Crash & Burn (10 page)

T
HOMAS
HAS
RETURNED
.
He had left, telling me I needed to rest, though we could both tell he was the one who was exhausted. Now he's back and I'm pleasantly surprised that I both remember his name and feel almost happy to see him. He has brought me a change of clothes. Black yoga pants, an oversize cable-knit sweater the color of cinnamon. The clothes don't appear instantly recognizable to me. And yet, when I hold them to my nose and inhale . . .

A flash of memory. I am curled up on a chocolate-brown leather sofa. A book is in my hands, a cup of tea on the glass coffee table near my feet. While across from me, Thomas sits in a matching chair, deeply engrossed in the morning crossword puzzle.

I'm suddenly hungry for oatmeal, but I don't know if that makes any sense.

Dr. Celik appears in the doorway, carrying a brown paper bag. She glances at me absently, then focuses her attention on Thomas. They resume their low-voiced huddle across the room. Like intimates, I think again. I wonder if I'm the jealous type. Or if Thomas has ever strayed. Did I know? Did I care?

I don't know if I'm a good wife. Apparently, I'm a high-maintenance one. And, given the bruise on Thomas's jaw, one capable of lashing out. But am I sweet, nurturing, tender? Or bossy, domineering, a real shrew?

Mixed-up memory or not, it feels like I should know that much about myself. Basic personality traits, dynamics of a marriage, emotional snapshots of a life.

Maybe I'm simply too tired, because I can't bring anything to
mind. The feeling of sinking underwater, isn't that what the doctor had described to Thomas? Because that's how I feel. As if I'm partially submerged, just floating along, the world drifting farther and farther away.

Dr. Celik's voice rises sharply. I don't have to be a rocket scientist to understand she doesn't want me to go. Most likely I require observation, further tests, and a bunch more poking and prodding by the nurses who show up hourly to read my stats and otherwise terrorize me.

Under water or not, I haven't lost my resolve. I can't stay here. The machines are too loud, the lights too bright, the sound of footsteps too echoey down the linoleum hall. A hospital is no place to recover from a concussion. It's way too
everything
for a woman who requires significant R & R.

More debate, another sharp exchange.

“You understand you are signing her out AMA—against medical advice? That it's my expert opinion your wife should remain in the hospital at least another twenty-four hours. That she remains at risk for cerebral swelling, not to mention a brain bleed. As in, you take her home, and she could die there.”

Will I recognize my house? I try to picture it. A gray-painted Colonial with black shutters comes immediately to mind. Maybe a vision from a magazine or maybe my actual home; I'll find out soon enough. I try to imagine a cat or dog but come up empty. Apparently, my husband and I are content with our own company. We work together; Thomas told me that. He designs props, set pieces, and I help finish them. Live together, work together, sleep together.

We must love each other very much, or it's no wonder I bruised his jaw.

Then . . . another memory: myself, sitting in a brightly lit sunroom. Green tendrils of hanging plants softening the oversize bank of windows. Tile floor, eclectic colors on the wall. Myself, sitting in
the middle, painting. And smiling. I can actually feel it on my face. I am happy.

Thomas's voice, booming from the doorway behind me:
Hey, honey, wanna grab lunch?

My smile growing. Happier.

“Nicky.”

My mind zooms back to the present. Stark hospital room. Me, lying on the bed, my husband now standing beside me. “Doctor Celik is willing to let you go,” he tells me, which immediately strikes me as odd, because that's not how their exchange had sounded to me at all. “But you have to promise to rest, and we'll need to return in a few days for a follow-up.”

I nod. It hurts my head, but not terribly. Then I promptly crinkle my nose. Thomas is now carrying the paper sack once held by the doctor. I smell blood, earthy and strong. But also . . . scotch. The good stuff. I don't know whether to roll away in disgust or lean forward in longing.

“Your clothes,” Thomas says, holding up the bag, marked with the symbol for biohazard.

It takes me a moment; then I get it. From last night, he means. From the accident.

I can't help myself. “We can take them? I thought, the police . . . You said there would be questions.”

“Your blood alcohol reading measured .06,” my husband tells me. “Legal limit in New Hampshire is .08. At this time, they have no grounds to charge you, let alone seize personal property.”

I nod. I wonder if I should be impressed my husband knows legal statutes so well. Or worried.

“But the items are bloody . . . destroyed.” I'm still confused. Why does he have my shredded clothes? Why does he care?

He doesn't answer the question, but gestures to the fresh garments he'd stacked at the foot of my hospital bed.

“Think you can get dressed?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I'm going to run down to the pharmacy to fill your prescriptions; then I'll be back. Give me twenty minutes.”

“What time is it?”

“Five thirty.”

“It's dark outside.”

“Yes.”

“Vero's not afraid of the dark,” I inform him.

Thomas sighs and leaves the room.

*   *   *

O
UR
HOUSE
IS
a two-story Colonial. I can't tell the color given that it's night. But after driving forty minutes along quaint back roads and winding side streets, Thomas pulls into a driveway, kills the engine. Both of us sit there for a moment. Not talking. Just alone in the dark.

Then Thomas pops open his door, comes around and assists me.

My ribs still ache. My chest, if I try to inhale too deep. But I find if I keep my movements simple, my pacing slow, I can manage well enough. There are four steps up to a covered front patio. A lone porch light illuminates the door, which appears to be painted the color of wine. Or is it blood? Didn't we laugh about that once?

Thomas unlocks the door, gestures for me to enter.

My house has a vaulted foyer. Slate tile below, black wrought-iron chandelier above, switchback staircase straight ahead. I move to the cherrywood side table without even thinking. Two framed pictures. One appears to be us, younger, happier, laughing on a beach. The frame features broken pottery tiles and I immediately think of Mexico. Good trip. We'd breakfasted on tequila and spent the afternoons racing WaveRunners through crashing surf. We'd been dangerous and silly and madly, passionately in love.

I miss Mexico. Still do.

Next up, a black-and-white portrait. Not a couples shot at all. Just me, backlit by something, maybe a table lamp. You can't see my expression, only my profile, wisps of dark hair curling provocatively. There is something pensive about the photo, and I set it down reflexively.

“I always liked that picture of you,” Thomas says. He throws his keys in a basket on the table, trying to watch me while not appearing to be watching me.

I know without asking that he took that photo and I'd been crying right beforehand. A raw, eyes-streaming, nose-running, throat-hiccupping jag that had concerned him so much he'd gotten out his camera in order to distract me.

Sometimes I cry for no reason.

See, I remember something about myself after all.

I follow Thomas deeper into the home, coming face-to-face with the chocolate leather sofa, the glass coffee table. The kitchen is off the family room. Lighter, maple-wood cabinets, because I didn't want the room to feel too dark. A backsplash of seafoam-green glass tiles because they reminded me of the ocean. A parlor table for two, wrought-iron base, butterfly mosaic inlay because I always yearned to fly.

This is my room. As well as the sunroom directly off of it, with
its crazy alternating lime-green and pink-magenta walls. Thomas had groaned the second he saw the colors. Don't make me do it, he'd dramatized in mock horror. But it was my room, my space, and I could have it any way I wanted, so I'd gone with lime green and pink magenta.

Just as long as it didn't have a painted rosebush, climbing up the walls.

“Work shed is out the back,” he says now, gesturing to the door off the sunroom. “Here is where you work. There is where I work.”

“Not side by side?”

“Not too often. I build; you paint. And between the two of us, the work gets done.”

He leads me upstairs. No pictures on the wall and for some reason this surprises me, as if I'd been expecting them. The second floor has three bedrooms, including a master with its own bath. That room has a tray ceiling and a truly massive four-poster cherrywood bed.

My first thought is there is no way I picked out that formal monstrosity. Thomas must have done it, because I already hate it.

He doesn't say anything, just completes the short, guided tour.

“Why such a big house for just the two of us?” I ask. “Do we entertain often, host many guests?”

“We liked this house, even though it was bigger than we needed. And, given that we do work together, sometimes it's nice to have extra space.”

I walk into the smaller of the two extra bedrooms. It features a lovely white-painted wrought-iron daybed, covered in a quilt of butter yellow.

“I like this room.”

He doesn't say anything.

I touch one corner of the quilt, finger it in my hand. It is
hand-stitched, handcrafted. But not by me, I think instantly. The skill demonstrated here is well beyond my pay grade. And yet . . .

I know who made this quilt. I miss her.

And just for a moment, I feel it again. That sense of hollowness deep inside my chest. Yearning.

“You can sleep here if you want,” Thomas says quietly.

“Okay.” I don't even look at him. This room is mine; the master is his. He can tell me whatever he wants. I know better.

Thomas wonders if I'm hungry. Actually, I am. We return downstairs, where he whips up two cheese omelets. I slice up a cantaloupe, admiring the fine edge on the knife's blade. If this kitchen is my domain, clearly I take my equipment seriously.

We sit at the parlor table and I realize I'm moving automatically, already following rhythms that must have developed over the past six months we've lived here. A party of two, banging around twenty-four hundred square feet, with cozy taste in furniture and surprisingly few pictures, knickknacks or personal decorations on the wall.

I wonder if we finished unpacking all the moving boxes. Or if we're simply people who prefer a very clean approach to home décor.

After dinner, Thomas suggests we watch a movie. But I can tell he's fading again, clearly dead on his feet. In contrast, I finally feel awake, curiously wired, as if the fog is lifting and if I just focus long enough, try hard enough, all the secrets of the universe will be mine.

I tell Thomas he should go to bed. He tries to protest. I shoo him away, and finally, with a frown, he takes the hint.

As he disappears upstairs, I pick up the remote and determine I have no problem running the system or finding all my favorite channels. As long as I don't think too much, just act, I have no problems at all.

I tune in to TV Land. Watch old episodes of
Gilligan's Island,
which seems a safe enough show for a woman with multiple head injuries. Not too exciting, no threat of violence. Well, other than the Skipper smacking Gilligan with his hat time and time again. I draw the line at
Golden Girls,
though. I'm not that desperate.

I turn off the TV, roam the family room. I discover a pile of books, mostly paperbacks. Apparently I like to read Nora Roberts, while Thomas favors Ken Follett. I reenter the kitchen, and then, because I simply have to know, I go through all the cabinets and then the pantry.

Sure enough, no alcohol. Not a single can of beer, not a single bottle of wine. Let alone a decent bottle of scotch.

For a moment, I'm disappointed. Terribly, dreadfully. Because wouldn't a nice glass of single malt be perfect right about now?

I leave the kitchen, head upstairs. My breath grows ragged in my chest, but I survive the hike. Back to the little room with the lovely butter-yellow quilt.

There, I lie down fully clothed, my legs straight, my hands folded on my chest. Like a girl in a coffin.

And then, I inhale.

Vero.

She is little again. Small and bubbly with chubby cheeks and fat fists. Airplane noises as she runs around the tiny room, leaping over pillows, willing her body into flight.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

Vero flies. Vero falls.

Ominous footsteps down the hall.

I'm dreaming, I tell myself.

I'm still dreaming, I remind myself.

As I watch Thomas burst into the room.

T
HE
FRANKS
LIVED
in a relatively new gray-painted Colonial. Black shutters, covered farmer's porch, a winding brick walkway that curved through an attractive front flower bed. This late in the season, the bed still offered up some ragged pansies and those cabbage-looking things Wyatt never knew what to call. Meaning someone had taken the time and effort to update the plantings in the fall. Nicky Frank? Her husband, Thomas?

Many things to learn, which was why Kevin and Wyatt decided to start the morning with a personal house call.

Tessa's comments from yesterday were still weighing heavily on Wyatt. How much did they really know about Nicky Frank, having never talked to her directly? Including but not limited to, how much did she remember from her past three “accidents”? Because cars rarely went sailing off the road while in neutral. Coulda happened, he supposed. Driver falls asleep, knocks the car out of gear while coasting down a steep grade, but it didn't feel probable. Which made Wyatt wonder about the scotch as well. Had Nicky been drinking of her own accord? Or had someone been doing their best to make sure a woman with a known brain injury and doctor's orders not to imbibe didn't wake up at the wheel?

Sometimes when working a case you had a strong lead, and sometimes you mostly had a hunch. Good news about being the sergeant—Wyatt got to follow his hunches. Countywide search for a girl who still had no record of even existing notwithstanding. Yeah, the sheriff had had words with him on that one. But even the
boss agreed, something about this couple, the wife's series of accidents, the enduring delusion of a missing girl, seemed off.

Wyatt did the honors of knocking. Front door was dark cranberry and appeared freshly painted. Looked to him like when the Franks bought the home six months ago, they'd spent some time and energy sprucing up the place. A sign they were finally settling down? Because Kevin had run the couple's background last night, and to say they moved a lot would be an understatement. Two years was the longest they'd stayed in one spot. Otherwise, their MO seemed to be here today, gone tomorrow.

Chasing business, a husband covering his tracks or a couple that was just restless? More questions to consider.

Wyatt liked a challenge.

Hence his relationship with Tessa.

He knocked again, louder this time, more insistent. Finally, the sound of footsteps moving through the house. A second later, the door opened and a rumpled-looking Thomas Frank stood there.

“Morning,” Wyatt said brightly.

The man, barefoot and in sweats, stared back at him. “What time is it?”

“Eight
A.M.
”

“Isn't that a little early for house calls?”

“We brought coffee.”

Thomas scowled.

“Sir,” Kevin spoke up, pressing the point. “We have some questions for your wife.”

“She's asleep; she needs to rest—”

“It's okay.” Behind Thomas, Nicky appeared on the staircase. She was also dressed casually—yoga pants, an oversize sweater—and her hair was wet, as if she'd recently showered.

Even from this distance, Wyatt could make out the harsh lines of stitches slashing across her forehead, left eye, right jawline, let alone
the myriad of bruises and abrasions marring her skin. Yesterday, she'd looked bad. A day later, she appeared even worse; probably would until the bruises ran their course. But the woman was standing. Head up. Eyes clear.

Wyatt felt that thrum, big-game hunter on the prowl. This morning was looking good.

Thomas retreated, reluctantly allowing the two officers into his house. Wyatt and Kevin didn't hesitate but moved fully into the home, closing the door behind them. Wyatt's first impression was that the house was nice in a clean, modern sort of way, but curiously sterile. Less a home, more a set piece. Here is the Pottery Barn sofa; here is the appropriately scaled coffee table; here is the soft and comfy area rug. Not until they hit the kitchen, which led into a shockingly bright-painted sunroom, did he have any sense of personality. Then, to judge by the way Thomas avoided looking at the brightly painted walls, Wyatt would guess the room represented Nicky's sense of style and not her husband's.

Kevin set down the cardboard carrier bearing four coffees on the kitchen counter. Thomas sighed, accepted the bribe. But Nicky poured herself a glass of water.

“Do I drink coffee?” she asked her husband, her tone genuinely curious.

“You prefer tea,” Thomas supplied.

“But I love the smell.”

Thomas looked up at his wife. “You don't have to talk to them, you know. You didn't meet the legal threshold for impairment, remember?” He shot them a look, as if it was important for them to know that he knew. “Not to mention Dr. Celik said you need to rest. If you're feeling tired, you should go lie down. I can handle this.”

Big, strong caretaker, Wyatt wondered, or just a husband who really didn't want his wife to talk to the cops?

What made it really interesting was that he could tell Nicky was wondering the same thing.

“We have only a few questions,” Wyatt offered up. “Whether the driver is intoxicated or not, we're still duty bound to investigate all accidents. Routine inquiry and all. Won't take much time.”

“I don't mind,” Nicky said. “We can go into the sunroom. If I need anything, I'll let you know.”

Thomas still didn't look happy, but he took his coffee and walked away.

According to the background info, Thomas did indeed own and operate his own company, Ambix Productions. Last year, he'd made a quarter million, which would explain the nice house, fancy cars. The Franks currently had forty thousand sitting in the bank, a decent nest egg if the wife continued being unable to work. So hardly a couple on the edge of financial ruin, as Thomas had seemed to imply at the hospital. Maybe he was a conscientious guy, or a workaholic. No doubt his wife's string of injuries had cut into his hours, and not just for a week or two, but apparently for the past six months.

Meaning he had good reason to be overprotective of his wife? Or again, more fun secrets and lies? Days like this, Wyatt honestly loved his job.

With Thomas gone, Nicky escorted Wyatt and Kevin into the bright sunroom. She moved gingerly, Wyatt noticed, still a woman with substantial aches and pains, but she seemed to be in good spirits.

“I like this room,” she said now, as she took a seat in one of the cushioned patio chairs. Wyatt and Kevin made themselves comfortable in two more matching wicker chairs, situated across from her. “This is my room,” she continued, curling a leg beneath her. “And the yellow bedroom upstairs; that's my room, too.”

“You recognize your home?” Wyatt asked. “Feel comfortable here?”

“Yes. As long as I don't think too hard. If I just do things, you know, reach for a plate, I'll find it immediately. On the other hand, if I stop and try to remember where plates might be . . . That's when it gets more complicated.”

“You're working off muscle memory,” Kevin spoke up.

Nicky shrugged. Her dark hair was starting to dry, curl around her face. She was an attractive woman, Wyatt noted, or would be once the bruises and lacerations healed.

“Whatever works,” she said. “I think, given the state of my head, beggars can't be choosers.”

“Any headaches today?”

“No. I'm just . . . sore. Everywhere. Like my whole body went through the spin cycle or something. The doctor provided some pain pills, but I think in the short term, Advil will be my friend.”

“How is Vero?” Wyatt tried out. “She feeling better, too?”

Across from him, Nicky stilled, regarded him frankly. “Do you think I'm crazy, Sergeant?”

“Don't know yet.”

“I don't have a daughter.”

“And yet yesterday—”

“I'd just been in a major accident, whacked my head. Yet again. Clearly I was dazed and confused.”

“Have you ever had a child?”

“No. I'm infertile. Children have never been an option for us.” She smiled thinly. “Funny, I can barely remember my husband's name. But my own barrenness—that's a memory I can't escape.”

Wyatt paused, not sure what to make of this confession. She couldn't have children, but maybe secretly still wanted one, so under duress, her subconscious made one up? Possible, he supposed. But getting well beyond the bounds of policing.

“Why the name Vero?” Kevin asked.

“I don't know.”

“Family name? Your mom, sister, great-aunt, somebody's?”

“I don't have a family.”

“No one at all?” Wyatt interjected.

She gazed at him clear-eyed. “No. No one at all. It's just Thomas and me. Trust me, it's enough.”

Okay. Wyatt made another note. Tessa's concerns from yesterday were making more and more sense to him. Because clearly, Nicky Frank lived a very isolated life. Just her and her husband. Except her husband wasn't the one who kept having “accidents.”

“What do you remember from Wednesday night?” Wyatt asked.

“The night of the wreck.”

“Yes.”

“I don't.”

“You don't?”

“I don't. Nothing at all. I try to picture it . . . My mind is blank.”

Wyatt glanced at Kevin, who responded with a nod.

“Mrs. Frank,” Kevin spoke up. “Mind trying something with me? It's a guided memory exercise. Might help jog something for you.”

“What does it involve?”

“Just relax and sit there. I'm going to try to walk you through the evening in more detail, focusing on your senses. You know, what you smelled, heard, that sort of thing. It's like coming at the memory sideways versus head-on. Sometimes, that makes a difference.”

“It's not hypnosis, is it?”

“Not at all.”

“Because I have enough issues with my brain. I don't need anyone tampering with it.”

“No tampering, no suggestions. I'm just going to ask you a series of questions, and you answer with what first comes to mind.”

Nicky pursed her lips, continued to regard them uncertainly. But then, a short, faint nod. She was going for it.

“All right. Just close your eyes. Breathe deep. It's Wednesday night. Five o'clock. Where are you?”

“I'm at home.”

“What are you wearing?”

“Jeans. Black turtleneck. Gray fleece.”

“How do the clothes feel?”

“Soft. Comfortable. It's one of my favorite outfits.”

“What are you doing in the house?”

“I'm . . . starting dinner. Chicken breasts. I marinated them this morning in Italian dressing. Now I need to cook them. I think I will sear the outside, then finish them in the oven. I should make rice, too. Maybe steam some broccoli.” She pauses. “I have a headache.”

“Do you take something for it?”

“I already did. Four Advil. But it's not enough. The smell of the chicken . . . it's making me nauseous.”

“What do you do?”

“I need to lie down. Sometimes, I wrap a towel around an ice pack and place it over my eyes. It helps.”

“Now?”

“I get the chicken in the oven. I set a timer so it doesn't burn. I give up on the broccoli, but the rice is safe in the cooker. I don't need to worry about that. I get my ice pack, head for the sofa.”

“Where is your husband?”

“I don't know.”

“Is he in the house?”

“I don't know.”

“Maybe in the work shed?”

“I don't know.”

“Okay. You lie down with your ice pack.”

“I think I fall asleep. It's dark and cold and comforting. I close my eyes. I like to sleep. When I sleep, Vero comes to me. She's happy, wearing her favorite flowered dress. She wants to dance, so I take her arms and we swing round and round. Except we are in the small room now, with the ratty blue rug and the tightly shuttered windows and the twin beds pressed so close together they might as well be one. The end is coming. This is our good-bye room. I know every time I look at the carpet. I should stop. It's so hard to keep seeing her like this. But I love her. I've always loved her. And I'm sorry. I never knew just how sorry a person could be, until it's like a weight and it's sinking you, and oh my God, the footsteps again. Down the hall. We both need to escape. Except only one of us ever makes it. Always me, never Vero.”

“Nicky . . .” Wyatt studied the woman intently. Her eyes were still closed. She wasn't looking at them, but lost in her memory of a memory. And she was crying. Whether she was aware of it or not, tears were streaming down her face.

“You wake up?” Kevin asked softly.

“The timer goes off. Chicken. All done.”

“What do you do?”

“Thomas. He's standing in the living room. He's staring at me. Maybe I called out; maybe I said her name. I shouldn't have done that. I get the chicken out of the oven. I put it on plates. I dish up rice. I set the table. Thomas watches me. He tells me I did good. One of my first successful dinners. We eat in silence. We didn't used to eat like that, you know. We used to talk and talk and talk. We used to love each other.”

Wyatt and Kevin exchanged a glance.

“What do you do after dinner?” Kevin asked.

“I wash the dishes.”

“What about Thomas?”

“He has to work. His job is very important. He works. I clean the kitchen. But I drop one of the plates. It breaks on the floor. My hands are shaking. I'm tired. Weak. I used to be better than this, but now I'm tired all the time. Thomas is very patient with me. He has so much work to do, let alone the burden of babysitting his wife. I clean up the plate carefully, put the pieces in the outside trash, where hopefully he won't notice them. I don't want him to be upset.”

“What happens when Thomas is upset?” Kevin pushed.