Kill Me Again (16 page)

“And who's going to protect us from Bryan?”

She frowned. “No one. No one needs to.”

“He's a cop.”

It was her turn to arch her brows in surprise. “Cops are the good guys.”

“Right. This from a woman who got beaten down by one on a regular basis for…how long was it, again?”

“A year.”

“A year,” he said.

“Only because it took me that long to make and carry out a plan to get away alive,” she said, feeling a little defensive. “He was a bad man. And a bad cop. The exception, not the rule. Even I know the difference.” She
frowned as she closed the hatch behind Freddy and moved to the driver's-side door. She got in behind the wheel because she was sick of being a passenger and wanted a turn as the driver. “Do you think maybe you have a bad experience with a cop lurking in your history somewhere, too?”

“I don't know.”

He seemed to be searching his mind, and she had a twinge of sympathy for how hard that must be, how frustrating to try over and over, only to find a gaping chasm where his past ought to be.

She thought it might be time to change the subject, but she was beginning to realize just how little she knew about this man. She still believed he was Aaron Westhaven. Who else would have shown up in her little town, with her card on him, on the day Aaron was due? And if he wasn't Aaron, then the real author should have arrived or at least phoned her to explain why not.

No, there was no question. He was Westhaven. But maybe the stories he wrote didn't reflect his real personality as much as she had always assumed they did. Talking about murder, knowing how to fight, how to evade, how to hide, knowing all about weapons and having an inherent distrust of police…No, those things didn't reflect the man at all. At least, not the man she'd been coming to know.

“Could we maybe just drive past my place? See what's going on?”

He glanced at her. “It would be too risky.”

“Why? No one is looking for this vehicle,” she said.

“Unless someone got a look at it after our copy shop incident.”

“How would they connect it to us?”

“It's too flashy, Liv. We'd attract attention. Just be patient a little longer, okay?”

She sighed, but she promised to try.

 

They bought a tool kit made for repairing eyeglasses at a drugstore in a nearby town, and then she drove while Aaron tinkered with the pocket watch. She was itching to use her cell phone one more time. She'd had the brilliant realization that she could check her messages, and she intended to do so, just as soon as she could get away from him long enough.

And maybe that was being stupid, overly suspicious, even paranoid. Or maybe it was that she wanted to keep believing in him for as long as possible, and if he didn't want her checking her messages, it was going to be very hard for her to go on trusting him. And maybe, deep down inside, she already knew he wasn't the man she wanted him to be. He might be Aaron Westhaven or he might not, but either way, he wasn't the man she'd thought he was. That man wasn't real. She'd realized that at some point in getting to know him. That man was a creation of her own mind. He didn't exist.

This man did, and now that she was finally clear on who he wasn't, she was eager to find out who he was. Eager, and a little bit afraid. And for some reason,
every bit as attracted as she'd been before. Maybe even more so.

“I want to sleep in a bed tonight,” she announced as she drove back toward Shadow Falls, certain he planned to spend another night in some other part of the forest.

“I don't think that's smart.”

“I don't care if it's smart. I'm going to face my deepest fears tonight, and I want to do it from someplace that has indoor plumbing, a hot shower and a bed to come back to if I manage to come back at all. Is that really so much to ask?”

He held her eyes for a long moment, and there was something unexpected there. Some spark, a playfulness and a hint of…was that desire?

“No,” he said. “You're right, you are risking your life tonight. You ought to have what you want. We'll drive forty minutes in any direction you want, and we'll get a motel room for the night. You can have your hot shower and a decent meal before the meeting. We can leave the guns locked in the car and relax. No one's coming after us today. How's that sound?”

She smiled widely. “Almost as good as going home would. Thanks, Aaron.”

“You're wel—” He stopped there, as the back of the watch popped open at last. He'd been prying—way too gently—at the thing for the entire duration of the ride. He turned it over, peering into the opening, and a tiny piece of paper fluttered out and landed in his lap.

“I knew it,” he whispered. Blinking, he looked over at her. “I did, didn't I?”

“You did,” she said. “You said there was something more about that watch.” She knew he needed reassurance. “You must have remembered that, Aaron. That means it's all coming back.” She was having trouble focusing on driving at all. “Well? Aren't you going to look at it?”

He smiled slightly, but it was a nervous smile, not a happy one. “I'm almost afraid to.”

“Just do it, before I stop the car and do it myself.”

He met her eyes briefly, then, nodding, picked up the paper and unfolded it. He read it, with a deepening frown.

“Well? What is it?” she asked.

“It's an address. In Philadelphia.”

“That's all?”

He looked at her and nodded. “That's all. Five-two-eight-one Sycamore Lane, Apartment P.” He lifted his brows. “And…” He patted himself down, finally removing a key from a pocket. “There's also a P on this key.”

She took it from him, hitting the brakes at the same time. He looked behind them, nervous of being rear-ended, but she was busy staring at the embossing on the gold toned key. It said P, all right. Lowering the key, she resumed driving. “Maybe you live in a penthouse apartment. That would mean you're wealthy enough to be Aaron Westhaven.”

“You said he lives on a Christmas tree farm in Washington State.”

“So that's just a cover story, just like you said. Or maybe you have several homes, like a lot of wealthy people do.”

“Or maybe I'm not him.”

“I think you hope you're not him. In fact, I'm developing a theory about it. I think you harbor some kind of fantasy of being an adventurer, writing those kinds of novels and living the lifestyle that goes with them. And I think this amnesia is a chance at re-creating yourself. If you admit you're Aaron Westhaven, you become him again. But you want to be someone else.”

He seemed to be mulling that over for a long, long moment, and then he looked at her, and said again, “Or maybe I'm not him.”

She sighed. “Maybe.” Then she looked at her watch. “I'm hungry. We need to get some lunch.”

“Let's wait for the motel, see what's near it. We shouldn't be seen this close to Shadow Falls.” He looked around. “Where are we, by the way?”

“Maple Valley,” she said. “This is mainly ski country, and it's way off-season. So far off season I'll bet we can get the best suite to be had. Hot tub and all.”

“I said
motel,
Olivia. We can't use our plastic. We have to pay cash. They're not going to—”

“Sure they are. We have enough cash to give them whatever security deposit they need. We'll let them think
we're having an affair, can't risk the spouses finding out, something like that.”

As she spoke she pulled into the parking area of a giant log cabin with an archway above the entrance that looked like the top half of a giant wagon wheel, each spoke an entire log. Within that spoke, spelled out in carved maple leaves, were the words
Sugar-Shack Lodge
and underneath, in smaller letters,
Rooms and Private Cabins Available.

“This is not at all what I had in mind,” he muttered.

“Look, you. I'm facing my—”

“Deepest fears tonight. I've got it.”

“Good. So shut up and play along.” She chose a parking spot, gave her face the once-over in the rearview mirror, and realized her hair was down and loose. Then she looked at her shirt with the top few buttons undone and the blue jeans that fit her like a glove. And looked good on her, too, she thought. Surprisingly good. Lifting her eyes again, she thought that the woman looking back at her from the rearview mirror could have passed for one of her students.

Huh. Go figure.

“Liv?”

“I'll be right back.” She got out, slammed the door and left him with Freddy in the car.

 

She was damn good at getting what she wanted, he thought. Because an hour later they were ensconced in a private cabin at the base of a beautiful mountain, with
a stream bubbling nearby. She'd ordered food from one of the local restaurants, and it was due at the door any minute. And the way she was eyeballing the hot tub on the deck out back, he figured she would be in that sucker as soon as she finished her lunch.

She sure was going to make the most of the afternoon. That made him wonder if she really did believe that this might be the final one of her all-too-abbreviated life. Was she
that
scared?

Someone knocked. She was busy filling a large bowl with food for the horse she called a dog, so he answered it.

“Money's in my bag, on the table there,” she called.

“Okay.” He grabbed the wallet from her bag and glimpsed the little black handgun inside. His blood chilled at the sight of it. It reminded him just how afraid she really was of the man they were going to face tonight. The man he might have been working for.

Tommy Skinner. The name wasn't familiar to him, but that didn't mean much. The thug hadn't seemed to recognize his voice on the phone, though. That was a plus. But would he recognize his
face
tonight? Would he tell Olivia that her Aaron was really Adam, a hired killer he'd sent to end her life?

He took some bills out of the wallet and went to the door. The kid at the door handed over several white paper bags, took the bills and handed him back some change. Adam tipped him, then watched him go before closing
the door and turning the lock. He carried the bags to the round wooden table and handed her the change.

She tucked it back into her wallet, then watched him unloading the bags. She'd ordered an old-fashioned roast chicken dinner, complete with mashed potatoes and gravy, warm rolls and soft butter, stuffing and baby peas, and a hot apple pie for dessert.

He shot a meaningful look at her purse as she set it back down on the table.

“Look, I forgot the gun was even in there, okay?”

“Whatever,” he said. He was taking dishes down from the cupboard now. The kitchenette was stocked with everything except food. There were even a clean dishcloth and bottle of dishwashing liquid under the sink.

“I didn't bring it inside because I was afraid of you or anything like that,” she said. “It just—I just thought it best to keep it close, given the circumstances.”

“Makes perfect sense.” He put the plates on the table and laid silverware beside each one.

“I don't like guns. I've been in conflict with myself over carrying it at all.”

“It's all right, Olivia. I'm not angry. I
am
hungry, though.” He pulled out a chair, sat down and began filling his plate.

She sat and did likewise. He watched her taking a little bit of everything. “You were upset. I saw your face.”

“I don't think you know me well enough to judge how I feel.”

She shrugged. “I've seen you angry before. When you confronted that burglar in my house. When you spoke to Tommy on the phone.”

“And I seemed like that?”

Her lips thinned. She had to know he hadn't acted the same way at all. “Not exactly. You were just quiet, and your eyes went all cold, the way they do sometimes.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I was a little bothered at the reminder of how afraid you are of that bastard. But not angry about a woman whose life is on the line taking precautions to protect herself.” His plate was full, and he picked up his fork. “If you'd told me how you felt, I'd have told you to keep the gun close.” Then he leaned over and sniffed the food as his stomach rumbled. “And for the record, Olivia, if I
had
been angry, this meal probably would have calmed me right down.”

She smiled then, relaxing a little more. And that was what he wanted. No one should go out to face possible death without a smile and a good meal inside them. And though he had no intention of letting her get herself killed, he knew that in her mind, the risk was there. It was real to her.

“I just didn't want you to think I was keeping it close because I didn't trust you or anything. That's all.”

He looked at her. “But you
don't
trust me. Not entirely. And you'd be a fool if you did, Liv.”

She lowered her eyes.

“Look, we never said we were going to tell each other everything. But maybe, given our circumstances, it might
be reassuring—for both of us—if we can agree to be as open and honest with each other as we can be.”

“About…?” she asked.

“About everything.”

Olivia averted her eyes, and for the slightest moment he got the feeling there was guilt lurking behind them. Was she keeping something from him? And if so, what?

Then again, could he blame her? He hadn't told her about those dreams of his—about the snippets of memory that seemed to suggest he was a paid killer. But he had good reason, he told himself, to keep that information from her. Because if it were true, then the second she found out, she would be history. He would never see her again, and he needed her. He needed her to help him get his life back. Where would he be if she abandoned him right now? No car, no money, no clue who he was, nothing but an address on a slip of paper in the back of an old pocket watch. A voice from somewhere deep within him whispered,
It's more than that, and you know it.