Shauna lay awake in her bedroom at the guesthouse, watching the digital clock tick off numbers through two o’clock, then three.
Who had Wayne been talking to? She contemplated trying to get hold of his phone but got only as far as opening her bedroom door onto the silent living room before deciding that was an idiot’s idea. She eased her door shut, released the knob, and climbed back into bed.
She pulled the blanket up to her chin.
When Shauna was a kindergartener, her mother taught her a ditty to say in the nights when bad dreams frightened her. How did it go? It had not come to mind for many, many years, so when Shauna found herself saying it aloud, the rhyme surprised her.
God is with me. Jesus is here. The Spirit is greater than my fear.
Tonight, though, the words did not comfort her. Instead, she was pricked with sadness for having forgotten what is was like to have such childlike, simple faith in a good God. Was that something she could ever reclaim for herself?
Her thoughts turned to the blond reporter in the smoky rain jacket.
An eyewitness puts a second passenger in the car with you.
Who was his eyewitness? And who could the passenger be?
She needed to find this Smith. How could a person track down a freelancer named Smith with no more information than that?
Shauna wondered where her laptop was. She needed to do some online investigation.
Newspaper archives search.
Accident report request.
Neither of which might turn up anything that Wayne hadn’t already told her.
Was Wayne her protector or a trickster?
She didn’t know. She had honestly believed he cared about her.
He did care about her. She was overreacting again. In fact, she was certain there was an explanation for his conversation that would embarrass her gross interpretation.
It’s not too late to make sure she never remembers.
Shauna sprang up in her bed like a bear trap, breathless. Her phone was beeping. She looked at the clock. Six thirty-two. She must have dozed.
She grabbed up her phone. New text message. As far as she knew, only Wayne and Uncle Trent had this number. Wayne was in the next room, and Trent didn’t see the point of texting when a person could talk. Who then?
From: Unknown
> U R surrounded by liars
Shauna slapped the phone shut.
Was it a threat or a warning?
Either she’s been lying through her teeth, or your guys failed.
She put a hand on her night table to balance her rise from the bed. Pill bottle number four fell off and rattled when it hit the floor—her heart jumped at the sound—then rolled to rest under the frame. She recalled a part of her very first conversation with Dr. Carver:
The drugs erase memories?
No, they work by suppressing the intensity of the emotions associated with your memory.
Shauna got down on her hands and knees and groped for the bottle, still clutching the phone in her other hand. How was it, then, that her days had been filled with intense emotions and no clear memories at all? Why was her head filled with visions of delusional . . . whatever Dr. Harding had called them, rather than with reality?
And now fear.
When she had the bottle in hand, Shauna stared at the number four. She didn’t even know what this was. She unscrewed the cap and examined the tab-let, a little round orange thing that looked as harmless as an ibuprofen.
Was Dr. Carver a liar too?
Shauna took a gamble. She tipped her morning dosage of pills into her hand and flushed them down the toilet.
What was she not supposed to remember?
She flipped her phone back open and tried to reply to the text.
> What do you mean?
Unknown recipient. Undeliverable.
Her hands shook.
Was someone trying to hurt her?
Wayne?
Really, now. If Wayne wanted to hurt her, he’d had no shortage of opportunities.
Was Wayne her bodyguard?
It’s not too late to make sure . . .
Nothing was making any sense.
At six forty-five Shauna went into the kitchen, where Khai was preparing tea. Khai, who implied that Wayne was of questionable character. Or was it Khai that Shauna needed to be mindful of?
“Do you know who packed up my loft?” Shauna asked without a greeting.
“Yes.”
Shauna had been so certain Khai would deny knowing that it took an extra second for the affirmative to register.
“Why do you want to know?” Khai asked.
The real reason behind her question only revealed itself then—because Wayne wanted to know.
“I can’t find my laptop. I need it.”
Khai scooped loose-leaf jasmine tea into a ceramic filter and set the core into the center of the teapot. Then she lifted the hot kettle off the stove and poured boiling water over the leaves.
“I’m pretty sure Mrs. McAllister confiscated that.”
Confiscated? “Patrice went through my things?”
“I helped her.”
“Helped who what?” Wayne stood in the kitchen’s door frame, stretching and eyeing the teapot. “That smells great, Khai.”
Khai covered the teapot with a cozy and carried it to the table. “Shauna’s wondering who packed her things.”
“The senator hired a company for that, didn’t he?” Wayne said.
Shauna frowned. If he knew already, why had he asked—?
“Two movers did the heavy work,” Khai said.
Wayne crossed his arms and sat on one of the wooden chairs. “There you go,” he said to Shauna. “Are you looking for something?”
“I was . . . I’m looking . . . my laptop. I want to request a copy of the accident report,” she said. “Online.”
“I’ll call Joe Delaney and get it from him,” Wayne said. “That’s what attorneys are for.”
Shauna turned on her heel and left the room, overwhelmed by a fresh kind of confusion. She didn’t know which questions to ask anymore, or whom she could trust for true answers.
“Shauna?” she heard Wayne call. But she couldn’t answer.
After an hour waiting for a return phone call from Mr. Delaney, Shauna asked Wayne to please get her out of the house again.
“Let’s go to my loft. It might trigger something,” she said, pacing the living room.
Wayne sat on the Morris chair before answering, taking care not to lean against the adjustable back, which was missing its cushion and needed its supportive pole repaired. He seemed to be evaluating her agitation, which only made her more nervous. “I’m pretty sure someone else is living there now. We can’t just walk in.”
“You’re right. You’re right.”
She tinkered with the idea of driving out to the accident site, then dis-missed it when the prospect turned her stomach to lead. Soon, she would go. When she was ready.
But today she would try to focus on memory aids that were outside of her own mind. Something concrete, tangible. Something that would perhaps hold out more promise than yesterday’s dead ends and terrifying revelations. She needed the accident report, and she didn’t want to wait on some busy lawyer to get it to her.
“Let’s go to the sheriff ’s records office,” Shauna said.
“I’m sure the attorney will call us back.”
“By Monday, maybe. My trial is weeks away. I’m not even on his radar yet.”
“You’re Landon McAllister’s daughter. Of course you’re on his radar.”
“Then why hasn’t he called back?”
Wayne shook his head and stood to get his jacket. “Keys are in the truck.”
As she followed him out, she did consider that she might need to find her own transportation now. If Wayne could not be trusted, she might need to be mobile. She would ask Khai to find out where Rudy’s car and its keys were. Maybe she could use that for a while, get out on her own if it became necessary.
Wayne drove to the security gate at the front of the property, and a plain-clothed officer stepped out of the shack, signaling Wayne and Shauna to stop. On the opposite side of the little building, Shauna saw an elderly black man sitting in the driver’s seat of a shiny blue Lincoln. His pure white hair nearly brushed the top of the interior. His kind face captured her attention. He lifted his fingers off the steering wheel in a courteous wave to her and nodded.
Something about the easy movement of his long fingers made her think about shaking his hand. She imagined it would be warm and gentle, and that he would put her at ease with a crinkle-eyed smile.
Wayne rolled down his window to talk to the guard.
“This here’s a Dr. Jeremy Ayers,” the man said, referring to a small note-pad. “Says you’re a patient of his, Ms. McAllister? Was hoping to see you. We don’t have his name in any of our records, though.”
She had another doctor?
“Does she have an appointment with him?” Wayne asked, tilting his head for a better view.
“No, sir.”
“I don’t recognize him,” Shauna said, though she wished she did.
“He’s not someone you might have seen before the accident?”
Shauna shrugged. “Maybe he could call—”
“Shauna’s got a qualified team already,” Wayne said to the guard without looking at her. She frowned at the back of his head.
Dr. Ayers had opened the Lincoln’s door and placed a foot on the paved drive.
Wayne started rolling up his window. “Get his plate number, would you? In case this becomes a problem?”
The guard nodded, and Wayne pulled through the gates before the doctor fully exited the car.
“Why did you do that? He might have been able to tell me something.”
“Look, Shauna, your amnesia isn’t exactly classified information. You don’t need complete strangers dropping in with lies about how they’re your long-lost friends.”
“He hardly seemed the type.”
“The type is all kinds, Ms. McAllister. Your father might be the United States’ president in less than a month.”
Shauna sighed and resigned herself—for the time being—to Wayne’s over-protective behavior. He did have a point. Later she would see if Dr. Ayers’s phone number was listed.
“I’m not sure the report is going to tell you anything new,” Wayne had said as they pulled out of West Lake.
“Maybe it won’t.”
“What are you looking for?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“You worried about the drug thing?”
“Of course I am.”
Wayne looked at her sideways. “You know, it’s entirely possible that the MDMA was Rudy’s.”
Possible, but highly unlikely. Rudy wouldn’t even take a cough suppressant when sick, or aspirin when achy. “I doubt it.”
“But you doubt it was yours too.”
It went without saying, didn’t it? Twelve hours earlier she wouldn’t have imagined feeling the need to guard what she said to this man. Now she was suspicious of every word and what it would reveal of her.
“I’m thinking about that third person,” she ventured.
“Your phantom passenger?”
The needle of impatience in his tone pricked Shauna.
“And the witness who saw him. Her. Whatever.”
“Shauna, just because some mystery reporter—”
“I know, I know. But let me do this, please?” She doubted she’d find a record in the report of another witness, or another passenger, but she wanted to read it with her own eyes.
“Why the sudden urge to turn detective?”
“It’s not sudden. I want to stay out of jail.”
He turned in to the parking lot. “You’re on edge. Everything okay?”
Shauna looked out the window and decided not to answer. Silence might be her most convincing answer. And again, he didn’t press her.
They parked and she shucked her jacket as she climbed out of the cab. The day was turning out to be warmer than she had expected.
Inside, Shauna and Wayne found the appropriate clerk behind a Plexiglas partition, paid the fee, and a half hour later held a copy of the report.
Shauna sat down in a lobby chair to read.
“We can take it with us,” Wayne said, bending over her.
She waved him off and left him to pace in the dull waiting room, which was dotted with dusty silk plants and cheap prints of modern art.
Over the next fifteen minutes, she perused twenty-five pages of information she already knew. The account Wayne had offered was just as helpful as this verbose document, and far more concise. She had swerved her little Prius into the path of an oncoming truck. Both the truck driver and one witness—the driver of an SUV that she’d nearly clipped—claimed she was driving erratically, lost control of the car, slammed into the truck’s grille. Substance abuse was suspected. Rudy was ejected through the side door, which opened on impact, before she went over the guardrail.
No other witnesses.
No other passengers.
Reporting peace officer: Deputy Sheriff Cale Bowden. She would talk to him.
Still reading, Shauna carried the report back to the clerk’s window.
“Is Deputy Bowden here today?” she asked over the top of the report.
“The deputies don’t work in this office,” the petite woman said.
“Of course.” Shauna wondered which office was his home base. “I meant—”
“But it happens that he’ll be by today around eleven thirty to deliver some paperwork.” The clerk grinned. “They say he never brought it in person before I started working here.”
What was that supposed to mean? Shauna didn’t know and, honestly, didn’t really care.
A large, plain-faced clock hung on the wall behind the woman. Ten fifteen. “Do you mind if I wait? I have a quick question about this report.”
The woman winked at Shauna. “I’ll let him know if you promise not to steal him.”
Shauna smiled. She imagined it looked more like a wince.
“Why do you have to talk with the deputy?” Wayne asked when Shauna dropped back into the chair and told him what she was doing.
“I need—if there’s any possibility that someone else saw what happened, I want to know.”
Wayne placed his hand in hers, and she found the gesture unexpectedly comforting. What was happening to her, that now she couldn’t even trust the way she felt about a person? One hour this way, the other hour that. She let the report fall to her lap.
“Listen, babe. Plenty of people saw what happened.”
“Two, according to this. Rick Bond, whose truck I hit, and”—she found the right page to make sure—“Frank Danson. I guess I almost hit his SUV too.”
“Two’s enough. Even if you found three, or four, what will that change?”
It wouldn’t change anything. Rudy would still be disabled. Drugs would still have appeared in her loft. Why in the world was she here, after all?
She shook her head clear and withdrew her hand from Wayne’s. She was here because Wayne was hiding something from her. Maybe there wasn’t some-one else in her car that night, but Wayne wasn’t telling her everything, which meant she’d have to find out the whole truth on her own. If she were braver she would come out and ask him about the conversation she’d overheard. What did he think she was lying about, and why did he need to keep an eye on her? What was he hiding?
The questions made too little sense in her own mind to imagine what they would sound like if spoken aloud.
He checked his watch in response to her long silence. “Look, I’m going to go down the street and pick up some breakfast while we wait. Hungry?”
No, she wasn’t. Not one bit.
“I’ll rustle up a breakfast burrito, be back in maybe fifteen minutes, okay?”
“That’s fine.”
“You want some tea?”
Shauna leaned her head against her propped-up fist.
“If they have any.”
He patted her knee. “Back soon.”
Shauna tried to think through what she would ask this Deputy Sheriff Bowden when she saw him. By chance did you leave any critical information out of your report? Did you interview any witnesses who asked to be kept anonymous? This would take some careful two-stepping.
She read the report one more time.
“How can I help you, young lady?” Shauna flinched out of her hyper-focused state.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.” She checked her watch. It was only ten thirty.
The appearance of the man standing in front of her did not match her prior experience with Travis County police officers. Instead of the straightforward expression, the professional bearing, the detached tone of voice, Deputy Sheriff Bowden smiled at her as if she were a former girlfriend whom he was happy to run into.
She prepared to stand, but he sat down in the chair next to her, slouched in it so his legs angled toward hers, and set his right ankle on his left knee. He was fit and strong and maybe a little too pleased with himself for that middle-aged accomplishment. He colored his hair with something cheap and dark that clashed with his pale complexion.
Something about the line of his nose, which turned up a smidge at the end, reminded her of someone. Who?
She glanced at the clerk’s window and saw the woman who’d helped her get the report staring at them. She did not look happy.
“So what’s a pretty thing like you doing in an ugly place like this?”
And with that clichéd line, Shauna was able to make the connection.
“Cale Bowden. Your brother is Clay.” Clay used to say stuff like that to her all the time.
The deputy’s happiness seemed to increase at this revelation. His dark eyes brightened from sultry to sweet. “That’s right. The baby of the family himself. You know him?”
“Went to high school together.”
“See there? You and I have something in common already.” Deputy Bowden changed his position so that his hand touched Shauna’s arm. “Except Clay always did let the good fish slip off his hook.”
Shauna failed to anticipate a conversation of this nature. “It wasn’t like that, really.” She felt herself blush and picked up the accident report off the seat next to her and looked for Wayne. He could only have been gone a couple of minutes.
“I was hoping you could help me.”
“Your wish is my com—”
A thwack sounded and Bowden ducked. Another officer had entered the room from behind them. He carried a rolled-up newspaper, which he had used to smack Bowden in the back of the head.
“Save it for after hours, Bowden,” the man said, not breaking stride.
“Just helping a good citizen,” Bowden said to his back, still grinning. To Shauna the deputy said, “That one wears his briefs a size too small, if you know what I mean.”
Hit by a bolt of clarity, Shauna knew exactly what Deputy Bowden meant. She lowered her guard, lifted her eyebrows to make her eyes larger, and said, “Maybe we could talk over coffee? When you have the time, I mean? I’m sure you’re very busy.”
Bowden pushed off the chair and held out his hand to help her up.
“You must have been reading my mind,” he said. “I have a half hour coming up, and I know this great place down the street where . . .”
He was still speaking when Shauna slipped her hand into his. She sensed, out of the corner of her eye, the clerk crossing her arms. Shauna couldn’t be sure of this, though, because as she stood she was overcome by a much stronger sense, a frightening combination of vertigo, tunnel vision, and collapse. She gripped Bowden’s hand tighter to keep from falling.
Another blackout? Please, no.
The room tilted but she worked hard to keep her eyes open. She couldn’t pass out now. The walls shifted and began to rotate, but the deputy stayed fixed, so she held on and tried to keep his face front and center.
The space around her spun, picking up speed, a centrifuge. The walls fell outward and the furniture moved out toward the collapsed wall.
Her knees buckled.
A chair flew by her and she grabbed it for balance.
She fell anyway, or thought she fell, out of the vanishing room into the blackness of a starless night filled with the scent of fresh rain. But she wasn’t falling, actually, she was still standing on a wet bridge, one hand on a guardrail, dizzy from her shift out of reality.
Another vision?
She was leaning over the side to see what lay below. Gradually, her sense of vertigo settled. There was nothing to see at first except dancing beams of spotlights, though she heard the sound of traveling water. Then one of the lights came to rest on the partial undercarriage of a small car, more than half submerged at the riverbank fifty yards downstream, where it had been snagged by the bank. Two wheels protruded from the shallow river, which was slightly swollen from several days of downpour. Two Travis County sheriff ’s deputies were approaching the wreckage.
Wayne Spade was in the water, crying out to the officers for help.
“What a mess,” she heard herself say. But she was not herself. She stood in someone else’s skin. In fact, she was in someone else’s uniform. A brown sheriff ’s getup.
She righted the body she was in and turned back to the sight on the four-lane bridge, illuminated by the spinning lights of emergency vehicles. She made a slow, methodical counterclockwise turn around the site.
Directly in front of her, a cluster of EMTs hovered over a section of the pavement in the eastbound lanes. Rudy. Behind the hunched figures, a Chevy pickup idled in the outside lane. She recognized it as Wayne’s truck. The driver’s side door hung open, as if he’d come upon the limp form, slammed on the brakes, and jumped out.
The dome light lit up the cab.
In the westbound lanes, almost even with the Chevy, a large delivery truck straddled the double yellow center line. She walked around the truck, noting the crushed grille on the front and the damaged guardrail on this side of the bridge. The car must have gone over here, then taken the current under the bridge to the other side.
A deputy spoke to the delivery driver. The driver’s hands shook—nerves, she guessed—and he wiped his cheeks with his palms again and again, trying to rid them of some invisible grime. He was babbling about what happened. It would take the deputy a while to sort out this account. Then the man doubled over and vomited. She jumped out of range, but the spray hit her shoes.
She sighed and decided to talk with that one later.
Ahead of her, about halfway across the bridge, an SUV obstructed the shoulder of the westbound lanes, and a driver, tall and irritable, leaned against the rear bumper, likely having been told to stay put until someone got to him. Clean-cut. Saturday casual. White collar. She assumed he was a witness.
On the east side of the bridge, the sheriff ’s department had set up a barricade and was turning drivers back into a long and unfortunate detour.
“Got a live one, Bowden!” someone shouted from below. She moved back to the guardrail and looked over again. All spotlights were on the flipped car, and on a figure the officers were lifting out of the water. They stretched out her body on the nearby bank.
One deputy began administering CPR. Behind him, Wayne Spade paced, one hand on his forehead.
She looked again at the victim.
She was seeing herself, lying unconscious on the muddy slope.