Page 9 of Naughty Nelle

I debate whether to tell him about my amnesia. In the end, my gut tells me to tell the truth. At least partially. “Sorry, I don’t. I’ve blocked it out.”

The detective nods understandingly. “I’ve seen that happen a lot. Post-traumatic stress. But I want you to dig deep. A color. A shape. An odor. Anything come to mind?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. All I see is red-hot blackness while the lingering, putrid smell of smoke assails me.

“Nada,” I tell the detective as I reopen my eyes.

“You a smoker?” The detective casts his gaze down at the ashtray with the remains of Scott’s cigarette butt.

“No. My manager was here earlier. He smokes.”

“Scott Turner?”

“Yeah.” I wonder how he knows his name. On second thought, he’s a detective. A sleuth. He knows this kind of stuff.

He cocks a bushy brow. “Are you on good terms with him?”

“I suppose.” In retrospect, that sounds dumb.

“Did he exhibit any form of strange behavior before your accident?”

I search my mind, but it’s just one big blank. I can’t even remember my history with Scott. All I know is what he’s told me and what I’ve read. He’s had my back since the beginning of my career and made me a fortune. And I guess I owe him my life since he called in my accident.

I shake my head and reiterate that I don’t remember a damn thing.

“What about your fiancée?”

“You mean, Katrina Moore?”

“Yes. Is there anything you can tell me about her?”

“She’s been with me almost 24/7 since my accident.” Being a detective, he must know as much about her as I do. Maybe more.

“That’s some ring you got her.”

“Yeah,” I say hesitantly. He’s probably seen pictures of it in the tabloids or online.

The detective reaches into his coat pocket. “We found this at the scene of the crime.”

“Crime?” My muscles tense.

“Yes. We’re dealing with a hit and run.”

When he uncurls his stubby fingers, a small zip lock bag is in his palm. He removes the contents—a heart-shaped iridescent green pendant. About the size of a dime, the surface is badly scratched and the edges are chipped.

“What’s that?” I ask, glaring at it.

“I took it to a jeweler. It’s a piece of Murano glass from Venice. It could be part of a pair of earrings or cufflinks. Or it could have fallen off a bracelet or necklace. Does it look familiar to you?”

I study the object. It means nothing to me. I shake my head no.

“That’s too bad.” Returning the mysterious glass heart to the bag, the detective stands and shoves the evidence back in his coat pocket. “If you remember anything, give me a call.” He hands me a business card.

“Oh, one last thing.” His hand slides beneath his trench coat, and for the first time, I glimpse his holster and gun. Like the coat, the brown leather holster shows signs of age. A bulky envelope is tucked under the frayed strap. He slips it out and unfastens the clasp.

My eyes widen as he slides out the contents. A DVD boxed set of Kurt Kussler, Seasons 1-4. I’m on the cover, looking smug and pointing my right thumb and index finger like a gun.

“Would you mind signing this? It’s for the missus. She’s madly in love with you.” He pauses. “She’s been too embarrassed to ask my daughter to ask you.”

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