“You wouldn’t be faking this bout of amnesia in an effort not to testify, would you?”
“No.” Colette laughed uneasily. “If only I were everything would be much easier. I want to testify, I want to do whatever I can to get Collier behind bars, but I can’t tell what I don’t remember.”
“And beyond your dream, you don’t remember hearing a conversation between Collier and another man?”
“No.”
“And you don’t remember being chased down the hallways of the law offices?”
“No.”
“Ask the lady if she remembers cutting me.”
The voice came from the kitchen doorway. Colette whirled around to see Bob Sanderson standing there. And in the instant of seeing him here, where he didn’tbelong, Colette’s memories whirled, her brain tilted and all her memories locked into place.
It had been Bob’s voice she’d heard in Collier’s office. It had been Bob who’d chased her down the hallway. Bob was Collier’s hit man.
Colette jerked back around to face the doctor, seeking help. To her horror, the doctor tucked his notebook and pen back in his pocket and stood. “I’ll just leave you two old friends to get reacquainted,” he said, then without a backward glance, he left the house.
* * *
HANK WALKEDdown the sidewalk, the sun warm on his back, his thoughts filled with Colette. All along he’d known he was playing with fire, loving her in bed, attempting to distance himself from her when out of bed.
It had been the same before she’d run, before she’d lost her memories. He’d found himself getting too deeply involved with her. Damn her for crawling beneath his defenses, for making him forget his own rules, for making him remember the promise of hope, the joy of love.
In any case, it didn’t matter. Once the doctor helped her get back her memory, she’d remember everything. Not only would she remember the murder, the identity of the hit man, but also the fact that he’d turned his back on her when she’d needed him most. She’d remember she hated him.
It was better that way. He kicked at a stone and watched it skitter across the sidewalk and into the street. Better she hate him than know the truth; thathe loved her and was too afraid to do anything about it.
As he came to the intersection that would carry him into the next block, he turned and started back the way he’d come. He wondered how long the doctor would be. Funny, he thought, over the years he’d talked to every psychiatrist the department had on staff, but he couldn’t remember ever hearing anyone mention a Dr. Wallace.
A bad feeling rose in his stomach, an instinctive knot of knowledge that screamed something was wrong. He should have never left the house, should never have left her alone with the doctor. Dammit. He’d been in such a hurry to leave because of the personal tension between him and Colette, he’d made a stupid, rookie mistake.
He quickened his pace back to the house, each step causing an increase of tension. When he was two houses away, he broke into a run, all his instincts shouting danger.
It’s probably nothing, he tried to assure himself. Just because he’d never personally heard of Dr. Wallace wasn’t cause for undue alarm. Still, his instincts refused to quiet beneath the calm rationale.
His bad feeling increased when he reached the house and discovered all the draperies tightly drawn, making it impossible for him to see what transpired inside.
Maybe they closed them to allow Colette no distractions. Maybe a dark room was necessary for whatever methods Dr. Wallace was using as therapy. All the maybes his mind could conjure didn’t still hisfrantic-beating heart, the bad taste in his mouth that told him something was horribly wrong.
He crept around to the back of the house. Peeking into the window, he saw nothing in the kitchen to arouse any suspicion. He tested the back door and found it locked, just as it had been when he’d left the house. Moving farther down the back of the house, he came to the window of the bedroom where Colette had been sleeping. Peering inside, he saw Brook, asleep in the crib. Again intellect fought with instinct. Nothing looked wrong, but Hank felt wrong.
He leaned against the side of the house and pulled his gun from the top of his boot. Now what? He could burst through the front door, gun drawn and hopefully if something was amiss, he’d get a jump on the situation. The worse that could happen would be that he’d disrupt the doctor’s work and scare Colette with his unnecessary heroics.
Or, he could play stupid, get back inside and assess the situation coolly and calmly. He replaced the gun in his boot top, then walked up to the front door and turned the knob, surprised to find it locked.
“Colette? Open the door.”
There was a moment of silence. “Hank, we aren’t finished yet.” Colette’s voice drifted through the wooden door.
“That’s all right. I’ll go into one of the bedrooms. Just let me in, it’s hot out here.”
Again his words were met with pregnant silence, then the soft click of the door being unlocked. Colette opened the door, her eyes wide with some emotion Hank couldn’t decipher. “Hank…” She was jerkedaside and Hank found himself facing the barrel of a gun.
“Well, well. Looks like old home week. Hank, come on in and join us. Colette and I have been reminiscing about our past.” He motioned Hank inside and to the sofa, then shoved Colette down next to Hank.
“It was him,” Colette said to Hank. “He’s the one I heard in Collier’s office. I remember. I remember it all.” Her eyes were wide with terror. “I heard their conversation, talking about the death of the councilman. When I turned to leave, I knocked a book off the desk. He…he chased me, but I got away.”
