Undercover Memories. Alice Sharpe

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      Chapter Three

      There was no option but to redress in the torn clothes he’d woken up in. They were still on the damp side and were getting pretty ripe. He slapped a bandage on his chin and one on his forehead and called it good.

      Man, he was a mess. The eye wasn’t as puffy as before, but he had at least a day’s growth of dark beard to go with the bruises and cuts. No wonder Paige had looked frightened of him—he was the bogeyman of a nightmare.

      “You sorry bastard,” he told his reflection.

      There was something else, too. He’d had dreams during the night. Vivid ones. They’d woken him in a cold sweat, driven him into the shower to try to wash away the images. Faces of children, fire, mayhem. Screams…

      Like a war. And something flying, hovering, threatening.

      Was he a soldier or had he been one in his youth? And what about the children in the dream? Had he done something terrible to children? He couldn’t believe that of himself. He didn’t know who he was, but he did have a sense of what he was, and it wasn’t a murderer.

      Yet even now, wide awake, remembering the images made his stomach roll like a set of slow ocean waves.

      He splashed cold water on his face and told himself to get a grip. His memory would return any minute and he’d figure out what went wrong, what had happened to him, and maybe more important, what he’d done to someone else.

      The aroma of coffee drew him into the kitchen, where Paige handed him a mug, then set a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him.

      “What is it like? I mean, not knowing who you are?” she asked as she sat opposite him again.

      “Weird,” he said as the first hot swallow of coffee washed down his throat. “Empty.”

      “About the police—”

      He’d picked up his fork but set it aside again. “No police. Not until I can remember what happened. I’m willing to face the music when it comes to paying for my crimes, but if they’ve decided I’ve almost killed a man, how can I prove I didn’t?”

      “Then how about getting some expert help?”

      “Like a shrink?”

      “No, like a retired cop. I happened to have had dinner with one last night. He and his wife seem like real down-to-earth types. He might be able to advise you about what to do next.”

      He picked up the fork again and took a few bites. The eggs tasted pretty good. They were the first thing he’d eaten since stealing yogurt out of Paige’s refrigerator the evening before.

      He studied her for a minute. “Who’s Brian?”

      She looked away from him.

      “You called me that last night.”

      “I remember.”

      “So, who is he?”

      “Brian Witherspoon. He was my fiancé up until about three days ago.”

      “Who broke up with who?”

      “And that is your business because?”

      “Because my head is a vast wasteland. Give me something to think about besides my life, which currently sucks big-time. Throw me a bone. Have a heart. Anyway, I’m curious. You got tired of him, right?”

      “You think so?”

      “Yes. Hard to picture someone skipping out on you, so you must have done the skipping. Then you came up here by yourself to get away from his incessant pleas to get back together. How am I doing?”

      “Perfectly,” she said. Then she blinked, her eyes bright, and shook her head. “Actually, he left me. At the altar. In front of everyone when his ex-wife showed up for the wedding. The preacher said that line about anyone having doubts, and she stood up and announced she still loved him.”

      “Ouch.”

      “So I came on my honeymoon by myself. Pathetic, huh?”

      “I think it’s kind of gutsy.”

      “How about you show some guts? Come with me to talk to Jack Pollock. He’s a good man.”

      “He’s a cop.”

      “Ex-cop.”

      “Same thing.”

      “Well, there now, see? You know something about yourself after all. You don’t like the police.”

      He finished off his eggs. “I also know cops are all alike.”

      “That’s silly. Of course they aren’t. Anyway, I told you, he’s retired.”

      “He’s still a gun-toting—”

      “No, as a matter of fact, you’re wrong. His wife told me last night that he won’t have a gun in the house. He’s left all that behind him. And as for gun toting, that seems to describe you, doesn’t it?”

      He stared at her a second and sighed. “Yeah, I guess so. Okay, you win, we’ll go see your friend.”

      “Good. I’ll clean up and get dressed while you figure out how to get my car out of the ditch.”

      He watched her turn to the sink. She was wearing a tight pair of jeans that made her rear look pretty damn enticing. She turned back, leaning down to take his plate, and their gazes locked. She wasn’t wearing a bra, which was evident СКАЧАТЬ