Cry Page 4
Zoë pressed her palm into her eyes. “I can’t, I’m sorry. It was so dark, I couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of me.”
“Do you have any sense of why you were running? Who was chasing you?”
“I don’t know, I just know I was afraid, and for some reason I felt like they could catch up with me at any second. I’m really sorry, that’s all.”
“Please don’t be sorry. That tells us quite a lot.” Jo smiled a reassuring smile. “One more question. We think you may have had to hit someone to get away from them, and that’s what caused the blood on your clothes. Can you picture that, hitting someone?”
Zoë tried again, but shook her head.
Arnett asked, “Maybe slashing at someone with a knife?”
She shook her head again, and her eyes flew open. “I’m sorry, I need to stop, it’s just making me scared all over again, and my head is throbbing. Can we stop? Maybe try again later? Maybe if you leave me a list of things that you think might have happened?”
“Of course we can try later. We’re so sorry to have to put you through this.” Jo crossed into the bathroom and poured a glass of water, then set it in front of her.
Zoë sipped the water. “No, it’s okay, I understand. We have to do it if I’m going to remember. I think I just need to rest, then I can try again.”
“Please, don’t worry. It will all come back, and we’ll have you home before you know it. But please call us if you think of anything, no matter how small, okay?” Jo stood up, and crossed to the door.
Zoë followed behind, arms wrapped around her midsection. “I will.”
Once they were safely in the car and out of earshot, Arnett turned to Jo. “It was worth a shot. Too bad it didn’t work. Back to square one.”
Jo fingered the necklace at her throat.
Chapter Seven
As soon as the detectives left, Zoë ran back into the bathroom. For the umpteenth time, she stared into the mirror, this time turning to look at the tattoo. But otherwise, nothing was different—the frightened-mouse brunette dressed in oversized clothes could have been any stranger off the street.
She returned to the bedroom and snatched up the notepad she’d been filling up with details, trying to paint a picture of herself. She crossed off an item near the top, Thrown from car in accident, then jotted several new items at the bottom of the list.
A child—my own? A niece or nephew or godchild?
Ran from someone through the woods. Who? Why?
She considered each item on the list in turn, hoping the sum of the parts would yield some new insight.
She wore a wedding ring, so she was married. When the nurses brought her a stack of donated clothes to wear, she’d realized she didn’t like pastel colors, or, ironically given the room’s decorating scheme, any shade of pink. The jewel tones called to her, especially the forest green shirt and the deep purple cardigan. She’d instantly reached for the pants over the skirts or dresses. When walking around the grounds the day before, she noticed a gardener trimming roses, and without even thinking had blurted out that it was the wrong time of year for that—and when she reached one that was in early bloom, she knew its name, Kardinal, and that it was a hybrid tea rose.
When she found the library in the common area, it’d been like finding a chest full of gold. She’d snatched up all the mysteries and thrillers she could find; the orderly had laughed and said she must like to solve puzzles. Television had been helping, too: she loved the reality TV shows, especially documentaries and informational shows, but hated sports, anything animated, and war dramas. And as she watched some crazy guy who stranded himself repeatedly out in the wilderness, she realized she knew the basics of camping, along with how to fish and trap small game.
What sort of woman did all that suggest? Not a girly-girl, closer to a tomboy. Intelligent and eager to learn. Outdoorsy. Someone who knew about keeping a home, if gardening counted. A woman who was loved by someone, and loved someone. A husband and at least one child, whether the child was hers or not.
A sum total that added up to barely more than you’d know about someone after a five-minute chat at a cocktail party.
She threw the pad back down and crawled onto the bed, curling up around one of the pillows as she fought back the flood of tears. How was she here alone, frightened to death, when she had a husband and at least some sort of family?
The brief flashes of memory didn’t add much to the picture, other than more to fear—and not just fear of the emptiness that filled her when she tried to remember who she was, but fear of something. Of someone. That morning in the woods, she’d woken terrified, and had stayed terrified until she was safely inside the ambulance. Which made zero sense if she’d been thrown from her car in some accident—so she wasn’t surprised to discover that wasn’t true. She’d already known it was wrong on some level anyway, because every time she’d tried to analyze her fear and considered a car wreck, she had a vague sense of not-quite-right. Like when you have a word on the tip of your tongue and someone offers you the wrong word—even though you don’t know what the right word is, you somehow know the one they gave was wrong.
Which really sucked, because if she’d been thrown from a car, that would have been the beginning and end of her troubles. She’d have nothing to worry about, other than the bump on her head.
But running through the woods? That felt ominously correct, and brought her terror right back. Because you didn’t run through the woods unless someone was chasing you. And if someone had been trying to find her then, they could be trying to find her now. Sure, it was possible the attack had been random, and the attacker had decided it was too risky to keep after her once she’d disappeared. Maybe he’d gone on looking for greener pastures, for some other woman who wouldn’t escape from him. Or maybe whoever the bastard was, she’d killed him.
But maybe not. And maybe he didn’t like the idea of her running around, able to identify him.
She sat up and glanced around the room. Was she safe here? This was the sort of place meant to keep the patients from getting out, not to keep anyone from getting in. But there was no way her attacker would think to look for her in a place like this, right? More than likely, if he was trying to find her, he’d just wait for her to return to her normal life. She wouldn’t do that until she remembered who she was, and once she remembered who she was, she’d also remember what happened and could protect herself.
She lay back down. Problem solved. She’d stay here until she remembered, and when her memory returned, she’d know what to do from there.
But no, it wasn’t that simple. She jumped up and paced the room. She arrived in Taltingham without a wallet or a phone—which meant whoever did this to her had them. Which meant they knew where she lived. If she didn’t show back up in her normal life, they’d realize something was wrong. Then what would they do? Check with the police? Check with hospitals? Describe her, and be told about a woman fitting her description who’d lost her memory? And all she could do was sit here, completely vulnerable with no memory and no ability to help herself.
She stared out the window at two elderly women wending their way along the garden paths. But the little flashes of memory were a good sign, they had to be, and the rest might come back any minute. Yes, that was good. But who knew how long she could afford to wait passively? If the doctor and the detectives believed triggering her memory was the best way, she’d do everything in her power to trigger it herself.
She snatched up the remote control from her nightstand. The only real options she had while sitting in this room were books and television, and books took too long. So she’d try as many different channels and shows as it took until she managed to trigger something.
Chapter Eight
Back at HQ, Jo’s ph
one buzzed as she walked to her car. She checked it, and found a text from Eric, the last man she’d dated. Nausea roiled through her.
I don’t like how we ended things. We need to talk.
Really? Suddenly out of nowhere, after six weeks?
The last time she’d seen him was on Valentine’s Day. They’d had an amazing dinner at an upscale-Italian restaurant, then gone back to his place. They’d raced each other to the bed with a playful, burning passion that stayed lit well into the night.
After the second round, he’d rolled over and pulled open his nightstand.
“You can’t be ready again.” She’d laughed, hoping he was.
But instead of a condom, he pulled out a box wrapped in red paper and tied with a white ribbon.
Something told her she didn’t want to open it. But he hadn’t gone down on one knee, so she figured she was safe. She kissed him, then started to pull apart the ribbon.
His hand shot out to stop her. “No, you have to untie it or slip it off. If you break the ribbon, it’s bad luck.”
She’d rolled her eyes and ripped the ribbon right out of the knot, ignoring the flash of something on his face. “You can’t possibly believe that.”
She lifted the lid from the small box. On the inside, sitting on a small square of batting, was a key.
“To the house,” he explained when she didn’t speak.
“Right.” She cleared her throat. “Eric, I appreciate the sentiment, but I don’t think I’m ready for this.”
His face went blank. “We’ve been together for six months, Jo.”
The conversation had spiraled downward predictably from there. She said she’d always been clear that she wasn’t looking for anything long-term. He said he had a right to expect more by now, and he wanted a commitment, or they were over. She said she was happy the way things were. He told her the relationship was over, and asked her to leave.
That, followed by six weeks of silence, said all that needed to be said. What had he thought was happening all this time? Had he been bluffing, thinking she’d run to him and say she’d changed her mind? That she wanted to get married and have his kids? Wasn’t that just the teensiest bit completely passive-aggressive?
Jo closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Why was her reaction to this so dramatic? Yes, the timing was odd. But her therapist had taught her that when surface emotions seemed stronger than they should be, something else was at the root of the issue. So what was she really upset about?
Not the timing. The implication that she somehow owed him a conversation.
Her hand flew to the diamond at her neck, originally the central stone in the engagement ring her murdered fiancé had given her, and her eyes squeezed shut. She’d fallen in love with two men in her life, and both had been violently murdered—after going through all of that, she just couldn’t invest in everything a serious relationship entailed. So she’d been extremely careful to be clear with Eric, and not send the wrong signal. She never saw him more than once a week. She rarely stayed over his house, or allowed him to stay over hers. To be fair, during the holidays and after, his hints had become more brazen, and she’d compromised several times to keep the peace. But still not enough to imply a long-term commitment. And although she’d been sorry when he’d broken things off, if he wanted more than she could give, he’d been right to walk away. And she had respected that choice, not insisted on something he couldn’t give.
“It’s bullshit,” she said aloud, and grabbed the phone. She placed a call, then tapped her finger against her leg while she waited for the line to pick up.
“Hello?”
“Matt. I’ve decided to take you up on that dinner Saturday.”
Twenty minutes after confirming the time and location of her dinner with Matt, Jo pushed through the door of Fernando’s Bar & Grill. She spotted Lopez and Marzillo at a wooden table in the far corner, huge margaritas and chips already in front of them. She pointed to let the hostess know she’d found her party, and grabbed one of the two remaining chairs.
“You already started without me?” She feigned indignation.
Marzillo pushed a third margarita toward her. “You’re half an hour late! And, we got your kick-start right here. Appetizers on the way.”
“Sorry about that. I got a text from Eric as I was leaving the station. And I think I’m going to pass on the margarita, I’ve been feeling a little off today.”
“Well if you hadn’t been feeling like shit before, I’m sure the text would have taken care of that.” Lopez tossed back a huge gulp of her margarita.
“You’re not wrong. I got nauseous the moment I saw it.” Jo signaled to a waitress, who held up a single finger to say one minute. “This is the whole reason I avoid relationships in the first place, so I don’t have to deal with emotional fallout.”
“What’d he say?” Marzillo asked.
“That we need to talk.”
“What’d you say back?” Lopez asked.
Jo dipped a tortilla chip into the salsa. “Nothing.”
“So what, you’re gonna ghost him?” Marzillo said.
“Psh, men invented ghosting,” Lopez said.
“That doesn’t mean they like it when it comes back at them.” Marzillo laughed. “But come on, Jo. You’re better than that.”
Jo fought the temptation to drown her frustration in the margarita. “I’m really not.”
Lopez and Marzillo laughed. “Seriously, though,” Marzillo said. “Golden rule? Karma?”
Jo rolled her eyes. “Hey, he broke things off with me. Not that there was really much to break off—we were basically fuck buddies. That doesn’t buy you anything, golden or other.”
Lopez jabbed the air with a chip to hold the floor while she swallowed. “I don’t know about that. My feeling is, if you get it on more than three times, you at least need a conversation to end things.”
Marzillo lifted her margarita. “Cheers to that.”
“Hold on, ladies. We had a conversation. The one where he told me he couldn’t see me anymore, and kicked me out of his house.”
Lopez shook her head vigorously. “Nope. That was the fight itself. I’m talking after.”
“If he wanted to talk, he knew my number. Now all of a sudden, after six weeks, I’m supposed to jump when he snaps his fingers? And I’m sorry, but I cannot stress this enough: there was never any exclusivity. There was never even a discussion of exclusivity. I never met any of his friends. He never met any of mine. And I think the whole time we were seeing each other, we went out in public together twice, once on the ill-fated Valentine’s date.”
Marzillo’s eyebrows shot up. “And I quote—‘we were seeing each other.’ Plus, I know there were at least two weekends where you holed up together. Whether you like it or not, that’s a little more intimate than casual sex.”
Jo grumbled under her breath and looked around for the waitress. “Yeah, fine, I see your point. I still don’t think I owe him anything, but I’ll consider it. Subject change—how’s everything going with Zelda?”
“I think she’s cheating on me,” Marzillo said.
“What the hell?” Lopez’s head whipped around.
“Why do you say that?” Jo asked.
Marzillo counted off on her fingers. “One, her sex drive has disappeared. Two, she’s been taking her phone into the bathroom for the last couple of weeks. And three, I followed her and saw her kissing some guy.”
Jo choked on the chip she’d just put into her mouth. “You could have just skipped to three.”
“No, because then you’d have judged me for following her, and I would’ve had to explain it, anyway.”
Lopez laughed. “True. But can we back up to the part about how you caught your lesbian wife with a man? And don’t give me the lecture about sexuality being fluid. I understand fluid.”
Marzillo swiped at the salt lining her glass. “Not gonna lie, it hurts more than if it had been another woman. And I don’t even understand why.”
&n
bsp; “Did you confront her?”
“Yeah. I thought she’d deny it and I’d have to pull out the pictures—”
“You took pictures?” Jo asked.
Marzillo blinked at her. “Of course I took pictures. What do I do all day? I process evidence. You think I’m gonna go into something like that without cold, hard facts? Anyway, she didn’t deny it. So I told her to get the hell out.”
“Are you okay?” Jo asked.
Marzillo tossed back the rest of her margarita. “I will be. We’ll both take some time to think, and then we’ll talk. If there’s a problem we can fix, we’ll fix it. If not, better I find out now when I’m thirty-seven than in fifteen years when my vagina’s shrinking and I’m having hot flashes every five minutes. Not cute.”
Jo and Lopez stared for a moment, at a loss for words, before a wide-eyed Lopez broke the silence. “Please tell me that vagina thing isn’t real.”
Chapter Nine
The next morning, Jo pushed Eric as far to the back of her mind as she could while she and Arnett scoured the new missing persons cases for anyone that matched Zoë’s description.
Arnett stared at his monitor. “Absolute bupkis, still? I get why her job isn’t looking for her if she took a vacation week or some such. But how can a husband be okay with not hearing from his wife for days in this age of cell phones?”
“Maybe he thinks she’s not getting any signal? Or maybe he went off on a boys’ trip while she was on a girls’ trip. Or maybe she’s recently divorced? An ex wouldn’t be looking for her.”
“Or maybe she killed her husband,” Arnett said.
“Maybe he tried to kill her.” Jo leaned forward and smacked her desk. “No. Either way, we can’t just sit here waiting for someone to report her. I say we start canvassing as best we can. She was running through the woods in her slippers, which means she wasn’t out hiking for the day. She was either living up there or camping up there. I say we assume camping, because we can start with the area campsites. Luckily, most of them haven’t opened yet for the season, so that’ll cut down on the work.”