Fresh tears cloud my eyes. “You will, just not today. Thank you for everything, Beau.”
I kiss him slowly while wrapping my arms around his neck. I want to catalog everything. Just in case our paths don’t cross again. I want fond memories of the way he looks, tastes, smells, and feels. I want to remember the sound of his voice and his laugh. I want to bottle up his essence and take it with me. But I can’t. I break the kiss on that miserable thought.
“Goodbye, Beau.”
This time, when I pivot, he allows me to leave. He doesn’t call out to me and he doesn’t come after me. This is what I want. Right? Each step hurts my feelings a little more than the last. We’re officially parting ways, and I hate it.
It’s a short walk into town, and I’m unable to fully compose myself by the time I’m in the thick of the people moving along the sidewalk from one building to the next. I ignore the curious stares as I head straight to the police station. I’ve been to this town before; my presence would not be a shock on a normal day, but me crying like a disgruntled child as I enter the police station is guaranteed to raise a few brows.
The main police officer gently grabs my arm and ushers me to his office.
“Ma’am? Ma’am! Are you alright?”
I wipe my eyes and look at him. He has silver hair and kind eyes filled with concern. He reminds me of Matlock. I accept the offered tissue, sink into one of his guest chairs, and drop my tote onto the other. I’d promised Beau I would end the search for me, but I didn’t say when I would return to fight with Weston. I take a steadying breath as a new plan formulates.
Selective memory.
“I-I’m supposed to be missing?”
Ernest
I recognizedCeleste the moment her face wasn’t covered with tears. I’ve been staring at her pictures for days. We tried everything we could to find her or her body before the hurricane. I was so disturbed by the possible sudden death of a young, vibrant woman that I went home and prayed with my Gertrude that she would be found alright.
We’d even done some more searching and contacted neighboring towns after the hurricane. Nothing. To say I’m pleased, surprised, and suspicious by her appearance is an understatement. I’m torn between getting her checked out and interrogating her. I study her while she composes herself. Neat hair, new clothes, smooth skin, and she doesn’t look hungry or thirsty.
“You’re supposed to be missing?” I repeat, partially skeptical.
She nods. “Yes. I was driving, felt a jolt, fell into the ocean, someone found me on the beach partially naked and took me home right before the hurricane. I slept through most of the storm and when I’d awakened, I was given fresh clothes and informed I was on the news for being missing.”
I immediately know that part of her story is false. I just need to know why she’s lying. Was this a failed attempt to fake her death? Is she involved in criminal activity, or is she running from someone? Either way, I continue to allow her to speak.
“Apparently, I was a couple of towns over. They dropped me off and here I am?”
More bullshit.
“Why are you crying?”
“I’m so confused.”
That is true or at least partially true. I nod and pull out her file. “Well, according to your file, your name is Celeste Jane Fontanne, and your husband—”
“I don’t have a husband.”
I pause. She said that entirely too fast. I study her. She’s wringing her hands and looking everywhere but at me. I think I’m getting to the root of her issues. I know Weston Chesterfield is a spoiled little shit who should have gotten his ass beaten more as a child, but I wouldn’t think his wife would pretend he didn’t exist. I glance at her hand. There is no sign of her wearing a ring lately.
“The file says you do.”
“I do not.” Her shoulders are tense, and her lips are tight.
“How can you be certain if your memory before the accident is fuzzy?”
I watch her hazel eyes flash with a few emotions. She should never try to become an actress.
“I don’t have a ring.” She holds up her hand and studies it. “I don’t see where I would have worn a ring.”
“A lot of married couples don’t wear rings these days…” I pull his photo out of her file and push it across the desk. “This is your husband.”
Her entire body stiffens. Her eyes grow in recognition, and a whole world of hurt flashes on her face. She’s scared. I nod to myself. I’ve isolated the reason behind this charade.
