Forgotten (Shattered Sisters Book 2) Page 11

  Rad stuffed both hands deep into his pockets and nodded. "What are you planning?"

  "To talk to a psychiatrist, an expert on serial killers. Try and get a profile of our suspect. And I want to see some of these executive types Joey's worked for, find out what they have to say about her...abilities."

  It was Rad's turn to stare through the window at Joey. "You still think she's a fake, right?"

  Ash hesitated before answering. "I'm beginning to wonder."

  “Why? You're a dyed-in-the-wool skeptic about that kind of crap, Ash. What's she done, read your mind or something?"

  "Or something."

  Rad's face seemed to relax all of a sudden, all the tension going out of it. He turned again toward the door and looked through it, eyes speculative. "Well, now. Isn't that interesting?"

  Ash shook his head slowly, reaching for the doorknob. "Don't go asking her about it. She thinks I don't know. And treat her right, Rad. She's my wife, don't forget."

  "As long as you don't forget that she isn't."

  Joey stiffened when she saw them coming toward her. She'd tried to concentrate on their conversation in Mr. Ketchum's office, but as usual, the harder she tried to focus, the less she picked up. In a newsroom that was bursting with wall-to-wall desks, rushing people and the constant clicking of keyboards, it was tough to hear herself think, let alone pick up what someone else might be thinking. She sensed, though, that a lot of the time they'd been talking about her. Not knowing what was said made her uncomfortable and self-conscious.

  "Mrs. Coye." Radley Ketchum nodded toward her. "Feeling better now?"

  She nodded politely. "Yes. Thanks for the coffee."

  Ash stood in front of her, putting both hands on her shoulders. "Bev called while I was in Rad's office."

  Bev. Detective Lady Atlas, he meant

  "They've finished at the house."

  "Did they find anything?"

  Ash squeezed her shoulders. “A few prints, they're being analyzed but—"

  "They're ours. I told you, the person wore gloves." She stopped, blinking. Ash would have her committed if she didn't stop going on about the gloves. She glanced up to see if his boss found her as nutty as Ash must, but he only stared at her, his gaze dark and probing.

  "Anyway, we can go back now—"

  "No."

  He shook her so slightly she barely felt it. "Joey, we can still stay at my apartment. But don't you think you ought to pick up a few clothes? Your toothbrush?"

  "I'm not going back there."

  Ash shook his head, and she knew he thought she must still be distraught over the intruder, stressed out from all that had happened. The truth was, she was calm, and thinking as clearly as she ever had in her life. She simply did not want Ash in that house. A sense of danger loomed larger in her mind at the very thought of it.

  "Okay. All right, if that's what you want." He nodded toward his boss, who still stared hard at her. "I'll be in touch."

  "Good." Mr. Ketchum smiled gently at Joey, the way you smile at a crazy person. Humoring her. "Hope to see you again soon, Mrs. Coye." Then he turned and walked away.

  Ash drove to his apartment, a few short minutes from the offices of The Chronicle. He unlocked the door, and Joey preceded him in, limping slowly, senses on alert. She was more wary than she could ever remember being. She stepped into the short, dark hallway and felt the wall for a light switch.

  Ash beat her to it, and as soon as he flicked it on Joey stepped farther inside. Still, she was careful. She poked her head through the archway on her right, into the kitchenette, leaning heavily on the doorframe and fumbling for that light switch. When she saw nothing there, aside from the gleaming white cupboards and checkerboard tiles, she returned to the hall and hobbled through the door on its other side, into the small bathroom. She turned that light on, as well.

  She knew Ash stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall, just watching her peculiar behavior. Stubbornly, she glanced around the little bathroom, even going so far as to open the frosted-glass doors on the three-sided shower stall in the corner to peek inside.

  Sighing her relief, she stepped back into the short hall. Ash put an arm around her. "You'd better relax, Joey. You're jumping at shadows. No one's here but us."

  "Better safe than sorry. And I'm not jumping. Just checking." The hall opened into the large living room of Ash's corner apartment. At the far end, glass doors led out to a balcony. Darkness gathered beyond, dotted by Syracuse's lights, only visible in the slits between the vertical blinds. The bedroom was on her right. She checked both before she sank onto the brown modular sofa.

  "Feel safe now?" There was worry, as well as a hint of amusement, glinting in his eyes.

  She smiled at him. "It isn't me I'm—" She stopped herself. "Yes. Perfectly safe."

  "You're sure?"

  She squinted at him. "Why so interested?"

  "Just checking. Thought I'd go out for some supplies."

  "Like what?" She was no longer relaxed on the sofa, but leaning forward, tense.

  Ash shook his head and sat down beside her. "Like food. I haven't been here in a while. The place isn't exactly well stocked."

  She turned to face him, wanting to beg him not to leave her side—not for an instant—but knowing how insane that might sound to him. "I'm not all that hungry, anyway."

  "Well, I am. Look, I know you're still shaken. Just stay here, okay? Take a hot shower, watch some TV, drink a glass of wine. I'll be back in thirty minutes, I promise."

  She shook her head slowly. "We can order in."

  "Joey—"

  "Don't go, Ash." He frowned, searching her eyes for a long moment. "Just...don't go."

  He lowered his head until his chin touched his chest. When he lifted it again she saw the impatience in his face, the frustration. "You want me to stay, then you're going to have to tell me why. What is it you're so afraid of, Joey?"

  She blinked, turning her face away. "I—I'm not afraid, just—"

  "Bull." He caught her face in his hands and brought it around, then stared deep into her eyes. "Stop keeping things from me. Joey, I want to help you, but I can't if you won't tell me what's wrong. Can't you trust me even that much?"

  She said nothing, and after a second he dropped his hands, sighed in anger and rose from the sofa. "Dammit, Joey, I'm not your father or your stepfather, and I'm not Ted. I'm not going to betray you. But I guess it's too much to ask you to believe that."

  He started toward the hall, then down it, and Joey lunged off the sofa after him. The pain in her thigh screamed, but she forced herself to run, and she gripped his arm just as he reached for the doorknob. She jerked him back.

  "Don't! Don't leave, Ash, you can't...."

  He stood motionless, not even turning to face her. "Give me one good reason, Joey. And if it's another lie—"

  "The Slasher is going to kill you."

  There was utter silence after she said it. He was going to laugh at her, call her crazy. But it would be better than letting him go out and end up dead.

  He turned slowly and looked down at her. "How do you know that?"

  He was watching her face so damned closely she knew he'd see through any lie she concocted. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and took a single step backward. "I just do."

  "How?" he demanded, advancing. "Do you know the Slasher, Joey? Is that it?"

  She shook her head from side to side, and when he reached for her she took another hasty step backward. But she'd forgotten her injury, and she put too much weight on the leg too suddenly, and yelped as white-hot pain shot through her leg.

  Ash swore as he reached for her, caught her around the waist and kept her from falling. He hauled her up and forward, hesitated for an immeasurable instant, then pulled her closer, tight to his chest. His arms closed around her, and Joey pressed her face against the cool fabric of his shirt, inhaling his scent.

  "It's not firsthand information." He murmured the words into her hair and slowly began to
rock just slightly back and forth. "It's not that you're a part of this insanity. I know that, Joey. But for God's sake, you have to tell me what it is."

  She nodded, moving her head against his chest as her arms crept up around his neck and tightened there.

  He turned her slightly and then scooped her up and carried her down the hall, but didn't stop in the living room this time. He took her into his bedroom instead.

  As he lowered her onto his oversize bed, Ash studied her face in the too-bright lights of the bedroom. Tell me the truth this time, Joey. I'm trying to believe in you, but, God, you're making it tough.

  He propped pillows behind her and eased her onto them, then pulled the extra blanket from the foot of the bed, shook it out and covered her, tucking it around her shoulders. The apartment was chilly. He hadn't thought to adjust the thermostat when they'd come in. He hadn't been thinking about much at all lately, except the mystery that was Joey Bradshaw and how he might solve it.

  He looked at her huddled on his bed like a frightened child, at the way her hair tumbled over her shoulders, and the way her lips were slightly parted and moist and full.

  He'd been thinking about those lips, too, and how they tasted. And those thoughts led to others, until he was surprised he could remember how to breathe, let alone investigate a string of murders. Maybe Radley had been right about that.

  He pushed a hand through his hair and turned away, went to the living room and heard the anxiety, the raw fear, in her voice as she called his name.

  "I'm not going anywhere," he called back. "Just stay put." He stalked to the kitchenette and found a bottle of white zinfandel in the fridge. For a minute he just looked at it, sitting there, unopened, waiting for the notorious Ashville Coye to introduce it to his latest conquest. There was an instant when he was disgusted with himself and his endless search for the perfect woman. Who did he think he was, anyway, that the perfect woman would be interested in him? And where did he get off, listing the standards she had to meet? What did he know?

  Nothing. Not one damn thing. Joey Bradshaw was proof of that. He'd written her off the day he'd met her, and as it turned out, she was probably the closest thing to perfect he'd ever seen.

  He slammed the fridge closed and fumbled in a drawer for a corkscrew. He felt things for Joey. Things he didn't want to feel. Hell, in all his big plans involving the wife of his dreams and the perfect nuclear family, he'd never given much thought to actual emotions being involved. He guessed he'd just assumed some deep, abiding fondness would come with the package.

  What an idiot.

  So he meets a woman who's as far from what he thinks he wants as was humanly possible, and starts wishing he can have her—wishing he can always have her. And it has to be a woman who's lying to him every time she opens her mouth. A woman who can't trust him. A woman who gives every indication of being mixed up in murder.

  The cork popped and Ash threw it, corkscrew and all, onto the shiny white counter. "And she thinks she can read minds, to boot. It's crazy." He reached into the cupboard above for two wineglasses and filled them both. Then he set the bottle aside and just stared into the pinkish liquid, remembering the way she'd known little Brittany had fallen into the river, the way she'd known a lot of things she shouldn't have. Those thoughts made him uneasy. He gripped one glass and tipped it to his lips, draining it, then set it down and filled it again.

  "Maybe I'm the one who's crazy."

  "Ash?"

  God, she was so afraid to let him out of her sight.

  "Right here. I'm right here." Maybe now she'd come clean with him, tell him why she'd started this game, why she was pretending to be his wife, and what she knew about the Slasher.

  He carried the two glasses back to the bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed and handed her one.

  She gave him a wary look and took a sip. Then another. "This is good."

  "Talk to me, Joey."

  She nodded, taking a bigger gulp of wine. "You won't believe me. You'll think I'm a flake." He watched her, waiting. She cleared her throat. "Sometimes I know things."

  "What kinds of things?" He wasn't going to help her. He needed to know if she would be honest on her own.

  She averted her eyes. "Like when Brit fell in the river."

  "You said you heard the splash."

  "I wasn't...being honest. I didn't hear anything. I just...felt it. In my mind, I saw Brit fall in, and I knew." She took a breath, then rushed on. "That's how I help the companies that hire me as a consultant. If I'm around people, I sometimes sense their dishonesty and I..." Her voice trailed off.

  "So you're a psychic."

  She closed her eyes. "Don't laugh at me, Ash."

  He took the wine glass from her hand and set it on the bedside stand, placing his beside it. "I wouldn't do that."

  "I can't control it. I'm not sure I want to."

  He wasn't sure he believed it, even now. "Is that how you knew someone had been in the house? You just felt it?"

  She lifted her head and nodded

  "And what you said about the gloves—"

  "I saw the hands...the gloves."

  "And what else have you...seen?"

  Her eyes widened and took on an intensity he hadn't witnessed before. "Ash, you're in danger. You have to believe that. The Slasher wants you dead, and I can't let it happen."

  "Because I'm your husband?"

  Tears gathered until her emerald eyes glittered. "Because... I care about you. I don't want to lose you, and that's nothing but the truth."

  It was some kind of pain that twisted inside him when she said that. Some kind of excruciating, wonderful pain. She was telling part of the truth, at least. Or what she believed to be the truth. But it was difficult to swallow. He'd never put much stock in farfetched claims of extraterrestrials, or Elvis sightings, or ESP.

  "You don't believe any of it, do you?"

  He reached out, brushing a single tear from her cheek with his thumb. "I believe you care." He shook his head. "Can't imagine why, but you do. And I think you're convinced of this...this mind-reading thing. I just..." His hand fell away from her face. He got up and reached for his wine, then paced the room, carrying it. "It's damned hard to buy into, Joey." He took a huge gulp and went on. "Maybe if you could show me—"

  "I'm not a magician, Ash, and this isn't some parlor trick."

  He turned to face her, seeing the anger rising in red blotches on her cheeks. "I didn't mean—"

  "Yes, you did. You were going to ask me to read your mind, tell you what you were thinking while you evoked some unlikely image. It doesn't work that way. I told you, I can't control it. I can't just look inside your head and read your thoughts as if I was reading a book. God knows I've tried."

  He felt his brows shoot up as her anger ran its course. "You have?"

  She nodded, looking miserable.

  "And you couldn't read me, huh?"

  She shook her head, then paused. "Well, except..." She bit her lip and didn't finish the thought.

  “ Except what?'' Why did his voice sound so eager? Was he actually hoping she could prove her claims?

  She sighed, reaching for her wine and finishing it in one big gulp. "You had a nightmare one night. A bad one. One you have a lot."

  He stiffened, suddenly feeling as if someone was invading his most private hell. But it was silly. He'd probably tossed and turned, broken into a sweat, maybe muttered in his sleep. Anyone would know he'd been dreaming.

  "I did, huh? I don’t remember."

  She looked at him, her anger vanishing. "You were alone in a very small, very dark place. You felt like you were suffocating, you couldn't breathe, and you were afraid you’d be left in there forever.”

  "All right." He didn't mean to snap, but she was picking at an old wound. More gently he said, "All right, I believe you."

  "I'm sorry." She got out of the bed and limped toward him. "I know it still hurts—"

  "Well, your ESP is flawed, then, because it doesn't."

&n
bsp; She stopped two feet from him. "You can tell me about it, talk it out—"

  "It's not something I talk about." He finished his wine and looked down into the empty glass.

  "Maybe that's the problem."

  "My only problem is that my wife won't let me out of the apartment to buy food, and my stomach is empty."

  She lowered her head and he knew that she would let the topic slide.

  "Help yourself to the bathroom, Joey, and something to wear to bed. I'm gonna call a deli that delivers." He turned to go, then turned back. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to be sensing any great hoagie joints that are still open, would you?"

  His attempt at humor worked, he thought. She smiled, reaching back to the bed for the pillow and throwing it at him. "I suppose I'll be pummeled with ESP jokes for the rest of the night now?"

  "You read my mind."

  Chapter Nine

  * * *

  She couldn't eat. But he didn't seem to have any trouble. Nor was his sleep disturbed in any visible way. He'd been snoring loudly when she'd slipped out of his bed. He knew she was lying, keeping things from him. It was in his eyes whenever he looked at her. But she'd told him as much as she could. If he knew she wasn't his wife, he'd probably send her packing...and she couldn't protect him if she wasn't with him.

  She stood on the balcony and stared down at the city lights below. The warm summer breeze played with the shirt she wore. His shirt. Though fresh from the dryer, it still held his scent. It wrapped it all around her, and she found she liked that sensation. Maybe too much.

  She drank more wine and told herself she was stupid to get so attached to him. It wouldn't last. It couldn't, because his memory was coming back.

  It hadn't hit her at first. Only as she lay in the bed beside him, watching him as he slept, wishing she had the nerve to reach for him, to kiss him, had the suspicion taken root. He remembered his nightmare, remembered its source. And he hadn't seemed at all unfamiliar with his apartment. His memory was returning, and when it did he would know she was lying about their marriage.