Marla picked up the picture, her fingers holding the frame so hard her knuckles showed white.
Think, come on,
remember!
This is you and Cissy and . . . and the person taking the picture, the one whose shadow is partially visible at your feet, must be Alex!
But try as she would, she couldn't recall the day at the beach. Or any specific day for that matter.
“Give yourself time,” Marla said again, replacing the photo and nearly dropping it as her fingers didn't move with the dexterity they should. She still felt clumsy and awkward, out of sync. Edgy, she made her way to the nursery. James wasn't in his crib, but she didn't panic. The nanny probably had him downstairs, or Eugenia, “Nana,” as she called herself, could be
doting
on him for she certainly acted as if the boy's birth was nearly as important as the Second Coming. Or maybe even the First.
Outside the nursery, she heard voices floating up from downstairs, but decided, while she was alone, to do a little exploringâget the feel of the place. Whether it was paranoia or just a need for self-preservation, she wanted to learn as much about herself and her family as possible, and not always by asking questions and getting answers she felt had been premeditated and carefully constructed so as not to upset her. She'd have to straighten that out, and fast. She was home now. Ready to get on with her life, eager to put the past behind.
But you can't. Not yet. You still have so much to remember and the police to deal with . . .
Marla's thoughts turned dark with regret, but she pushed them from her mind. She would have to call Pam's daughter and her ex-husband, try to express her grief and regret and she'd have to do it soon. Regardless of the police. Or the attorneys. Or the damned insurance companies that she'd heard Alex whispering about.
She walked through the suite, a sitting area with its own fireplace and verandah, then tried the door to Alex's room and found it unlocked.
Without thinking twice she stepped inside. The room was as neat as if he expected a military inspection. A king-sized bed, dresser, small couch and armoire hiding a television and stereo system were placed around the room. A bay window offered a view of the grounds, and farther off, the lights of the city. Through a walk-in closet filled with suits and sports clothes hung with precision was an exercise room and the equipment that kept him in shape. Marla ran her fingers over the handle bars of the exercise bike and eyed the treadmill, weight bench and NordicTrack, wondering if she'd ever used any of this stuff. She was in reasonably good shape, but she couldn't imagine spending hours in this room working up a sweat. No, something told her she'd rather be outside . . . walking, running, playing tennis, riding . . . maybe even rowing.
Through another door she stepped into a private office, paneled in dark wood, accented with brass fixtures. Forest green leather furniture, potted plants, and beveled glass windows mounted high, near the ceiling, offering light but no view.
This, she supposed, was her husband's sanctuary. It smelled faintly of smoke and his aftershave. Oils of racehorses graced the walls. Horses . . . In her mind's eye, Marla caught a glimpse of herself riding, through open fields, her hair streaming behind her. Her lungs had been near bursting, the wind rushing at her face in a torrent, and beneath her, there had been the feel of powerful muscles stretching under her legs . . . bareback? She rode
bareback?
Like a wild tomboy or American Indian in old movies . . . ?
Yes!
As if she'd done it a thousand times, she suddenly remembered the chafe of horsehide against her legs. Stunned, she swallowed hard. Her palms were instantly sweaty, her heart racing. She shook her head. How did that imagery fit in with everything else around here? With the pictures of sleek racehorses, thoroughbreds held on reins by liveried handlers or ridden by jockeys in racing silks and jodhpurs along manicured tracks? Nothing wild . . . or reckless or . . . free. All contained. Constrained. By convention and society.
Her knees threatened her and she dropped into Alex's desk chair to get a grip. “This is good,” she said, but she wasn't certain she could believe it. The leather chair squeaked and she cringed. It wasn't that she was trying to do anything behind her husband's back, she told herself, but she just plain needed answers and she needed them ASAP. Yet she felt a niggling tickle of guilt as she flipped through the open desk calendar, as if she were invading someone else's private space. “Stupid woman, he's your husband, for crying out loud. There are no secrets between you.”
But she knew the statement was false. She'd felt the secrets, saw them in his eyes though he tried to hide them. There were lies and deceit and . . . “Stop it!” She was making herself nuts. Certifiably nuts! Stiffening her spine, she riffled through the pages of the calendar, studying the dates, places and names, hoping something, any little haphazard doodle or notation, would jog her memory.
Her accident had occurred nearly eight weeks earlier, so she turned back to the date when her entire life had nearly ended.
That square was blank.
“Damn it,” she muttered, feeling as if yet another obstacle had been thrust onto the road to her recovery. Most of the calendar squares were covered with pen and pencil marks, notations in two different handsâdinner party at the Robertsons, the Friday before, Cissy's riding lesson on the day after the accident were written in a soft, easy-flowing script. Alex's business meetings or squash and golf games were slashed in a bolder scrawl.
She picked up a pen. Wrote her name on a note pad. Compared the handwriting. It was different, a stronger, harsher script than Marla's . . . or was she going crazy? She wrote her name again. Alex's name. Then Nick's.
Maybe it was the accident that had caused the difference. But an eerie sensation crept under her skin and she dropped the pen.
She fought the feeling that something was wrong.
She was jumping at shadows, for no good reason.
So what about the trip to Santa Cruz? Why wasn't it on this marked-up calendar?
Maybe you were leaving Alex. But the baby? And Cissy . . . perhaps it was a last-minute, spur-of-the-moment trip?
No. She wouldn't have just left the kids. It didn't fit. Anxious, she turned to the Rolodex. What were the names she knew? Robertson? Phil and his wife, Linda, were listed. Lindquist . . . Joanna Lindquist, yes, she was in the cards as well. Joanna and Ted. Miller . . . Randy and Sonja were listed but Sonja had been crossed out as if she'd died or left. . . . With fingers that were still a bit sluggish, she flipped to the Ds and searched for Pam Delacroix, but there wasn't a listing for anyone with that last name.
“How odd,” she thought aloud, tapping an old card at the back and then, starting again. Slowly, card by card, she flipped through, thinking that Pam's name and number might have been misfiled. Some of the people who had sent her cards and flowers were listed: Bill and Sheryl Bancroft, Mario Dimetrius, Joanna and Ted Lindquist and . . . Kylie Paris . . . Her heart stopped. That name was familiar . . . very familiar . . . as if . . . as if she were a close relative . . . someone near and dear. But the address and phone number meant nothing to her.
Think, Marla, think. Why does this woman's name ring a bell and none of the others do?
But nothing came. Not one lousy recollection. “Damn it all,” she muttered and turned her attention back to Pam Delacroix. Why wouldn't she have listed Pam's name in this master file of friends and business acquaintances?
Because she never existed. She's a lie.
The thought struck her hard. Like a hammer blow to her chest.
Of course she did exist,
the rational side of her mind argued.
But she's dead.
You
killed her. In
her
car! The police are investigating her death. So, be rational. Use your head. Figure this out, damn it.
Pam had existed, was her friend, so there should be something in this house that would serve as a reminder.
A computer, monitor glowing, hummed softly on one corner of the desk and she wondered if she had the time to check the computer files.
Later,
she told herself,
when you know you won't be caught.
“Don't get paranoid,” she told herself. “Or you'll end up in the loony bin.”
Marla touched the keyboard. The screen saver of tropical fish shifted and icons blinked up at her. With surprising ease she found the word processing program, nearly jumping out of her skin when she saw
Marla's files.
So she had used this machine! Good. That thought should have been reassuring and she tried to open the file only to discover she needed a password. Her heart sank. She glanced around the drawers, searching for a hint of the password and found none. She tried to retrieve her e-mail. Same problem. Attempting every combination she could think ofâher name, her children's names, anything, she finally gave up. Her fingers beat a sharp tattoo on the arm of the chair and she heard footsteps on the stairs.
She jumped, for no reason she understood, knocking over a mug holding pens and pencils. It rolled onto the floor, spilling its contents. “Great.” As quickly as possible, she scooped up the pens and pencils and crammed them back into the mug with its Harvard logo.
She heard the door to the suite open, the footsteps fading away. “Mrs. Cahill?” a woman's voiceâone she didn't recognizeâcalled, muffled.
“In here,” she replied, determined to stay put. “In the office.” She reached up from the desk, opened the door to the hallway and spied the open door to Cissy's room on the other side of the staircase. Her heart was drumming, her hands clammy, but she forced herself to stay calm. This was her house, damn it, her husband's room. She had every right to be here. So why did she feel as if she were trespassing?
A few seconds later a slim woman with flashing brown eyes and dark skin stuck her head through the doorway. “Hi.”
“You . . . you must be Carmen.”
“Yes.”
Marla felt the urge to apologize. “I'm sorry Iâ”
“I know. Amnesia. Don't worry.” Carmen stepped into the office and if Marla's change in appearance affected her, she managed to hide it. Dressed in a slim navy skirt and white blouse with the sleeves rolled up, Carmen said, “Mrs. Eugenia sent me to check on you and ask you about dinner. When I didn't find you in your room, I was worried.”
“I'm fine . . . well, considering. Right now it's all relative, I suppose.” Marla glanced at the computer screen again. “I don't suppose you know my password for this?”
“Sorry.” Carmen shook her head. “I don't remember that you used it that much.”
“How about where my purse might beâthe one that was with me the night of the accident?”
Deep lines grooved the woman's high forehead and she pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I haven't seen it . . . or anything else from that night for that matter.”
Marla's heart sank. She pushed the chair back. “How about my personal things, pictures of me as a little girl, or when Cissy was a baby?”
“Sure.” Carmen brightened. “That I can do.”
Marla's head snapped up. “Really?” This was something. Not much, but something tangible to link her to her past.
“Sure. All the photo albums are in the library.”
“Maybe I should look through them and I know this sounds a little weird, but would you mind showing me around?”
“No problem at all. Now, about dinner?”
“Is it dinner time already?” She glanced at the skylight high over the staircase and noted that the sky was darkening.
“No, not until eight. But Mrs. Eugenia likes things organized.”
“That, I believe,” Marla said imagining her unbending, socially conscious mother-in-law. She doubted if Eugenia ever bent a rule, much less broke one, and she couldn't imagine the little woman ever adjusting a schedule.
As they walked across the hall, Marla said, “I checked. James isn't in the nursery.”
“He's downstairs. With Fiona and Mrs. Eugenia.”
Good. One less concern for the moment.
As deftly as a museum director, Carmen showed her the rooms on the third floorâCissy's bedroom, painted in yellow and, it seemed, forever a mess with books, computer discs, CDs and magazines strewn all over the floor. Her vanity was covered with jars and tubes of makeup, her walls plastered with posters of teen idols . . . some of the faces looked familiar, but none of the names came to mind.
Another room on the floor was the guest room and Marla looked for any trace of Nick. There was none, of course. The room was as precisely decorated as her own. Too perfect with its matching oil paintings, color-coordinated drapes and carpet and casual, understated elegance. Fake. Phony. Why she felt this way, Marla didn't understand but she felt that her life and this house were a sham.
“What about Fionaâwhere does she sleep?” she asked as they walked along a corridor banked by soft lights.