Kitabı oku: «Remembering That Night»
Who’s that girl?
Greg Chalmers knows when someone is lying. That’s how he ends up helping the police with an unusual case. A woman is found covered in blood, claiming she has no memory. Is she lying? He doesn’t think so. But for the first time, his attraction to her could be clouding his judgment!
Despite his intentions to stay aloof, he can’t resist helping Eliza Dunning…especially when she becomes the prime suspect in a murder investigation. As they work together to uncover the details of her life, Greg finds himself in deep. And it’s even more important to prove her innocence….
“I’m not a liar!”
At her words, Greg was off the couch and walking toward her as if to settle her again. But Eliza didn’t want to be settled.
“I’m sick of this, Greg. I’m sick of being mistaken for some victim. I want this to end. I want all of it to end.”
“And it will. Once we find out who was in your house today. Once you get your memory back.”
His tone was gentle and reassuring. She didn’t want gentle and reassuring. She didn’t want a lecture by Dr. Chalmers on how everything was going to be okay when clearly it wasn’t.
She wanted to feel something different. She wanted to be the person controlling her fate. She wanted…
Taking two determined strides toward him she lifted her arms around his neck. “This,” she whispered against his lips. “This is what I want.”
Dear Reader,
I’ve had the idea of a human lie detector as a character for some time. Guys like the one in The Mentalist whose powers of observation—because, really, that’s all that skill is—are just better than anyone else’s. Almost like a modern-day Sherlock Holmes. I knew Greg was that character. I mean, what better skill to have as a psychologist than the ability to really “see” the person you’re trying to help?
Until it all goes wrong for Greg, of course. It was at his lowest moment when I had to imagine the heroine who might come along and save him. A heroine who needs a little saving herself. I thought, how does a woman keep her secrets from a man who can see everything about her? The answer was simple. She couldn’t have any secrets. So I made her a blank slate.
This is my amnesia story, and while maybe it’s been done before, this is my attempt. I hope you enjoy Greg and Liza’s story.
I’ve lived with these characters who have ties to the Tyler Group—One Final Step (October 2012), An Act of Persuasion (March 2013) and For the First Time (October 2013)—for so long that I wasn’t quite ready to leave them. So I’ve written two novellas with some of the secondary characters: Elaine, Chuck, Sophie and Bay. Look for the digital book with both stories available now!
I love to hear from readers. Feel free to reach out to me at www.stephaniedoyle.net or on Twitter, @StephDoyleRW.
Happy reading!
Stephanie Doyle
Remembering That Night
Stephanie Doyle
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Stephanie Doyle, a dedicated romance reader, began to pen her own romantic adventures at age sixteen. She began submitting to Harlequin lines at age eighteen, and by twenty-six her first book was published. Fifteen years later, she still loves what she does, as each book is a new adventure. She lives in South Jersey with her cat, Lex, and her two kittens, who have taken over everything. When she isn’t thinking about escaping to the beach, she’s working on her next idea.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Excerpt
PROLOGUE
“ALL IN.”
Greg looked at his opponent across the table. He watched the man’s eyes drop to the table. Watched him slow his breathing. Watched him try to erase every visible tell.
A regular poker player with years of experience no doubt. The old man had to be nearing seventy if he hadn’t already gotten there. His face was weathered. His teeth a hard yellow from years of smoking. Yeah, Greg was fairly certain this wasn’t his opponent’s first time in Atlantic City. It probably wasn’t even his first time putting what amounted to over ten thousand dollars up for gamble.
If Greg folded his cards, he would still leave the table up several thousand dollars. If he called and lost, he would lose both his stake and his day’s earnings. How many hours of play time was it? Ten? Twelve? He’d lost track at some point, but it sure would be a shame to have wasted all that time for nothing.
If he called and won then the world was his. At least for a moment.
Greg reached for his glass and took a shot of the subpar Scotch the casino provided. At one time in his degenerate life he would have insisted on only the best. Given his faithful patronage, the managers would have seen to it immediately. Plus they would have comped him a room and a meal, as well. Back in his Vegas days.
Before they’d figured out who he was. Before they’d ejected him.
Now AC was his last remaining haunting ground. The Grande was the last casino he could still play in. Once it ended for him here—and it would end because it always did—he would have to find Native American reservations nearby or private high-stake games.
Pathetic.
“Well? Are we doing this?”
His opponent was getting impatient. The man had asked the question with a laconic ease. Not a tremor in his voice. Not a measure of fidgeting in his body to give away his thoughts. No, he’d done a good job controlling his body language.
It was a shame he’d never really had a chance. Not against Greg.
Because Greg didn’t fold and walk away. Greg didn’t call and lose ever. Greg only ever called and won because Greg knew the outcome of the game before he placed the bet.
The man was bluffing.
“Call.”
Then it happened. The man’s lip twitched, his nostrils flared. He turned over one ace, which paired the turn, giving him a pair. His other card was a valueless ten.
Greg turned over his pocket jacks which wouldn’t have won had there not been another jack on the board. Trips beat a pair every time.
The dealer acknowledged the cards, pushed the chips toward Greg and there it was. That feeling of satisfaction.
It didn’t come from winning. Or from the money. It came from knowing that he’d been right. Again. That was his only thrill. That was what kept him coming back, day after day.
Tired of sitting and playing, Greg figured he’d had enough for one day. He piled his chips into a plastic holder. “Nice hand,” he offered his opponent, but the man only sneered at him.
He cashed in his chips and bundled the large bills into a roll he shoved into an inside pocket in his leather coat. He left the poker room, found the elevator to the parking garage and as he traveled up to the second level he wondered what time of day it was.
What time had he started? In the morning but not so early. It had to be night. Not that it mattered. He’d go home, shower, maybe sleep for a few hours and then do it all over again. Whether he did that during the day or at night wasn’t a concern.
It was quite a ritual he’d carved out. He’d make the drive from Philadelphia to AC. Find a table of players. Then read them until he could tell when each one was lying. In poker once you knew someone was bluffing—really knew it—all you had to do was wait for the cards to fall your way and then take them.
He wouldn’t call it cheating. Poker was a game of skill after all. If a person could defeat Greg’s particular lie-detecting skills, then Greg would lose. So far that hadn’t happened.
What a freaking awesome life he had.
Greg put his head down and hunched his shoulders slightly to diminish his height as he made his way to his car. AC wasn’t a safe city but the casinos prided themselves on keeping the criminal element out of their rooms and garages. As long as you didn’t venture out onto the streets or to the dodgy end of the boardwalk you were as safe as you would be in any major city.
Still, a man with over ten thousand dollars in cash in his pocket couldn’t be too careful and anything he could do to keep from standing out was smart. Despite keeping his head down, though, he kept his ears open. It’s why he heard the clicking sound of shoes hitting cement and felt the hair on the back of his neck rise before someone called his name.
“Mr. Chalmers? A word with you please.”
Greg pulled out his keys and hit the lock button. Two rows up he could see his car lights flash on. He drove a black Porsche 911 because a man had to do something with all his winnings. Sadly he knew he wasn’t going to make it to the car. Two rows away was probably one row too far.
The clicking shoes sped up and in an instant two men were standing between him and his escape. Two very large men with thick necks and beefy hands. He’d met their type before. At the Bellagio and the Wynn in Vegas.
At the Borgata in AC and the Golden Nugget just last week.
“Guys, it’s been a long day. I just want to go home.”
Thick Neck number one stepped forward. He had a short forehead, buzzed hair and a nose that had been previously broken. He wore a black suit and a tie that looked as if it struggled to maintain its hold on his bulging neck.
“Sir, my name is Victor Lario, I run the security for this establishment. It’s come to my attention you had a pretty good night tonight.”
“Yep. Great night. Great service. Love the buffet. I’ll be back.” Greg tried to step around him, but both men repositioned themselves to block his path.
“Sir, it’s our understanding that you have a good night every night you are here. Never down. Always up.”
Greg sighed, falling back on a familiar answer to explain his success. “It’s poker, not blackjack. I play the people and I win.”
“Yeah. It’s poker. That’s what I thought, too. I thought maybe you were one of those World Tour guys, you know. So I looked you up.”
Ah yes, Greg thought. ’Twas the price of needing a casino complimentary card for the extra perks, like free access to the all-you-can-eat buffet. He’d been required to provide identification. When he’d handed over his ID he’d felt that moment of panic, but the girl issuing him the card hadn’t been inspired to do any kind of background check. Probably because Greg looked more like a psychologist in his sweater and jeans and less like a professional gambler.
When she’d handed him back his license a few days ago with the card and a wish for good luck, he told himself this time would be different. He’d promised himself this time he would keep his head low. This time he would spread out his visits to not attract attention.
He’d failed. Just like he had the last time. And the time before that.
“Seems Vegas kicked you out of every casino on the strip not even a year ago. Then I checked with a buddy of mine at the Borgata and you’re not wanted there, either.”
“I know. You can’t imagine the complex it’s giving me being so unwanted.”
The two men stepped forward in the ominous way thugs have of silently delivering the message that they didn’t appreciate sarcasm.
Greg held up his hands. “If I agree to go peacefully and never come back, can we end this now?”
Victor cracked his knuckles. So cliché, Greg wanted to tell him.
“I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible, Mr. Chalmers. It’s important you understand how seriously we deal with the matter of cheating at our establishment.”
“It’s not cheating.”
It was the last thing he was capable of saying as Victor drove his beefy hand into his midsection.
This, Greg decided, was not going to end well.
CHAPTER ONE
“WE DIDN’T KNOW WHO ELSE to call. We’ve never seen anything like this before. We saw your name in the paper regarding a case you worked on with the Philadelphia P.D. We figured maybe you could help us, so we reached out to Ben Tyler.”
Greg was standing in the lobby of what was the Brigantine Police Department thinking he was less than fifteen minutes away from Atlantic City. So close he could smell the salt in the air from the ocean. A cold sweat broke out on his brow and he considered how lucky he was that no one would notice with almost 90 percent humidity in the air.
The Jersey Shore, even in the waning days of summer, was no joke.
“How do you know Ben Tyler?”
The sheriff shrugged. “Everyone in law enforcement around here knows Tyler. He has resources that can be helpful for any number of cases. Also we recently worked with a former colleague of his on a cold case, Mark Sharpe. You know him, too?”
“Sad to say I do.”
Ben Tyler was the head of the Tyler Group, a troubleshooting organization that pulled together some of the best minds in many different areas, including political strategy, criminal investigation, law, computer technology and well...him.
Tyler was Greg’s boss, for lack of a better word. Ben offered him various different jobs and Greg had the option of which ones he wanted to take. Which were all of them because they paid his bills. As for Mark, Ben’s former colleague in the CIA, Greg tried to avoid him as much as possible, which wasn’t easy because Mark and Ben seemed to be actual friends now.
Anytime the two of them were together, Mark would ask Greg to play poker with him because he wanted to see if he could bluff him. Nobody could bluff Greg. It was why the police had called him.
“Greg, are we doing this or what?”
Greg turned and found his roommate, Chuck, the man he credited with keeping him gambling sober for the past year, leaning over the lobby’s counter trying to flirt with the young woman seated behind it. He was pointing to things on her computer, no doubt trying to enlighten her on more efficient ways to use the equipment.
Greg had told him dumping computer knowledge on women wasn’t the best way to impress the ladies, but it was the only game Chuck had. Greg had to admit it actually worked sometimes. Lately, Chuck had had his fair share of female company.
Apparently computer nerd was the new hot.
Greg had asked his roommate to come along for the ride so that, in case his willpower faltered, someone would be there to back him up. He wasn’t sure if Chuck’s impatience had to do with the girl’s lack of interest or if he was concerned on Greg’s behalf.
Even Ben admitted he had hesitated before calling Greg for this particular job. He’d mentioned the case. Mentioned the location. Mentioned his concerns. Then asked, actually asked, if Greg thought he was up for it.
Up for it?
Screw that. He hadn’t gambled in over a year. He could freaking handle a trip to the beach even if it was one town over from AC. He’d snarled at Ben and told him yes he could handle it. Then he’d hung up the phone and told Chuck to put on some real pants. Chuck preferred spending his days in their waterfront loft that overlooked Penn’s Landing in clothes he referred to as his comfy-womfies. His assertion: a man who spent his life mostly on his ass in a chair in front of a computer needed to be comfortable. So pajamas, sweats and the occasional stretchy pants he referred to as men’s yoga pants, were the norm. Some of them actually had small animals on them.
Since Greg refused to be seen out in public with him like that, anytime they went anywhere together he forced Chuck to wear jeans. While Chuck insisted they pinched—although at five foot six and barely a hundred and fifty pounds, Greg didn’t know what the jeans were pinching—he usually agreed to put them on. Greg also tried to tell him that women didn’t have sex with men who wore comfy-womfies in public.
“Can I see her?”
The sheriff nodded and escorted the two men back through a room that hosted a bunch of cubicles. They reached a door that led to a short hallway that ended in another door. No elaborate two-way mirror for a small town sheriff’s office. Just a window that looked into a small room furnished with a stark wood table and two folding chairs.
The interrogation room.
Sheriff Danielson pointed to the door and Greg walked over and stooped a little to look through the window.
She was sitting in a chair, her shoulders slumped, her eyes dull, her demeanor defeated. Long, nearly white blond hair almost touched the table in front of her. Despite her posture, Greg could determine she was young, maybe late twenties early thirties, and slim in a charcoal-gray short-sleeved dress.
She might have been really pretty had it not been for all the blood.
“Okay, tell me the situation again. Ben gave me the details you told him, but I would like to hear them from you directly.”
The sheriff nodded. “Officer Hampton was out on his normal patrol. He spotted her walking along the highway in the early morning. As he approached her he could see she was covered with blood. He pulled over, assessed that she wasn’t injured, but when he asked for identification she couldn’t provide it. When he asked her name, she said she didn’t know it. When he asked her what happened—”
“She couldn’t remember it,” Chuck said, finishing the sentence for the sheriff. “Cool.”
Greg gave him a severe look. “You want to wait outside?”
“I’m bored.”
“Play a game on your phone. I’m working.”
“Fine. I’ll stay here and be quiet. But no more than an hour. You need to be in and out. You follow?”
“Yes, Mom.” Chuck was like a mother hen. And he’d brought him along for exactly that reason. Despite the fact that his roommate was younger than him by seven years, he had a way of grounding Greg that was beneficial to Greg’s continued gambling sobriety. He was almost like a sponsor, except as far as Greg knew, the only thing Chuck had ever been addicted to was hitting on women.
“You want me to talk to her and tell you if she’s lying.”
“It’s a start. I don’t really have any grounds to hold her on. She wasn’t carrying a weapon. There is no crime that we know of, except someone is walking around without a lot of blood. For all we know that might be a deer she hit with her car. If you tell me she’s lying, I’m going to come up with something to hold her for at least another twenty-four hours. Otherwise I don’t know what I’m going to do with her.”
“The hospital would be a good start.”
“But she’s not hurt.”
“Sheriff, if her brain is not working, she’s hurt.”
He seemed to consider that. “True. Man, you don’t think this is one of those bumps to the head that caused this?”
“Since bumps to the head that leave the victim this physically functional rarely cause memory loss, I’m going to say no.”
“Maybe we should hit her on the head again and see if her memory comes back. You know like...what was that show? Was that The Brady Bunch?” Chuck asked.
“Gilligan’s Island,” Greg corrected. “And that idea is as ridiculous now as it was on the show. But thank you for your insightfulness.”
“Dude, she’s got amnesia. That’s totally cray-cray.”
“Chuck. You’re almost thirty. It’s time you stop talking like a teenager. It’s only crazy if she’s telling the truth. Which she most likely isn’t. Sheriff, I don’t know how much you know about memory loss...”
“Nothing. Which is why I called you here.”
“It’s highly unlikely. True memory loss like you’re describing is usually associated with a traumatic brain injury. As I said, if she’d suffered such an injury it’s unlikely she’d be upright and walking along a highway. Hysterical amnesia, which could be caused by a traumatic event, is most likely what she’s trying to emulate. However, in most cases this form of amnesia is temporary and only affects one’s memory of a particular period surrounding the traumatic event and not a person’s whole life. Like a rape victim who forgets the attack, or a child who suppresses abuse.”
“You think she’s faking it?”
“Until I talk to her I can’t be sure of course, but my guess is most likely. Which, if she’s covered in blood, means it’s a good bet she’s hiding a violent crime and you should consider holding her.”
“Hiding a crime by walking down a highway on a Sunday morning in a bloody dress? That’s not exactly covert.”
“She could already be strategizing a defense.”
“Dude, you are so cynical,” Chuck noted. “Sheriff, please understand my friend here doesn’t believe anyone, ever.”
Greg considered the veracity of that statement. Chuck wasn’t exactly wrong. “Only because I know they are lying. Okay, let me talk to her. We’ll see how good of a show she can put on for me.”
“Will it matter?” the sheriff wondered.
Greg shook his head. “Nope. Pathological liar or a great actress. None of it will fool me.”
* * *
THE DOOR OPENED AND SHE looked up. Another face. A man, a tall man with a kind face and dark curly hair that was too long and a bit ruffled. He wasn’t wearing a uniform.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Greg Chalmers and I would like to talk to you, if that’s okay.”
No, it wasn’t okay. He was going to ask her questions. Questions she didn’t know the answer to. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe. She knew slow deep breathing was supposed to help. It was supposed to calm her.
She didn’t know how she knew it. She just did.
He sat down, or more accurately folded himself into the chair across the table. She could see that his smile, while gentle, was wholly insincere. She didn’t blame him for that. She was as skeptical as he was. This wasn’t happening to her. This wasn’t possible.
She couldn’t even look down at herself because the bloodstains were still there and they were starting to make her nauseous. They’d given her a washcloth to clean her hands and her face, but the smell was still there. Also that hint of metallic flavor on her tongue as if some had gotten in her mouth. No matter how many glasses of water she consumed, it was still here.
Maybe that was what she was. A vampire. A hysterical idea, except it wasn’t any crazier than what she actually was. A woman with no memory.
“Don’t,” she muttered before he could start. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want to ask you some questions.”
“I know. I know this is a police station. I know this is blood on my dress. I know this. I don’t...I can’t...It’s like...I can’t even explain it.”
“What’s the first thing you remember?”
She closed her eyes. “The sound of the siren. I heard a siren and I thought to move out of the way. Then I realized I wasn’t in a car. I was walking. I stopped and the officer got out of his car and approached me.”
“He asked you for identification.”
“I didn’t have my purse.”
“Normally you do, though?”
“Of course. I carry a purse. I can’t ever find my keys in it. It’s big. I have a big purse and the keys are always at the bottom. I know that. I know that’s true.”
She couldn’t see the purse in her head. She could only recall the sensation of digging in it with her hands. The jingling sound of keys. She struggled to latch on to that. Willed herself to see something, any picture in her mind of her purse or her wallet and where they might be. But there was nothing. Just this small room and this man with the eyes that didn’t match his face. They were brown, but they weren’t nice. Not like his smile or his casual attire or the way his body relaxed into the chair. It all suggested he was a laid-back person. A nice guy.
But his eyes weren’t nice. They were...cold.
She started hyperventilating.
“Hey, calm down. Deep breaths.”
She nodded. She felt like that phrase had been her mantra at one point. “Deep breaths,” she repeated. “Deep breaths.” She tried to take one after each time she said it. Her lungs slowed.
“Okay. That’s better. Now can you remember anything else? Any detail. Like your big purse or maybe a favorite place. Any small detail might help us find out who you are.”
She looked at him then. At his eyes that were pinned on her face and then moved to her hands, then back to her eyes.
“You don’t believe me.” She couldn’t say how she knew, but she did. It was as if he didn’t care about the answer she gave, only how she said it. “You think I’m a liar.”
“No. I’m only trying to help you.”
She shook her head. There was no help in this room. The officer wanted to help her. When he found her on the side of the road he was worried she was hurt. Worried she was in pain. She knew what it felt like to have someone want to help her.
“You’re lying.”
He shifted then as his lean body worked to find a more comfortable position in the chair. “Why do you think so?”
“Because your eyes are...mean. I’m sorry if that’s harsh. But you’re sitting there like you’re relaxed, but your eyes don’t match. They’re almost cruel. So I think you’re lying. You think I know who I am. What happened.”
After a moment, he shrugged. “Yeah, I do. I think amnesia is very rare, especially to the extent you’re claiming.”
Amnesia. It was a ridiculous word. A word from daytime TV and silly sitcoms. Bad fiction books.
It wasn’t real. It couldn’t really be happening to her. “I agree with you. That isn’t possible.” This was just a temporary lapse. A crazy event that would be reversed in a minute when her life and her name and this morning came back to her.
“Then tell me what your name is.”
He said it so gently. As if he was helping her to say the thing she really wanted to say. And she really did want to say it.
My name is...
My name is... And I’m from...
My name is...
She closed her eyes and pushed her brain to function. She did math in her head. Odd numbers she added together easily. Multiplication tables. Eights. Nines. Twelves. She knew that without effort. She thought of books. She knew who Harry Potter was. He was a wizard. With friends. The books were about magic.
Movies. The Sound of Music. When Maria finally kisses the captain. She knew that was her favorite scene.
My name is...I like The Sound of Music and Harry Potter.
She met the man’s eyes, the scary ones, and shook her head.
“I don’t know it. I don’t know my name. Please help me. Please, please help me.”
* * *
GREG SHUT THE DOOR BEHIND him carefully, silently. The sheriff’s eyebrows were almost off his head waiting for his assessment.
“Well?”
“Yeah, what’s the word, Cruel Eyes? That’s totally your new nickname, by the way.”
Chuck was laughing at his own joke, but Greg didn’t think it was funny. Mean and cruel. He’d never had those words associated with him before. He’d spent his life making people comfortable with him, getting them to open up to him. He’d been a support and comfort to people for years when he’d been a psychologist.
Only he wasn’t a psychologist anymore. Now he was a cynic. A cruel one, apparently.
“I don’t know.”
“What? I thought you were an expert in this stuff,” the sheriff complained.
Chuck snorted. “Come on. You know she’s lying. You said it.”
“No, I only think she’s lying. And that’s based on the statistical improbability of her condition. However, physically she showed no signs of it.”
Chuck let out a whistle. “But that’s almost impossible to do, isn’t it?”
“It is. Unless she’s a sociopath or so completely delusional she doesn’t believe she’s lying. Which is, statistically speaking, also unlikely.”
“Buddy, I don’t care about the damn statistics. Does this girl not know her name or what?”
Greg turned and looked through the window again. She was still sitting the same way. Only, if anything, she looked even more defeated. Because when she’d asked him to help her, he’d gotten up and left her instead.
He didn’t help people anymore. Except the need, the physical need, to spend more time with this woman, to dig deeper into her brain, was almost as strong as the pull of the casinos not fifteen minutes down the road.
In fact it was stronger.
Did she know her name? Could she have done something no one else had succeeded in doing before? Fabrication was easy. Controlling a physiological response to it was not.
“What’s your gut say?”
Greg turned to the sheriff, struggling a little to take his eyes from the woman on the other side of the window. It wasn’t conceivable. It wasn’t likely. But he couldn’t ignore the evidence because he didn’t like it. Because it didn’t fit with what he expected.
Instinct, intuition. Greg hated these words. While psychology was a difficult science it was still a science. Greg relied on it and the body’s physical response to stimulus. Based on the data, he could only come to one conclusion.
“She could be telling the truth.”
Ücretsiz ön izlemeyi tamamladınız.
