Page 26 of If She Only Knew (The Cahills 1)

He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity for her. Once upon a time she’d been young, vibrant and sexy as any woman on earth. Now, she was just another patient, lucky to be alive, and destined never to be the same.

Shit.

He jabbed the button for the elevator and the doors whispered open. He nearly bumped into a tall, broad-shouldered man with a trimmed beard, dark glasses and thin lips compressed into a hard expression. Wearing a parka, jeans and hiking boots, he brushed past Nick, walking with a slight limp past the open door to Marla’s room. Then he quickened his pace down the corridor.

For a reason he couldn’t name, Nick hesitated. Had the guy swept a quick look inside room 505, seen the family and decided to keep going? Or was he visiting someone else in the wing? He seemed familiar, but Nick couldn’t name why.

Not that it mattered. Probably his imagination working overtime.

On the first floor, Nick found his way through the general reception area and was out the doors to an evening where the first wisps of fog were gathering and the mist dampened his cheeks and forehead. He hazarded a glance up to the fifth floor and found Marla’s room. Cissy was still in the window, staring out to the parking lot, probably wishing that she, too, could escape. Well, he couldn’t blame her. He climbed into his pickup and glanced at his watch. He had a few hours to kill.

So maybe he should go take a look at the accident site, then check out the crashed Mercedes. He twisted the ignition and the old engine sparked.

As he looked over his shoulder to back out of his parking space, he caught a glimpse of a man running with an uneven gait through the fog, the same vaguely familiar guy he’d nearly bumped into outside the elevator just a few minutes before.

Nick followed the guy with his eyes, saw him climb into a dark Jeep and wondered why he’d gone up to the fifth floor only to come down again so fast.

“You’re borrowing trouble,” he told himself. “And you’ve got enough as it is.”

Two days later, she was getting ready to be released. Dr. Robertson had given her every test imaginable, seemed satisfied with the results and now she was just waiting for the paperwork and a ride when the door to her hospital room creaked open. “Mrs. Cahill?” a man said, poking his head inside. “I’m Detective Paterno. San Francisco Police Department.”

Her heart plummeted as he, dressed in dark slacks and jacket tossed over a casual shirt, eased into the room. He would be full of questions. Questions for which she had no answers. Her head was clearer, but the glimpses she had into her past were like the flame of a lighter running out of fuel; images would spark and sputter, flicker and die, leaving her with nothing. He flashed his badge and Marla’s heart sank.

“Sorry to bother you here at the hospital,” Paterno apologized. With a hound-dog face, deep brown eyes and a solemn, concerned expression, he seemed like a nice enough guy, yet Marla was wary. She couldn’t help remembering her daughter’s concerns that she might be charged with murder or negligent homicide or God-only-knew-what. And the police were masters at getting a person to say something they shouldn’t . . . Dear God, where did that attitude spring from? He was studying her with dark suspicious eyes that were at odds with his rumpled, I’m-just-one-of-the-guys attitude. “I’m helping with the investigation of the accident. A favor to the California Highway Patrol. I’d like to hear what you remember about what happened.”

“It won’t take long,” she muttered.

Ignoring her sarcasm, he placed a pocket recorder on the rolling table that held her water glass, a box of tissues, and the wire cutters, then flipped open a small notebook. “Tell me anything you recall.” He smelled of the rain that darkened the shoulders of his jacket and there was a faint odor of Juicy Fruit gum that he chewed slowly. His hair was curly and black with a few gray hairs visible. Short and thick, he had the start of a belly hanging over his belt.

“That’s easy,” she said. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Haven’t you already talked with my doctor?”

“Yeah, he mentioned you had amnesia.” Was there just a trace of disbelief in his voice? Another cynical cop.

“It’s true, Detective, and a real pain in the neck.” Shoving the sleeves of her robe over her forearms, she added. “Believe me, I’d love to help you, but I just don’t know much.” With a sigh, she glanced at her wrist where her plastic ID bracelet hung.

“You don’t even remember what ran out in front of you to make you swerve, if anything?” he asked.

“Nothing.” Marla tried to concentrate and was rewarded with a blinding headache.

“You were driving south on Highway 17 through the Santa Cruz Mountains. It seems from the skid marks, you saw something and hit the brakes. Maybe it was the truck, or a deer, or . . .” He let the sentence trail off, inviting her to finish.

“You don’t understand, Detective,” Marla said, trying to put a rein on her temper. “I don’t even recall my own name, or either of my children or my husband . . . nothing. Just . . . just every once in a while a little flicker of something, an advertisement, a jingle, a . . . scene from an old movie, but nothing . . . nothing real.”

The look in his eyes said, how convenient, but he didn’t remark, just moved his wad of gum from one side of his mouth to the other.

“Well, since I’m here, just humor me, all right?” He lifted a bushy eyebrow and she nodded. “You were with Pam Delacroix.”

“So I was told.”

“And you knew her from . . . ?”

“I, uh, my husband said she was a friend of mine. But . . .”

“You don’t remember.”

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