Dark Whispers. Debra Webb

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      * * *

      CLINT HAYES DID not believe her.

      Natalie didn’t have to wonder. She saw the truth in his eyes. There was no evidence to support her story. Nothing. Her brain injury made her an unreliable witness at best. How could she expect anyone to believe her?

      Maybe she was losing her mind. Her own brother thought she was imagining things.

      “Let’s talk about why someone would want to create a situation like the one that played out in your home this morning.”

      Hope dared to bloom in her chest. “Are you saying you believe me?”

      “Yes.” He nodded. “I do.”

      Startled, Natalie fought to gather her wits. She had hoped to find someone who would believe her. Now that she had, she felt weak with relief and overwhelmed with gratitude. “Would you like coffee or tea?”

      “No thank you, but don’t let me stop you.”

      “I don’t drink coffee after the middle of the afternoon for fear I won’t sleep.” Her life was quite sad now. What would this handsome, obviously intelligent man think if he knew just how sad? What difference did money and position matter in the end? Very little, she had learned. The years of hard work to reach the pinnacle of her field meant nothing now. She could no more battle an opponent in the courtroom than a ten-year-old could hope to win a presidential debate.

      All she had been or ever hoped to be was either gone or broken. Her mother had warned her all-work-and-no-play attitude would come back to haunt her one day. What kind of life will you have without someone to share it with? Her mother’s words reverberated through her.

      A lonely one, Mother. Very lonely.

      “Are you taking medication?”

      “I have a number of medications, Mr. Hayes.” She led the way to an enormous great room where her family had hosted the Who’s Who of Birmingham. “There are ones for anxiety and others for sleep—all to be taken as needed. So far I’ve done all right without them more than six months. I take over-the-counter pain relievers for the headaches that have become fewer and further between.”

      She settled into her favorite chair. Mr. Hayes took a seat across the coffee table from her. The idea that he might not actually believe her but needed to pad the company’s bottom line crossed her mind. The other three agencies she’d contacted this afternoon weren’t interested in taking her case. What made this one different? She’d stumbled upon B&C Investigations completely by accident. She’d walked away from the third rejection and noticed the new sign in the window on the way to her car.

      “Do you have any personal enemies that you know of?”

      She shook her head. “No family issues. No work issues. I can’t imagine anyone who would want to do this. Why break into my home? Nothing appears to be missing.”

      “Let’s talk about the people closest to you.”

      “My sister and I have always made it a point to have dinner a couple of times a week. Since the fall, she stays the night whenever I need her—or when she decides it’s necessary. I don’t see my brother as often. He’s very busy. There’s Suzanna Clark, the housekeeper, and her husband, Leonard, the gardener.”

      “You said your sister started staying with you at night again because of the voices.”

      Natalie hated admitting this part, but it was necessary. “About two months ago I started waking up at night and hearing voices—as if someone is in the house. I get up and search every room only to find I’m here alone.” If only she could convey how very real the voices sounded. It terrified her that perhaps her brother was right and she was imagining them. “Until this morning.”

      “What about your colleagues at the office?”

      The uneasiness that plagued her when she thought of work seeped into her bones. Since the fall, her professional inadequacy filled her with dread whenever the subject of work came up. She’d once lived for her career.

      “I have my assistant, Carol. Art Rosen is the partner I work closest with. I’m well acquainted with everyone on staff. I have no rivals or issues with my colleagues, if that’s what you’re asking.”

      “Friends or a boyfriend?”

      Ah, now he would learn the truly saddest part. “Before the injury, I had lots of friends, most were associated with work. We lost touch during my recovery.” She forced a smile. “There’s nothing like tragedy to send the people you thought were your friends running in the other direction. It was partly my fault. I was always so strong and self-reliant. People didn’t want to see the weak, needy me. Except for Sadie. She’s my psychologist as well as my friend.”

      “Boyfriend?” he repeated. “Fiancé?”

      She drew in a big breath. “There was a boyfriend. He had asked me to marry him but I kept putting him off. Work was my top priority. About three months into my recovery, he apparently no longer had the stomach for who I’d become.”

      The dark expression on the investigator’s face told her exactly what he thought about such a man.

      Natalie shook her head. “Don’t blame him, Mr. Hayes. I’m—”

      “Clint,” he reminded her.

      “Clint,” she acknowledged.

      “If he cared enough to propose,” Clint argued, “there’s no excuse for his inability to see you through a difficult time.”

      “He proposed to the woman I used to be.” Natalie understood the reasons all too well. Steven Vaughn had ambitious plans that didn’t include a potentially disabled wife. “I’m not that person anymore. I doubt I ever will be. Part of me was lost to the injury and now my entire life is different. I don’t blame him for not wanting to be a part of it. After all, if you invest in gold, silver is not a suitable substitution.”

      Clint studied her for a long moment before going on. “No one in your circle would have had reason to want to do you harm at the time of your accident or now?”

      Natalie laughed, a self-deprecating sound. “Therein lies the true rub. Though my current short-term memory works well now, everything beyond six months ago is a very different story. So I can’t answer that question because I can’t remember. To my knowledge I have no enemies. My colleagues and family know of no one who gave me any real trouble in the past.”

      “How much of your memory did you lose?”

      “Perhaps the better word is misplaced. The injury jumbled things up. Our lives—our memories—are stored. Like files in a filing cabinet. Imagine if that cabinet was turned upside down, the drawers would open and those files would spill all over the floor. The contents of the files are still there, but they’re hard to retrieve because now they’re out of order.”

      “So you do remember things.”

      She nodded. “Yes. As my brain healed from the injury, it was like starting over. I had to relearn how to communicate, how to function, mentally as well as physically. As my vocabulary returned, СКАЧАТЬ