Remembering That Night. Stephanie Doyle

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СКАЧАТЬ 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?”

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