where they had been and how hard they had worked to crawl back up from the bottom.

Greg hit his contact list again and found Elaine’s name. After a few rings her voicemail came on. After the beep he gave a brief synopsis of the situation and asked about her schedule for tomorrow. He finished with a request to call him back as soon as possible, but given that it was Sunday night he wouldn’t blame her if he didn’t hear from her until morning.

The ACPD was going to have to wait then. Eliza wasn’t going anywhere without Elaine by her side.

Chuck wasn’t going to be pleased about it, either. Elaine might possibly be the one woman on the planet Chuck didn’t have on his list to seduce. At least not anymore.

A couple of months ago Greg had consulted on a case for Elaine. She’d come by to review notes with him and Chuck had made some feeble attempts at hitting on her, until she put him firmly in his place. Greg remembered being amused by their interaction. Then something happened. Chuck did the completely unpredictable thing and started treating her as a person he wanted to get to know, not someone he wanted to have sex with and forget about.

Greg knew that Chuck didn’t believe he could wow a woman physically, but he did believe he could wow women with his mental prowess. The come-ons, the one-liners, were designed to showcase his cleverness.

With Elaine he’d been different though. With Elaine he’d been...himself. Greg thought they made a good match.

Then one night, Chuck came back to their place drunk. Greg knew he’d planned to meet Elaine that night but when he asked about her, Chuck had nearly bitten his head off. He’d been mad at the world and had refused to talk about it. Since then, Chuck and Elaine had been at each other’s throats.

Greg had tried to find out later what happened, as Elaine was someone who Greg needed to work with occasionally. But for someone who typically held nothing back, Chuck was surprisingly closemouthed about whatever had gone down between them.

He would have to get over it. Elaine was the best and Greg needed her.

He walked out of his bedroom to find Chuck and Eliza—no, Jane. He needed to think of her as Jane, at least for tonight. The two of them were washing dishes at the sink. Jane washing, Chuck drying. Jane laughing, Chuck flirting.

A piece of aluminum foil had been placed on top of Greg’s plate to keep it warm. Since he doubted Chuck even knew they had aluminum foil in the pantry, Greg knew who had put it there.

“Hey, sorry about that. Another contract I’m working on.”

Jane turned around and smiled. Her long hair, now dry, shifted along her shoulders when she moved. It was pretty the way it did that. “I hope it’s okay that we went ahead and ate without you. Chuck didn’t want to wait and I didn’t want him to eat alone. I can sit with you, though, if you’d like. Chuck says there’s ice cream.”

“There will be ice cream,” Chuck corrected her. “I’m going to run out and get some.”

“You’re going out to get ice cream? It’s after eight on a Sunday. Really?”

Chuck shrugged, evading Greg’s eyes. “What? I’ll find someplace open. A man needs ice cream every once in a while. You said you liked chocolate, right?”

“I think so,” Jane answered. “It sort of hit me that chocolate ice cream would be amazing. But you should get whatever you want.”

“No, no. Chocolate is my favorite, too.”

“What a coincidence,” Greg drawled.

Chuck didn’t bother to respond and darted out of the apartment like he was on a mission for the government. Greg sat down to finish his dinner, peeling back the foil and watching as the steam rose up into his face. It was a nice thing to do, keep his dinner warm. Something a mobster’s mistress would have done? Did mobsters have nice mistresses?

“I hope Chuck isn’t pestering you. He’s really fairly harmless.”

“I like him,” she said, sitting at the table, her hands wrapped around a damp dishcloth. “He’s so...open. Out there. You know what I mean.”

Out there was a pretty good way to describe him.

“I don’t think I’m like that.”

Greg pinned her with his gaze. “You remember something?”

“No. It’s just, when Chuck was talking and making all these silly memory jokes, I had a sense that I wished I could be more like him. More open with people. Which made me think I’m not.”

Her expression grew serious as she turned her thoughts inward. She looked exactly like a woman trying hard to recall something. As if she could squint out the memory through her eyeballs.

“Then you got a craving for chocolate ice cream,” he said trying to distract her.

“I did.” She smiled. “It sounded like a good idea.”

“I’m sure it will be. No doubt Chuck will scour the land to find you the finest chocolate ice cream there is. Besides being out there, he’s also been known to go over the top.”

She smiled again and it did funny things to him. Made him feel guilty for lying to her. Which was ridiculous.

“You’ll take me to the doctor’s tomorrow, then?”

“I will.” Maybe. If there was time, after Chuck took her to Atlantic City. If she wasn’t in jail by then.

“I’m really hoping I’ll go to sleep tonight and tomorrow I’ll wake up and this will all be over. Like it will all come back to me in the night.”

“It might.”

He could see that she hoped he was right and another dagger shot to his heart. She seemed so damn sincere. Clear pale blue eyes on pale skin with pale hair. She could have been a damned fairy princess.

Instead she was D’Amato’s piece.

“Look, you’re probably exhausted.”

“I am. But Chuck went to get the ice cream....”

“My understanding is that it comes frozen and will last until tomorrow. Listen, why don’t you take my bedroom. I changed the sheets while you were in the shower. If you’re right and all you need is a good night’s sleep, you won’t get that on the couch. Too soft.”

“Oh, I couldn’t take your bed. The couch is fine.”

“No, this way is better. It will be quieter, too. You really need to rest.”

She looked at him, assessing him as she had at the hospital earlier that day. He could actually see her coming to a conclusion.

“Your friend was right. Your woman friend. You’re a good person, Greg.” She put her hand on his forearm and squeezed for a second. Then she got up and made her way back to his bedroom, softly closing the door behind her.

“No, Eliza,” he said quietly to an empty room. “I’m not.”


CHAPTER FOUR

“WAKE UP! PLEASE, GREG. Wake up!”

He was sprawled on a couch she could see was too small for him. He had one arm flung over his eyes and a blanket that covered him only from chest to thighs. His feet were naked and for some reason she found it disturbingly intimate.

He was twisting now, moaning, and the forces of sleep fought against her relentless attack.

“Please wake up.” She hated the desperation in her voice. Hated the panic that was threatening to overwhelm her, but she had to leave this place. She had to find out where she came from.

Finally he lowered his arm and blinked open his eyes. After taking a moment to understand that he was on the couch and a strange woman was standing over him shaking his arm, recognition dawned on his face.

Along with suspicion.

“What’s the matter?”

“We have to leave. You have to help me look for where I live. I think New Jersey makes more sense. The city doesn’t feel right. It’s too noisy. I think if I lived in Philadelphia I would be used to the noise but I’m not. Maybe closer to the shore. I know it sounds crazy, but I was lying in bed and I thought what if I have a dog. It will be hungry and trapped inside.”

Greg slowly pulled himself into a sitting position. “Hang on. What time is it?”

“Almost five in the morning. Please, I know it’s a lot to ask but I have to try.”

He rubbed his hands vigorously over his face and finally looked at her. Really looked at her.

“You want to drive around South Jersey looking for the place you live, without having any idea of where that actually is, because you think you might have a dog?”

“I don’t know if I have a dog.” She got up from where she’d been kneeling and began pacing in front of the couch. She pulled on her fingers and listened to her knuckles crack, then dropped her hands to her sides immediately, having a sense she wasn’t supposed to do that.

Young ladies don’t crack their knuckles.

Greg was right. Manners were important to her. Someone had given her a sense of what was proper and what wasn’t. She could feel it.

“If you don’t know, then why are you so upset?”

“Because what if I do? I might have left not knowing I was going to be away a whole day. It could be hungry or thirsty. Trapped in a house with no access to food or water.”

Greg blinked. “Let me get this straight. You’re worried you might have a dog but not worried you might have a husband who doesn’t know where you are?”

“A husband can feed himself and pour his own drink. He might be scared, but he won’t be helpless or vulnerable.”

“What about a kid?”

“I wouldn’t have left a child alone. Someone would be watching it.”

He nodded. “Then I take it you’re not a cat person.”

“I love all animals!” That felt right. It wasn’t a memory but it was a sense she had. Of who she was. She would take that as a sign that she was getting better but it wasn’t fast enough. “Cats are more independent. A dog needs to be walked and fed every day. Please. I know it sounds crazy. If we drive around I’m sure it will come back to me. I know I’ll remember.”

He reached out while she was pacing and grabbed her wrist. With a yank he pulled her down onto the couch next to him. It was warm where he had stretched over it and she felt the side of his body pressed against her arm. She shivered.

“Listen to me, you’re panicking again.”

She was. She could feel it coming on. Her heart started to race and her lungs tightened. Deep breaths, deep breaths. “I feel out of control.”

“That’s perfectly natural. In this situation you are out of control.”

She shook her head. “I don’t like it. I don’t like feeling this way.”

“Who does?”

She looked at him then and there was a calmness about him. She sensed that he’d seen people in her state before and it didn’t rattle him.

“Keep breathing,” he ordered. “Tell me quick, gut reaction. You like big dogs or small dogs?”

“Big dogs. They make me feel safe.”

He nodded. “Okay, if you have a dog, especially a big one, that would mean you probably live in a house. Someplace with a backyard so he could run around.”

“I hope so. Big dogs need space.” She clutched her chest as she was gripped by an overwhelming feeling of sadness. She wanted to cry but she had no reason for it.

“Well, if you live in a house, then I bet you have neighbors. And if you live in a neighborhood, I’m guessing you know everyone on the street because you would be out walking the dog. A neighbor who knows you and your dog might see that you didn’t come home last night and might hear your dog barking. Maybe this neighbor would have a spare key. To collect your mail when you go on vacation, or let the dog out when you’re not there. I’m sure if there is a dog, everything will be fine.”

Her breathing calmed as he spoke and when she looked at him, she could at least believe he was being sincere and not patronizing.

“I woke up and realized I still didn’t have my memory and I flipped out a little. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“You should be sorry. I am not a morning person.”

She smiled. “You were a little hard to wake up.”

He smiled back. “Just be grateful you weren’t trying to wake Chuck. He’s worse than I am and he flails.”

“I thought I would be better.” Her voice cracked and she hated how completely broken she sounded.

He bumped her shoulder with his. “Can I make an observation?”

“You’re asking me? If I recall last night, and I do at least remember that, you’ve already made several.”

“Did it upset you?”

She shook her head. “I was ready to cling to anything you told me. Hoping it might trigger something. You can’t know how this feels. It’s like an emptiness. I want to say I’ve never felt anything like it before but...”

“But what?”

“I feel lost,” she said, dropping her head. Shame, deep shame, replaced the sadness she’d previously been feeling. “I feel like it’s not the first time, either. Like I’ve been here before. In this mental place. Only I don’t know when or why. I only know I hate it. What was your observation?”

“That. What you just did. Dropping your head, covering your face with your hair. You’re going through this major thing right now where you don’t know who or what you are. You should be angry this happened to you. You should be scared shitless. Instead I feel as if you’re...embarrassed.”

Embarrassment. Shame’s weaker twin. He was right. She needed to get over these feelings and start thinking about a plan of action. “I’m sorry I woke you. I should let you get back to sleep.”

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen now. How about I make us some coffee?”

“Okay. I don’t think I could sleep now, either. How soon do you think we can call the doctor at Thomas Jefferson to see about scheduling an appointment? I’m hoping I can walk or take the Speedline to get there. Then I won’t have to be a burden on you.”

“You call it the Speedline,” Greg noted as he stood. “Not the subway. You’re definitely a Jersey girl.”

He snatched up his T-shirt which reminded her that he was half-naked. Half-naked with a lean sculpted chest, covered in the same dark hair that stuck out messily on his head. She looked away as he dressed and padded over to the kitchen on the bare feet that had startled her earlier. He scooped out some ground coffee and put it in a filter.

She wasn’t sure why but she considered his nonanswer somewhat ominous. “You don’t think I’ll be able to get an appointment today. Is that it? Are you worried I’ll be stuck here longer? You know I was thinking, if you could lend me some money... Ugh, this is so awful. I know you don’t know me, but I swear I would pay you back. Before I washed it I looked at the label on my dress and I looked it up online on your computer upstairs. It’s fairly pricey. You said yourself you think I come from a wealthy family. I promise I would repay you. I think five hundred dollars would be enough to last me a week. I would have to be back to normal by then.”

“It’s not that...”

“Two hundred. I don’t really need that much to eat. Then I wouldn’t be so dependent on you.” She laughed humorlessly at herself. No, she’d just be in debt to him. She might as well have offered him sex for money. At least then there would be something in it for him.

If he was even attracted to her. Why she was wondering about that was completely beyond her.

“It’s not the money and I’m not worried about you being here for a few more days. I didn’t answer your question about the doctor because I’m not sure what your schedule is going to be like today.”

She snorted. “My schedule? Unless you know something I don’t, I think my schedule is going to consist of sitting on this couch trying desperately to remember something.”

He folded his arms across his chest and she could see his expression was serious. “I’m afraid I do know something you don’t. The sheriff called last night. I didn’t want to upset you, but you’re going to need to talk to some detectives in the ACPD this morning.”

Her heart thumped hard in her chest. “Why?”

“I don’t want to alarm you...but there’s been a murder.”

* * *

“I DO KNOW SOMETHING you don’t.”

“I don’t want to alarm you.”

It had been seven hours since he’d said that to her. He’d only mentioned the murder. As if it was just an inconsequential detail.

“There’s been a murder. You need to go in for questioning. I shouldn’t have told you that much but...well, I guess I did.”

It was all he’d given her. Not the rest of it. Not the most important part. Not even her name.

He wouldn’t make the trip to Atlantic City. Which was fine with her. She didn’t need him anymore. Now that she knew who she was.

“Ms. Dunning? Do you understand what I’ve told you?”

She stared at the detective sitting across from her and nodded her head.

Her name was Eliza Dunning, but she went by Liza. She was an accountant. She was on the payroll of The Grande Casino. She was also known to be a close personal—there had been a subtle emphasis on that word—friend of Hector D’Amato’s.

Hector D’Amato was dead. Shot and killed with a bullet to his face.

Liza looked down at her lap. She’d had to turn in her dress to the police as evidence. Her attorney agreed. Liza confessed to washing it, wanting them to understand that it hadn’t been an intentional attempt to hide evidence. The ACPD already had the original piece the Brigantine sheriff had taken and they didn’t seem concerned with the compromised evidence.

Now she was in a pair of too-big sweatpants and an Atlantic City P.D. T-shirt but she felt more comfortable in this than she would have if she’d still been wearing Greg’s clothes. At least the sweats and T-shirt were honest.

Liza turned to her attorney who was sitting calmly next to her at the table. Chuck had introduced her to Elaine Saunders and told her she’d be representing her during the questioning. They had picked her up at her office on the way to Atlantic City. Elaine worked on the other side of the Ben Franklin Bridge in New Jersey.

Just her and Chuck and Elaine. Because Greg apparently didn’t go to Atlantic City. Ever.

She’d listened with half an ear during the drive down while Elaine—a short woman dressed in a severe, professional suit, with an odd pairing of shoes—traded barbs with Chuck the whole way.

Elaine criticized Chuck’s clothing, his driving, his goatee. Liza might have felt sorry for him if Chuck hadn’t fired back regarding Elaine’s makeup, hair and clunky silver loafers.

Then Elaine had dismissed him altogether and called Greg. She’d listened intently to what he was saying on the other end before ending the call with a “Got it. I’ll call you after we finish.”

At the time Liza had thought how thoughtful it was that Greg had arranged a lawyer for her.

He lied to you. He knew who you were last night and didn’t tell you. Why?

“Ms. Dunning?”

“Yes.”

“You understand everything I’ve said?”

“Yes. I understand what you said, but it doesn’t mean I remember anything. I don’t know why I was at the casino so late Saturday night or on the highway the next morning. I don’t know whose blood it was. I don’t remember anything before hearing the sound of a squad car pulling up next to me on the side of the road. Do you understand that?”

The detective, a large black man with kind eyes, sat back as if reassessing her. Abruptly, the kindness vanished from his eyes and they reminded her of Greg’s, how they had looked the first time he questioned her.

“You don’t remember visiting with D’Amato that night?”

“No.”

“You don’t remember that you worked as an accountant for his casino?”

“No.”

“You don’t remember the man who was rumored to be your lover?”

“No.”

“Detective, do we really need to go any further?” Elaine interjected. “My client has explained to you she has a medical condition. A condition which she would very much like to have treated. You can sit here all day asking her questions she doesn’t have the answers to, or we can seek the treatment she needs.”

The detective’s scowl was menacing, but Liza saw that Elaine wasn’t intimidated in the least.

“Because we both know you’re not going to charge her.”

“I’ve got a dead guy, witnesses who place your client at the scene—”

“You mean her place of business. You have witnesses who saw my client at work.”

“Late Saturday night?”

Elaine shrugged. “Casino hours. It’s open 24/7. The fact that there are witnesses around the place proves that. Who knows what her normal business hours are.”

“Then, hours later, she’s picked up on a highway not far from here covered in blood.”

“Strange. As is her current medical condition. But you don’t have a witness to the crime, you don’t have a weapon, you can do a gun residue check...”

“I’m guessing since she was covered in blood she’s probably taken a shower since yesterday.”

Elaine smiled without humor. “What you have is a circumstantial, albeit strange, case. Let me take her to a doctor. Let’s see what he can tell us about her condition first.”

The detective pointed to Liza. “You don’t leave the area.”

“No, sir. But...is there any way... Does anyone have my address? Where I live? I would like to go home, if that’s possible.”

The detective left the interrogation room and came back with a sheet of paper and a large oversize handbag that Liza suddenly knew was hers. He pushed it forward on the table that stretched between them.

“You left it in your office at the casino.”

She took it and hugged it to her. It felt like a lifeline, something she actually recognized. One more piece of her puzzle. She was tempted to empty the contents right there and then and study everything inside, but she didn’t want to do that in front of the detective. Not that she could be sure he hadn’t already thoroughly searched it.

He passed her the piece of paper with her address, although she could have just checked her driver’s license. Reading the sheet, she discovered she lived in a small upper-middle-class historical town not forty minutes west of Atlantic City. How did she know that? How did she know the town, but not remember that she lived there?

“Jog any memories?”

She shook her head. “Not really. I know the town was founded in 1692. I know there’s an exclusive country club a lot of people belong to. I don’t know why I know either of those two things. I can’t picture what my house looks like from the outside, or any of the rooms inside.”

There was nothing but facts and emptiness. No memories at all. She turned to Elaine. “Please, will you take me home?”

Elaine gave her a hard look, and the skepticism she’d seen in Greg’s face that first day was there, too. Then, suddenly it was gone and she was reaching out to pat Liza’s hand rather awkwardly.

“It’s going to be okay.”

Liza didn’t see how. She was found covered in blood hours after a man she was supposed to know had been shot. She agreed more with the detective than she did her own lawyer. What were the odds that she wasn’t somehow involved in his shooting?

Slim. Maybe zero. But she knew she wasn’t the one who killed him. She wouldn’t have killed anyone. All she had was her gut reaction to what the detective said when he told her about Hector being shot in the face and that reaction said it wasn’t her.

Chuck was waiting for them in the lobby. Together, the three of them left the building and didn’t linger on streets that weren’t really safe even in the middle of the afternoon. The difference between life in the casinos and life on the streets of AC was vast. Several of the casinos had even gone so far as to build passages both above and below ground so if a person wanted to hop from hotel to hotel in an attempt to change their luck, they never had to venture outside.

As soon as they were in the car, Chuck handed Elaine his phone. “He’s waiting for your call. Thinks it was taking too long.”

“I have him in my phone,” Elaine said as she hit a few buttons. “You should take the Black Horse Pike, it’s more direct.”

“And slower than mud. I’m taking the AC Expressway.”

Elaine huffed. “Why do I have the feeling if I had said to take the AC Expressway you would have taken the Black Horse Pike?”

Chuck considered that. “Probably because I would have. Why do you feel the need to determine which route the driver is going to take when you are, in fact, the passenger?”

“Because having been your passenger more times than I would like to remember I know from experience you have a lousy sense of direction.”

Chuck was about to fire back when Elaine stopped him with a raised finger.

“Greg, it’s me. Hey, we’re done. I’m taking her home first. Yes. No. I don’t know...that’s the best that I can give you. But I can tell you it’s a lot more than when you told me the situation this morning. She’s very convincing...”

Liza clenched her teeth, feeling a burst of rage surfacing. She wanted to hit her fists against the seat in front of her to remind Elaine that she was there. But she didn’t. Instead, she simply said, “I’m sitting behind you in the backseat. It’s not polite to talk about people in front of them like that.”

Her attorney thought she was convincing. Liza didn’t imagine that was a good sign because it began with the premise that Liza was trying to convince someone of something when all she was doing was experiencing what was happening to her.

Just because Greg had decided Elaine could represent her didn’t mean Liza had to retain her as her lawyer. There were other lawyers. Maybe other ones she knew personally. Maybe when she saw the town where she lived and her house, it would be the thing she needed to bring her life back. Once that happened she could function again.

“He wants to talk to you.”

Liza stared at the phone. She thought about simply refusing. He’d helped her, yes. But then he’d withheld information from her. It felt like a betrayal. She didn’t owe him anything as a result.

Then she changed her mind, her anger still dictating her actions.

She wanted to tell him she didn’t care if he believed her or not. She wanted to tell him not telling someone what her name was when she’d forgotten it was the cruelest thing she could imagine. She wanted to tell him he could take his doubt and his judgmental eyes and go jump off a bridge.

She took the phone. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I was instructed not to. The police wanted to be able to see your reaction firsthand. I shouldn’t have even told you about the murder, but I didn’t want you to be completely blindsided.”

“Screw you. This is my life you’re playing with.”

“Hey, I’m the one who helped you, remember?”

“Yes. It’s very easy to remember every detail when your whole life as you know it consists of a little more than twenty-four hours. You knew who I was, you knew my name and you didn’t tell me.”

“Eliza. Wake up. You’re a murder suspect. Do you get that?”

She was an amnesiac, she was not stupid. “It’s not Eliza. It’s Liza. And, yes, I get it. What I don’t get is why you care.”

Liza ended the call and handed the phone through the seats to Elaine.

“I appreciate you representing me for my interrogation but I’ll no longer be needing your services. You can send me a bill for your time this morning.”

Elaine turned around in the front seat and looked at her with a frown. “You don’t want to do that, honey. I’m the best. I get why you’re ticked at Greg, but, honestly, he didn’t have a choice.”

“He could have told me my name. He could have given me that much.”

“Maybe,” Chuck said. “But if he had, would you have been satisfied with that? Listen to Elaine. You need help. Serious help. And she’s right about being the best.”

Elaine’s head snapped toward Chuck. “Did you just compliment me?”

“Hell, no. I save compliments for two things. My mother’s cooking because I want more of it and sex because I want more of that, too. Telling Jane...Liza, I mean, that you’re a good attorney is a fact. You wouldn’t be part of the Tyler Group if you weren’t.”

“I’m taking it as a compliment, anyway. And reminding you that you’re talented enough that you could be working for the Tyler Group, too.”

“What and give up the squirrels?” Chuck shook his head, clearly exasperated. “That is so like you. First, I tell you it’s not a compliment but you can’t accept that because everything has to be your way. Second, you think it’s okay to tell me I’m wasting my talent on squirrels.”

“Because (a) you are wasting your talent on squirrels, and (b) my way more often than not is right.”

“Please,” Liza interjected. Their fighting was giving her a headache. “Thank you both. I’ll consider what you said, but I would really like to find someone who believes me. I understand why you all don’t, but I would rather be alone than have to look at another person who wonders if I’m just a talented actress.”

Elaine turned and studied her again. Liza turned her head away and stared out the window instead.

“I don’t think you’re an actress.”

Liza met her stare directly. “Thank you.”

“I do, however, think you know something about Hector D’Amato’s death.”

So did Liza. She knew she didn’t kill him. She trusted that much. But what if she’d somehow inadvertently caused his death?

Because as much as she didn’t want people looking at her and believing her to be an actress, she really didn’t want people thinking she was a murderer instead.


CHAPTER FIVE

THE SUN STARTING TO SET behind him, Greg stood at the end of the stone walkway and looked at where Eliza Dunning lived. The house seemed very normal. A ranch-style house, and probably the smallest one on the block of fairly large colonials, it should have stood out like a sore thumb, but there was a stately elegance to the brick house.

It looked solid, too. Like he could huff and puff and never blow it down.

Only he wasn’t the wolf. Greg never played the part of the wolf. He was the good guy in those stories. Or at least he used to be before he gave all that up and turned to a life of gambling instead.

Now that he’d given that up, too, he wasn’t sure what he was anymore. Neither hero, nor villain. Maybe interested observer?

That was as good a reason as any to be standing in front of Liza’s front door. He was merely curious about the woman who claimed to have no memory. A story that crazily enough was now even more credible after talking to Mark, who had dug up some interesting information about her.

Apparently, this wasn’t the first time Eliza Dunning had lost her memory.

He rang the doorbell and waited.

The door opened slowly, which meant she’d already identified who was on the other side of it. She had good reason to be cautious.

“What are you doing here?” Her suspicion was evident, but beyond that he sensed hurt. As though he’d disappointed her. Which was pretty much his specialty these days.

“I came to talk.”

“Not apologize?”

He looked down at his feet. “You hung up on me.”

“You didn’t tell me my name!”

Greg lifted his head. “Look, I know you’re upset with me but we are talking about murder. I was told by the sheriff not to tell you anything, so I didn’t.”

“I know what we’re talking about. I’m living it. Your part is done, isn’t it? I mean, the police hired you to consult and you did. So, like I said, what are you doing here?”

Curiosity. It had to be the only reason he was there. It couldn’t be because he wanted to help. Or offer her friendship. He’d purposefully made his world small and he wanted to keep it that way.

Since he didn’t think she would appreciate being the object of his curiosity, he decided to play his ace. “I have more information about your past. JoJo, who you spoke with yesterday, is a detective. She and her husband have their own firm. I hate to admit it, but Mark is a master when it comes to gathering information other people overlook.”

“Overlook?”

“Can’t find.”

She tilted her head. “You mean don’t have access to.”

Greg smiled. She was in the middle of a mental crisis, but it wasn’t impacting her acuity. “I don’t ask too many questions about how he comes across the information he does. He found quite a bit on you. You might want to hear about it unless you’ve remembered...”

A tight shake of her head told him all he needed to know. He imagined her walking through her front door, hoping it would trigger everything only to realize that it hadn’t. She would feel like a stranger standing in someone else’s space.

If she was telling the truth.

She stepped back from the door and let him inside. He was struck at once by the home’s aesthetic. The foyer opened up to a room filled with comfortable furniture in soft pastels covered with bright pillows and afghans. Nothing overtly cute or immature but certainly a room designed for a woman.

If she was Hector’s lover, which he had his suspicions about, then it was doubtful the man was living here with her. A man living in this house would feel like an alien creature on foreign soil. Not uncomfortable, necessarily, just out of his element.

“Can I get you something to drink? Despite not remembering, I was able to figure out where all my glasses and plates were. It’s the craziest thing, but I considered where I might want things in certain cabinets and that’s where I found them.”

“So you and your old self think alike.”

“I guess. I don’t remember this room, but I like it. It makes me feel...”

“Protected?”

“I was going to say snug. Why do you think I crave protection?”

“You knew Hector D’Amato and many people believed he was a dangerous guy.”

She closed her eyes as if struggling again to find some wisp of a memory. “I guess I did. I mean I had to. I worked for him. I hope I didn’t know he was into anything illegal. I don’t feel like that would be something I could turn my back on.”

Greg followed her through a dining room and into a large spacious kitchen. For a ranch house it was surprisingly large and spread out. The kitchen resembled the other room in that it was filled with colorful vases on top of all the cabinetry. The ceramic floor tile had pink and purple hues. Pretty. That’s the word that struck him. Everything in her home was pretty without feeling like he was standing in a bad version of a doll house.

“I have iced tea.”

“Sure.”

Greg sat down at a white circular table surrounded by what looked like antique wrought iron chairs. Liza put a glass filled with tea and ice and a slice of lemon in front of him. The perfect hostess. The lemon slice was even balanced on the rim of the glass.

She poured her own glass and sat down across from him. She was wearing denim capris and a blue T-shirt that made her look accessible in spite of her beauty. He hadn’t really let himself think about her in those terms, but in the afternoon sunlight with her hair falling down her back and her figure in clothes that actually fit her, she was stunning.

Do not get sucked in by this woman.

The order came from the practical side of his brain. He was fairly certain he had the wherewithal to make sure that side stayed in control. Fairly certain.

“So, no dog?”

She appeared confused for a moment, but then must have remembered their conversation earlier that morning. She shook her head. “Nope. I found a picture, though. In my bedroom, on my dressing table, there were several pictures. One was my arm around an old black Lab. I’m wondering...maybe he died. I felt sad looking at the picture. Then I felt this horrible guilt that I couldn’t remember his name.”

“You need to give yourself a break. You have to stop thinking every time you turn a corner that it’s all going to come rushing back.”

“That’s exactly what I think! I can’t stay like this. Not in this vacuum.”

Greg frowned and thought about what he had come to tell her. It wasn’t good news and might unsettle her more, but he was coming to the realization that he needed to make a decision. He either needed to believe her and treat her accordingly or concede that she was lying.

As a former psychologist, he used to always believe in people, always gave them the benefit of the doubt. He thought he had crushed that side of himself. Buried it under his cynicism. But now he knew it still lingered. Buried, but not dead.

Greg wanted to believe her.

“You said you have more information.”

He nodded and took a sip of his tea to postpone the inevitable. “What did they tell you at the police station?”

“You know what they told me.”

“Humor me.”

“My name is Eliza Dunning. I work as an accountant for The Grande. I knew Hector D’Amato, possibly intimately...”

He noticed the smallest shiver, as if she’d suddenly felt a chill.

“I know that he was shot and killed late Saturday night or early Sunday morning, I guess. That I was there for some reason.”

Greg nodded. It could be they hadn’t put all the pieces together. Eventually they would. They would learn what Mark had already told him. In the context of the case, he wasn’t sure if the information helped or hurt. He imagined each side could use it either way.

“They didn’t mention your father?”

“No.”

He could see her face go white. “Family! I didn’t think. I should call my family. I must have someone. Maybe a brother or sister. My parents...”

“Your parents are dead.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I read the article that reported their deaths.”

Greg watched her reaction and felt like a man kicking a puppy. A helpless puppy who was expecting a pat on the head instead of pain. He wondered why the police hadn’t told her who her parents were. They had to know; the name and the connection to D’Amato was too obvious. Maybe they thought it worked against their scorned-lover theory.

“Your father was Arthur Dunning and your mother was Louisa. They were shot and killed when you were eight years old. You were their only child.”

Shot and killed in their home. At the dinner table. When the police arrived they found Liza huddled under the table in a state of shock—and she had no memory of what had happened.

“Why?”

“Your father was in the mafia.”

“My father.” She gulped.

“I’m sorry.”

She stood then and walked over to the sink, poured her untouched tea down the drain and then held on to the counter as if it was her only support. “I don’t know how to process this.”

“I wish I could sugarcoat it but I can’t.”

“In the pictures...” Liza left the room and Greg got up to follow her. Off the living room was a hallway that led to two bedrooms and what looked to be a home office. The largest bedroom was in the back of the house. Greg hesitated before stepping over the threshold. A man didn’t just walk into the bedroom of a woman if he wasn’t sleeping with her.

But she was right there near her low dresser holding a picture in her hand. She showed it to him, and in essence invited him inside her room, inside her space.

“I figured they were my parents. But the photo did look dated and I didn’t have anything more recent.” He could see that her blond hair came from her mother. But she had her father’s eyes.

She picked up another picture. “Who is the woman? Is this my grandmother?”

Greg looked at the older dark haired woman with the big smile and her arms wrapped around what looked to be a ten-or eleven-year-old Liza. “No. I’m guessing it was Hector’s grandmother, on his father’s side. That’s who you lived with after the shooting. Hector D’Amato was your legal guardian and he took you to the woman who raised him, his grandmother.”

She made an awful face. “And I was having sex with him? The man who was my guardian?”

“That’s speculation, not fact. It could be the reason you had a personal relationship with him was because he was your guardian. It’s not common knowledge. Obviously the police weren’t aware of it or they would have said something. My friend had to dig deep to find the connection. The woman who raised you, Maria Angelucci, had divorced and remarried. The fact that D’Amato hadn’t made it public knowledge that he was your guardian was maybe his way of keeping you safe. You obviously must have been close for people to think you were his mistress.”

She set the picture down. “Is that the worst of it?”

“No.”

She closed her eyes. “Tell me.”

“Maybe you should come back to the living room and we can sit down...”

“Tell me. Now.”

Greg shoved his hands in his pockets. “At seventeen something happened to you. You spent almost a month in the hospital. After that you spent another six months at a private mental-health facility about an hour outside the city.”

Her head dropped and he waited to see what her reaction would be. After a moment she lifted her head. “You’re saying I’m crazy?”

“I’m—I used to be—a psychologist. I don’t say anybody is crazy. I’m saying you were ill.”

Her expression changed and she looked at him with near desperation. “Then you believe me now, right? I mean I’m obviously not the most stable person. Of course something happened and—pop—there I went again. So I’m weak or weak-minded, but I’m not a liar. Tell me you believe that I’m not a liar.”

This was it, he figured. It was time now to make that decision. Believe her and treat her accordingly or don’t believe her and cut his ties.

He hoped like hell he was making the right call because he could already feel himself slipping. He was becoming invested in her. In her life, her condition. Too late now.

“I believe you.”

He could see the relief overcome her. She took a few steps back and plopped down on the bed. “Okay. Okay. You believe me and I’m not crazy. Then I need you to believe this, too...I know I can’t remember what happened but I don’t feel like the kind of person who could kill someone. I mean, I had to be there, right? I knew him, he was shot, I was covered in blood. I had to be there, but I don’t think I did it. Would you believe that, too?”

“I think it’s more important that your lawyer believes that.”

“No. It isn’t. I need you to believe me.”

Her urgency made Greg uncomfortable. He didn’t want to be needed by anyone. That wasn’t his role anymore. But he could see he was basically offering his support like food to a starving animal. Of course she would take it, of course she would hold on to him. The weight of the responsibility made his own breathing tight.

“Why me?” he asked gruffly. It was more a question for the universe than for her.

Still, she answered. “Because right now you’re the only person in the world who knows me. Who really knows me. Which I guess makes you my friend and I would really like to have a friend right now who believes what I’m saying. I didn’t kill another person. I couldn’t have. Okay?”

Friend. There was that word he liked to avoid. With everyone but Chuck. Because friends needed each other for things and he really didn’t want to be needed.

Then he opened his mouth and the word okay slipped out. Shit.

“Okay,” she repeated. He watched her take slow deep breaths and figured it was probably a technique some therapist had given her to use when she was a teenager. Greg had asked Mark if he knew what her condition was, but Mark had only been able to learn about the hospital stay, not about her particular diagnosis. The information he ferreted out about her stay at the mental-health facility was a total violation of her private health information, but Greg had implicitly given Mark permission to bend the rules.

Still, a month-long stay in a hospital before moving on to treatment? It suggested that there was a physical component to her condition in addition to the mental component. Maybe she’d been recovering from something she had done to herself?

A failed suicide attempt might put someone in the hospital for a period of time. Greg considered himself something of an expert in suicide. It was why he wasn’t a psychologist anymore.

“Why was D’Amato my legal guardian? What was the connection between him and my father?”

“He worked for your father. There were a few articles on Dunning where D’Amato’s face could be seen in the background of a picture. Maybe he was a bodyguard. Maybe he was his second-in-command. They must have been close for your father to trust him with his only daughter.”

She nodded. He didn’t need to expand on that. Now that she understood her father was part of the mafia, it was a good bet that Hector was involved, as well. Which meant she was working for a man she knew to be a criminal.

She was working for the man who had a hand in raising her.

“Is that everything?”

She was waiting for the next blow. “If it matters, I don’t think you have a weak mind.”

She gave a brief laugh. “I can’t remember anything right now and you just told me I spent six months in a mental-health facility.”

“When you were a teenager.”

“What difference does it make? I’m not right.”

He sat on the bed next to her and took her hand. He figured it was what a friend would do and she had officially declared him to be her only friend so he figured he was on the hook. He forced himself to breathe through the constriction in his own chest.

“You were sick then—you’re sick now. It’s not about right and wrong. Trust me, Liza. I know.”

She looked at him and smiled, and then she squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

He thought she was stunning before, but now she nearly took his breath away.

Warning! Danger! Getting sucked in...commencing now!

Then his mind went to a completely different kind of sucking and he had to shake his head. Had he seriously been thinking about kissing her?

“You called me by my name. It sounded good. It sounded familiar.”

“Liza, what you’re experiencing is hysterical amnesia brought on by what had to be a traumatic event. Maybe not even so unusual considering your history. With some time and rest and being around familiar surroundings the most likely thing is that you will regain your memory.”

Her smile faded. “Yes, but when I do, am I going to find out I was working for a criminal and I was somehow connected to his murder?”

Since the answer was yes, Greg didn’t have much else to offer her. Or maybe he did. Maybe sitting there on the bed, holding her hand, was all she really needed. That’s when he realized what he’d done. He’d officially let himself be needed.

The worst part about that was despite the tightness in his chest, it felt really good.


CHAPTER SIX

ELAINE POUNDED ON THE LOFT door harder than necessary, impatient for it to open. She winced when Chuck opened the door instead of Greg.

He obviously saw her wince and made a face in return to let her know he wasn’t any more pleased to see her. The childish nature of these gestures was not lost on her. Elaine often felt like the teenage version of herself when she was around Chuck.

Why couldn’t she be normal around him for once? Every time she saw him since it had happened, she felt awkward and uncomfortable in her own skin. He would immediately pick up on her vibe and be just as awkward, which invariably led to them slinging insults at each other. Which would lead anyone who spent any time around them to assume that they hated each other.

Only she didn’t hate him. It had just taken her a while to figure that out.

“Yes?”

“I need to talk to Greg. I know who Eliza Dunning is.”





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