Archetype (14 page)

M
y breath stills and I hear nothing more than blood rushing like a raging rapid through my ears. Noah Tucker is going to kill me.

Talk to him,
She tells me.
Talk or you’re dead.

“Noah,” I plead in a whisper. Less than a whisper. A wisp of breath. I blink away tears to see him clearly. “Please.”

There is only a moment—a very small one—in which the gun slips down, and Noah reaffirms his grip to bring it back up. A war of emotions collides in his bright amber eyes, which I do not understand, like he cannot decide what to do, or he knows and does not want to do it.

“Please,” I say again, and my voice quivers. “I know nothing about Mexico.”

“Nothing?” His voice sounds tight, as if he has to strain to get it to work. “There’s an entire room out there that proves otherwise.”

“And you would kill me for it?”

He presses the barrel of the gun farther into my skull. I see a shift in his eyes then and know he is decided. “I would kill you for simply drawing breath.”

“Wh-what? Why?”

He shakes his head once. His jaw clenches. “What are your orders?”

“I do not understand. There are no orders.”

“Bullshit. You’re here for a reason. Did you think you could slide right back into place?”

“Into what place?”

“With the resistance.”

This is about the
resistance
? Heat floods my face and I clench my fists. Charles accused me of this as well. I am tired of standing trial for this past I do not remember. It is my future I care about, and I would never work with the resistance to hurt my husband. I would die first.

“You know nothing about me,” I tell him through gritted teeth.

Anger compels me to act now. I swipe my hand up to his wrist, and the gun is off me before he can react. I twist our bodies around and slam him face-first into the wall. He spins around and I drive my knee up hard between his legs. He doubles over with a pained moan. I take the gun from his loosened grip and run toward the safety of the main room.

In the dim lighting of the exhibit, I slow and cover the weapon in my skirts. No one pays me any mind, and for once, I am grateful. I am breathing too hard, and sweat tickles my brow.

I find a decorative vase to my right that stands to my waist. I drop Noah’s gun inside. There is a loud
clang
, but the music playing in the speakers muffles the sound.

Though free of the weapon, I will not feel safe until I find Declan and tell him about—

My chest tightens at the mere idea of telling Declan what Noah has done. I have not felt this since those early days when She prevented me from talking about my dreams. My dreams of Noah. Even now, after what he has done, She would protect him.

But I cannot let him get away with this. I do not care what She thinks. I stop a waiter and open my mouth to ask for security, but suddenly there is no air to breathe. I cannot make a single sound, let alone speak. My face grows warm from exertion.

Don’t even think about it,
She warns.
Trust me on this.

I hate Her in this moment.

“Ma’am?” he says.

Noah appears and takes two glasses of champagne off the waiter’s tray. “Thank you,” he tells the young man in a dismissive tone.

The waiter leaves and I am abruptly able to breathe.

Noah turns to face me with an expression that is almost friendly. He plays for any audience we may have in the room, but his eyes reveal the same bloodlust from the hallway. I am not fooled.

“You let me live,” he says.

“And you tried to kill me.”

“Give me my gun. I’ll try again.”

I raise my hands to show they are empty.

He shrugs. “I don’t need a gun to kill you.”

“You would not dare in a room full of Declan’s closest friends and acquaintances.”

He lifts his chin in a half nod, then steps very close to me. He hands me a champagne flute. “Tell me something, Mrs. Burke. My intentions to kill you are clear, yet you have not run screaming for help . . . in this . . . ‘room full of Declan’s closest friends and acquaintances.’”

I cannot tell him that my very own invisible friend prevents me. Even I find it hard to believe, and I am the one who experiences it. “I need answers,” I tell him instead. It is the truth, at least.

He lifts the glass to his lips with a smile that does not touch his eyes. “Funny. So do I.”

“I have none.”

“Don’t think to play me, Mrs. Burke. I don’t need the answers that badly.”

Neither of us has a chance to say anything more, because an arm slips around my waist and Declan’s strong musk overpowers Noah’s. Relief floods me so fast I fear I will faint.

“There you are,” Declan says. “Sorry that took so long.”

I hold Noah’s gaze for a long moment before smiling up at my husband. “Mr. Tucker was just keeping me company.”

“I was telling your wife how much I appreciate her style,” Noah adds. “There’s just something about the way she captures the simplicity of a drift of sand.”

“Do you have a favorite?” Declan asks.

Noah nods once. “As a matter of fact, I won a private bidding war over it. The one that’s been in the window the entire month.”

I am sick to find out he will have his hands on my painting.

Declan laughs from somewhere deep in his chest, and the sound carries around us until it draws the attention of several people. “So you’re the lucky man. Emma won’t admit it, but I think that was her favorite. You should have seen her face when she found out it was sold.”

Noah catches my eye again. “I’d be happy to let it go if you can’t part with it.”

I force a smile to my face. “No. Please take it. You worked hard for it, or so I hear. Practically killed for it. I can paint a thousand more just like it.”

Noah inclines his head to me, a smile twitching his lips. “In that case, I’m happy to keep it. I promise to take care of it as if it were my own creation.” He leans close and adds conspiratorially, “Or at least as if I shared in the process.”

I feel as if I have been slapped with my own memory. By Tucker.

There. What do you think? An original by Emma and—

Oh, no you don’t. You aren’t claiming my work. An original by Emma and Emma alone.

The smile I give him is tight-lipped because I can no longer manage anything more. He has unraveled me to my very center. I would not tell Declan about how Noah wants to kill me even if I could. Noah knows much more than he is letting on. I know he does.

“Well,” Noah finally says, “I should get going. I have an early morning.”

Declan extends a hand. “Don’t be a stranger, Tuck.”

“Mr. Tucker does not like this nickname,” I say automatically and wish for nothing more than to be able to take the words back. I cannot imagine what possessed me to say such a thing.

Both men stare at me with wide eyes. Declan looks mildly amused, but the color has drained from Noah’s face. His jaw hangs slightly ajar.

Declan glances between us. “When did you become privy to the innermost secrets of Mr. Tucker’s mind?”

I clear my throat, hoping they do not notice the creeping of red I feel splotching my chest and neck.

“I mentioned it a few minutes ago in conversation,” Noah says, his gaze pinned to me with such ferocity, it is a wonder it has not slung me across the room.

I understand in this moment that I have been given a temporary stay of execution. Bloodlust has been replaced with questions he would rather have answered.

“I’ll be in touch,” Noah says, and his focus is on Declan, but his words . . . Those are for me.

D
r. Travista removes his glasses and tilts his head. “I haven’t seen you this tired since you suffered from your nightmares.”

I touch the soft skin under my eye, recalling the bruised look in the mirror. Sleep had been difficult to achieve, and when I did finally slip into oblivion, I dreamed of Noah and our conversation at the gallery show. He put a gun to my head, but instead of hesitating, he pulled the trigger.

“Long night,” I say and study the office I now know every nook and cranny of. Every warped shelf weighted with books. The unraveling piece of the carpet near the right foot of his chair.

“An exciting night,” he adds, and his smile does not touch his bloodshot eyes. “I’m sorry I missed it. Declan says all of your paintings sold.”

I nod. “The theme was popular. Mr. Geist says it was because no one ever gets to see the beach like that anymore. Not since the war and separation of states.”

“Unless, of course, they want to travel to Mexico.” He says this easily, as if this is not loaded with accusation.

“I suppose you are right,” I say with a shrug. “Maybe one day I can travel there, see it for myself.”

He slides his glasses back on and taps something into his tablet. I grow tired of these sessions, his incessant typing about me as if I am a mental patient. Why does he insist our time together continue? Am I not perfectly healthy now?

“Why am I here?” I ask before I can stop myself. Exhaustion is not conducive to my usual patience. “I feel I am fully recovered from my accident—an accident I would like you to tell me about.”

His gaze snaps up to look at me through his lashes, but he is careful to maintain a neutral expression. “You are healthy,” he says and is slow to remove his glasses. “But you have yet to recover any memories.” The muscles around his lips twitch slightly, and he looks down at his folded hands. “As for your accident, well, let’s just say it’s a miracle you’re alive.”

I want to ask why he was so quick to find fault in my remembering seagulls in Mexico if he is so eager for me to get my memories back, but this is the closest he has come to telling me
anything
about my accident.

“What happened to me?” I press. “Maybe if you tell me, I will begin to remember things.”

He taps his fingers on the leather arm of his chair, watching but not seeing them. He nibbles on the inside of his lip for a moment, then says, “The events of your accident were very traumatic, Emma. We only want to protect you.”

I lean forward and brace my elbows on my knees. I try to catch his eyes, but he avoids them. “I wish to know.”

A buzzing sound on his desk startles both of us until we realize it is only his phone. He stands and lifts the thin receiver to his ear, saying nothing. Instead, he listens to the muffled voice on the other end and nods several times. His gaze is pinned to the digital frame he has moved from the bookcase to his desk. The rotating pictures of Jodi.

The speaker must not have a lot to say; nor does he require a response, because Dr. Travista is off the phone without a word in less than ten seconds.

He raises his bushy eyebrows at me, and there is a slight pout to his lower lip. Finally, he says, “That was your husband. He says to tell you that you and he will speak about this later. He wishes to tell you himself.”

I stand and lift my chin. “Fine. Then I guess we are done here.”

I am spinning to leave when he says, “Emma, we just started our session.”

“And I am ending it.”

I do not wait for him to respond. I am aggravated and tired and do not trust myself to hold my temper. It is not as if I have not gained ground, but I do not wish to wait for Declan to arrive at home tonight to learn this. I was only seconds from getting Dr. Travista to tell me. I am tired of everything being on their time.

I come to the epicenter of the hallways when a voice I recognize makes me stop. Richard Farris, the man whose conversation with Declan last night I heard only part of thanks to Noah Tucker. With all the excitement, I had almost forgotten how he wanted to meet with Declan about some trial.

“You didn’t have to meet us here,” Richard says. “We would have come to your office.”

“Not necessary.”

Declan? I peer around the corner to see Declan, Richard, and a petite woman with long auburn hair pinned up in a chignon. She cannot be much older than me, which makes her roughly twenty years younger than her own husband. She smiles easily between the two men but says nothing. This must be Richard’s wife, Lydia.

Richard and Lydia had come out of the transportation room, but Declan did not, which makes me wonder if he has been in the building the entire time. He was
just
on the phone with Dr. Travista. Watching me. And Richard had said “your office,” which can only mean my husband keeps an office in this building.

Declan shakes Richard’s hand and nods in my direction, forcing me to duck back. “Shall we get started? Arthur will meet with us after his session with Emma. I can at least give you the basic tour, and then Arthur can give you the details.”

I peek back around, and he is smiling at Lydia. “How about I show you to the lounge?”

Richard rubs a hand over her back. “Actually, Lydia is well aware of what we’re talking about and is a willing participant.”

Declan’s eyebrows rise high on his forehead. “Is that right?”

She nods. “I was devastated when I heard I couldn’t have more children, Mr. Burke. If your doctor can help me, I will do whatever it takes.”

My jaw drops before I can stop it. Dr. Travista has cured the fertility issue?

Declan laughs a short burst of sound. “Well, that’s good to hear. It will certainly make Arthur’s job a lot easier.”

Easier how?

She smiles and takes her husband’s hand. “I aim to please.”

I blink in surprise.

Stepford wife,
She says.

I nod in agreement, though I do not know to what she refers. She always reacts with annoyance when I ask, and right now it does not matter in the face of this new situation. Lydia is nothing like Paula the hairdresser, who says none of us ends up where we want to. She ended up
exactly
where she wanted. Maybe like me, she has a husband who loves her. Maybe she wants to give him a large family because she truly loves him.

Or she’s a very good actress,
She says.

Maybe,
I say, but I do not believe it.

I consider revealing myself; I want to look right into this woman’s eyes and search for any sign she could be lying. I even attempt to shift my foot forward but find my muscles are locked.

Do you really need a lesson in covert operations?
She says.
Don’t let them see you.

I step away from the corner without question and duck into an unused hospital room. It is several minutes before their voices amble by, and I wait a couple more before stepping back out. The way is clear and I head home to await my husband and hopefully the truth about my accident.

 • • • 

The mattress dipping beside me wakes me from a deep sleep. I cannot remember dreaming, which is nothing short of a miracle. I am lying on my stomach with my pillow clutched in my arms under my head. When I open my eyes, it is to see the failing light outside the glass wall. The remaining day’s light makes the snow sparkle in muted reds and oranges and yellows. It feels wrong to mute colors such as these.

I blink dry eyes and find my body is still too weary to fully wake. Not even for Declan, who runs a hand over my back. I cannot even find the energy to greet him.

“You left your session today,” he says, and I cannot tell if he is annoyed, but he is definitely not amused. “Emma, you can’t do that.”

I roll to my back and cover my face with my palms. “I know. I was just so tired. I will apologize to Dr. Travista tomorrow.”

“I think that’s a good idea. He has a tight schedule, so to walk out as if his time is a waste of yours is insulting.”

Annoyance sparks heat in my chest. I come up on my elbows and eye him narrowly. “I said I will apologize to him, Declan.”

His lips draw scarce and his shoulders lift with a deep inhalation. “Emma, it’s been a long day and my patience is thin.”

I scoot down to drop off the end of the bed. “That makes two of us.”

“Lights,” I say inside the bathroom and blink against the sudden brightness.

I run the tap to splash cold water over my face and rinse out my mouth. When I rise back up and grab a towel to dry my face, Declan’s reflection stares at me with arms folded, shoulder pressed into the door’s frame. His expression tells me nothing about his mood, but I am not used to this unsmiling Declan. He can usually summon
something
for me.

I pat my face with the thick hand towel. “Have you changed your mind about telling me?”

His gaze drops to the floor. “No.”

My stomach tightens and I clutch the towel tighter with quivering hands. I almost want to tell him to forget it because they make it sound like such a horrific incident. Maybe I will be better off not knowing.

Replacing the towel, I turn and lean into the sink. “So? What happened?”

Declan sighs and turns, loosening his tie. He goes through the agonizing process of undressing down to his undershirt and pants before saying, “Remember the attack you saw in the news scroll?”

I recall the scrolling headlines of the
Richmond Times
newspaper.
BURKE ENTERPRISES BACK UP AND RUNNING AFTER LARGEST ATTACK TO DATE
. Declan had gotten upset about it.

He throws a sweater over his head—thin rather than the thicker versions he usually prefers, and light blue. The neck dips in a V to show the white undershirt. “That same group—the resistance—went after you,” he finally says. He pauses. Takes a deep breath. “You were just another attack on me.”