Page 39 of If She Only Knew (The Cahills 1)

She fought the feeling that something was wrong.

She was jumping at shadows, for no good reason.

So what about the trip to Santa Cruz? Why wasn’t it on this marked-up calendar?

Maybe you were leaving Alex. But the baby? And Cissy . . . perhaps it was a last-minute, spur-of-the-moment trip? No. She wouldn’t have just left the kids. It didn’t fit. Anxious, she turned to the Rolodex. What were the names she knew? Robertson? Phil and his wife, Linda, were listed. Lindquist . . . Joanna Lindquist, yes, she was in the cards as well. Joanna and Ted. Miller . . . Randy and Sonja were listed but Sonja had been crossed out as if she’d died or left. . . . With fingers that were still a bit sluggish, she flipped to the Ds and searched for Pam Delacroix, but there wasn’t a listing for anyone with that last name.

“How odd,” she thought aloud, tapping an old card at the back and then, starting again. Slowly, card by card, she flipped through, thinking that Pam’s name and number might have been misfiled. Some of the people who had sent her cards and flowers were listed: Bill and Sheryl Bancroft, Mario Dimetrius, Joanna and Ted Lindquist and . . . Kylie Paris . . . Her heart stopped. That name was familiar . . . very familiar . . . as if . . . as if she were a close relative . . . someone near and dear. But the address and phone number meant nothing to her. Think, Marla, think. Why does this woman’s name ring a bell and none of the others do?

But nothing came. Not one lousy recollection. “Damn it all,” she muttered and turned her attention back to Pam Delacroix. Why wouldn’t she have listed Pam’s name in this master file of friends and business acquaintances?

Because she never existed. She’s a lie.

The thought struck her hard. Like a hammer blow to her chest.

Of course she did exist, the rational side of her mind argued. But she’s dead. You killed her. In her car! The police are investigating her death. So, be rational. Use your head. Figure this out, damn it. Pam had existed, was her friend, so there should be something in this house that would serve as a reminder.

A computer, monitor glowing, hummed softly on one corner of the desk and she wondered if she had the time to check the computer files. Later, she told herself, when you know you won’t be caught.

“Don’t get paranoid,” she told herself. “Or you’ll end up in the loony bin.”

Marla touched the keyboard. The screen saver of tropical fish shifted and icons blinked up at her. With surprising ease she found the word processing program, nearly jumping out of her skin when she saw Marla’s files. So she had used this machine! Good. That thought should have been reassuring and she tried to open the file only to discover she needed a password. Her heart sank. She glanced around the drawers, searching for a hint of the password and found none. She tried to retrieve her e-mail. Same problem. Attempting every combination she could think of—her name, her children’s names, anything, she finally gave up. Her fingers beat a sharp tattoo on the arm of the chair and she heard footsteps on the stairs.

She jumped, for no reason she understood, knocking over a mug holding pens and pencils. It rolled onto the floor, spilling its contents. “Great.” As quickly as possible, she scooped up the pens and pencils and crammed them back into the mug with its Harvard logo.

She heard the door to the suite open, the footsteps fading away. “Mrs. Cahill?” a woman’s voice—one she didn’t recognize—called, muffled.

“In here,” she replied, determined to stay put. “In the office.” She reached up from the desk, opened the door to the hallway and spied the open door to Cissy’s room on the other side of the staircase. Her heart was drumming, her hands clammy, but she forced herself to stay calm. This was her house, damn it, her husband’s room. She had every right to be here. So why did she feel as if she were trespassing?

A few seconds later a slim woman with flashing brown eyes and dark skin stuck her head through the doorway. “Hi.”

“You . . . you must be Carmen.”

“Yes.”

Marla felt the urge to apologize. “I’m sorry I—”

“I know. Amnesia. Don’t worry.” Carmen stepped into the office and if Marla’s change in appearance affected her, she managed to hide it. Dressed in a slim navy skirt and white blouse with the sleeves rolled up, Carmen said, “Mrs. Eugenia sent me to check on you and ask you about dinner. When I didn’t find you in your room, I was worried.”

“I’m fine . . . well, considering. Right now it’s all relative, I suppose.” Marla glanced at the computer screen again. “I don’t suppose you know my password for this?”

“Sorry.” Carmen shook her head. “I don’t remember that you used it that much.”

“How about where my purse might be—the one that was with me the night of the accident?”

Deep lines grooved the woman’s high forehead and she pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I haven’t seen it . . . or anything else from that night for that matter.”

Marla’s heart sank. She pushed the chair back. “How about my personal things, pictures of me as a little girl, or when Cissy was a baby?”

“Sure.” Carmen brightened. “That I can do.”

Marla’s head snapped up. “Really?” This was something. Not much, but something tangible to link her to her past.

“Sure. All the photo albums are in the library.”

“Maybe I should look through them and I know this sounds a little weird, but would you mind showing me around?”

“No problem at all. Now, about dinner?”

---