Forgotten (Shattered Sisters Book 2) (8 page)

He nodded, but was still looking at her oddly when he followed her out the door.

She fed him Ibuprofen when they got home, and left him lying in her bed.
Her
bed, he noted with interest, not the one in the room she'd assigned him originally. She'd hustled him up there the second they had returned from his place and insisted he lie down. It was almost as if she could feel the way his head was pulsing every time she looked at him.

But pain or no, he had work to do. While he believed Joey was innocent of the Slasher killings, he was still all too aware of her dishonesty. He thought she might have a good reason for the lies, or at least what she must believe was a good reason. But he couldn't help her unless he found out what it was. And he had a feeling, a bad, creepy kind of feeling in the pit of his stomach, that it all revolved around the Slasher killings. She'd known something had gone down last night. She'd known it before he'd told her. There was no doubt about that.

He slipped out of bed after she'd been gone for a while. His gaze fell on his suitcase. She'd left it here, in this room. It was pretty obvious she intended for him to stay there, in her room. His ego would have liked to believe it was out of pure, overwhelming desire for him. His brain, however, knew there must be more to it.

He sat on the edge of the bed, took out his cell and tapped Rad’s number. When he heard Radley's voice on the other end, he kept his own low. "What have you dug up on my wife?"

Rad snorted. "Wife, huh? You getting attached to that phrase, Ash?"

"Knock off the comedy and give me an answer."

Rad was quiet for a moment, then he said, “Are you falling for her, Ash?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous. I know what it’s like, don’t forget. You can talk to me. Any time.”

It was true. Few people were as deeply devoted as Rad was to his Amelia. Broke Ash’s heart that she was sick. Rad didn’t like discussing the details. He just knew it was bad, and got the impression it was terminal.

Papers riffled and Rad said, "As for your girl, all I can say is, it’s damned weird.”

"Weird, how?"

Rad cleared his throat. "She does free-lance work for some major corporations."

Ash frowned. "That's what she told me, but I didn't believe it."

"Yeah, well, I find it kind of hard to believe myself.”

"Why?" A ripple of alarm went through him.

"She's a self proclaimed psychic, Ash, though she seems to try to keep that part of it quiet. Calls herself a consultant. Her business comes by word of mouth. One corporate big shot tells another about her skills, and so on."

Ash didn't say anything for a long time.

"You still there?"

"Yeah. I’m just not sure I get it.”

"Okay, here's the skinny. Say a company is considering a merger, or a major move, or maybe they have an employee embezzling funds but aren't sure who. They take it to J. B. Bradshaw. She comes into the firm as a secretary or some such, snoops around a little, talks to people, gets a feel for the place and then she gives them their answer."

"Right. You want to get serious now, Rad?"

"It's gospel. I've had it triple-checked."

Ash shook his head. He didn't believe in mind readers. "And she gets results?"

"Sometimes she does. Word is, she doesn't charge unless she can help. She hasn't always been able to. But she's never been wrong. She either comes up with the right answer, or no answer at all."

"Uh-huh." Ash wasn't buying a word of this. "And she lives off this?"

"Her fees are pretty hefty, Ash. And she's getting
quite
a reputation in corporate boardrooms. I've heard she works pro bono for small, struggling firms who can't afford—"

"Have you got anything legitimate for me, Rad, or just fairy tales?"

Radley made an aggravated noise into the phone. "Skeptic. Okay, she doesn't have a police record. Not so much as a traffic ticket. She holds a valid handgun permit, and the records list a nine-millimeter Ruger as her only weapon."

"Anything else?"

"What do you want, a biography? Nothing you don't already know. She was raised with her mother, deceased, stepfather who is retired in Florida, and a half sister, Caroline. Her birth father was Tito de Rio, and she has another half sister, Toni Rio, the writer. There are other sisters—apparently the guy got around, but I stopped digging at that point. Toni is engaged to a cop, Nick Manelli out of Brooklyn. Caroline is married to Theodore 'Ted' Dryer, formerly of Clark County, Nevada. The have two girls, aged six and sev—"

"Clark County, Nevada?" Ash jumped to his feet. Vegas was in Clark County.

"I already checked, Ash. Dryer's lived in New York State for eleven years."

"That doesn't mean he hasn't gone back to visit...maybe five years ago, the summer the Slasher did his hunting in Vegas."

"Maybe."

Ash swallowed. He hadn't wanted to believe Joey was involved in this ugliness. But maybe she was. Maybe she was protecting her brother-in-law. Or even her sister. Picturing Caroline as a murderess was harder than envisioning Joey in the role. He shook his head. Anything was possible.

"Thanks for the help, Rad."

"You lied to the police, didn't you?"

Ash frowned at the phone. "I thought you didn't want to know."

"You could get your ass tossed in jail. Especially if you're withholding evidence."

"I know that."

He could almost see his friend's frown over the phone. Rad said nothing more, just broke the connection. Ash sighed and hung up. He went to the door, opened it and listened for a minute. Not a sound, so he slipped down the stairs and glanced around. Joey was sitting on the couch, legs curled under her. Her face registered extreme agitation as her eyes scanned the pages of a fat book. A thick, wavy lock of silky hair fell down over one eye, and she shoved it back with a sweep of her small hand. Her brows bunched tighter, her green gaze intense. He glanced at the title and almost swore out loud.
Inside the Mind of a Serial Killer.

Dammit straight to hell. He shook his head in frustration and backed up the stairs. Psychic. Hell, she was no more a psychic than she was a killer. But it was becoming increasingly evident that she was obsessed with the Slasher. Why? Did she know anything, or was it just morbid curiosity? He wondered if he'd ever figure her out.

Well, at least she was occupied for a time. He went to her dresser, pulled open the bottom drawer and pawed through it, then opened another.

The landline phone rang, and he stiffened. Then he relaxed when it didn't sound again and she didn't call to him. Must have been for her. Good, she was still distracted.

His headache eased slightly, probably due to the Ibuprofen she'd insisted he take, and the hot, herbal tea she'd made him drink afterward.

His hand dipped into the top drawer, and his gaze was drawn downward. He was wrist deep in sheer, silky underthings. He couldn't move for a minute. When he could, he found himself pulling a nearly transparent, lace-edged, ruby red teddy from the drawer. He held it up, eyeing the high cut of the leg openings, the sheer lace that bisected the bodice. He couldn’t help but picture her in it.

Then he blinked fast and shoved the garment back into the drawer. What was he, some kind of a pervert? Had this ridiculous attraction got so bad that he had to resort to pawing her underwear? He looked again at the mounds of lace and silk and satin in the drawer, and an ugly, unfamiliar feeling crept into his mind as he wondered when she wore them, and for whom. From the wide selection under his hand, she must find need for these kinds of garments often. Too often.

Disappointment and irrational anger flooded him, along with burning, red-hazed memories.

His mother had called herself Lila, and her brassy red hair came from a bottle. She always looked so beautiful on those nights, just before she'd lock him in. But it was fake beauty, like a Halloween costume. He would sit in the corner, in the tiny, pitch-black closet. He would hear the sounds she made. Sounds that made him think someone was hurting her. And he would wonder if they might kill her and then she'd never come to let him out. Sometimes she didn't, not until very late the next day. Those were the times when she'd been too drunk to think of him sooner. Those were the times when he'd see the ugliness behind her pretty mask.

Her name wasn't Lila, it was Liz. And she wasn't pretty. Not with her watercolor hair in matted straggles and black mascara smeared under her eyes and the stench of puke and liquor on her breath.

When the closet door opened on those mornings, he didn't want to look at her. And he couldn't anyway, because he'd be in a hurry to run to the bathroom. And always, on the way, he would pass the empty bottles and unwashed glasses, the overflowing ashtrays, the rumpled bed, and always, always, there would be sheer, silky lingerie lying on the floor.

He felt something out of place against his fingers, and looked down at the price tag dangling from one thin strap.

Unable to resist, he picked it up again, frowning. Then his gaze moved over the other items in the drawer, spotting more tags, and still more.

"Ashville Coye, what the hell do you think you're doing!"

He spun fast, still clutching the teddy. Joey stood in the doorway, her face as red as the satin that caressed his fingertips. "I, uh, I was just...looking for a place to put my clothes." He stuffed the teddy back into the drawer and slammed it shut. "Sorry."

Her expression didn't ease. Her cheeks were pink with embarrassment. Her eyes glittered with anger at his invasion of her privacy. "Did you ever think to ask?"

He just looked at her and shook his head. How could she look so innocent? Was he a complete idiot?

"I'll make some room for you. In the meantime, you really ought to be lying down." She still didn't meet his gaze. She lifted a hand that held a pair of tightly rolled dampened cloths. "I brought a hot pack for your head. Thought it might help."

He complied and went back to the bed. She perched on its edge, leaned forward and gently laid one of the moist, hot cloths on his forehead.

The swell of her full breasts was so close to his face he could feel the heat rising from her skin to his. He could smell the scent of her. A rush of desire seared him from within, and he knew he still wanted her. Good or bad, chaste or promiscuous, he wanted her, and it was infuriating to admit that, even to himself. He puckered his lips and blew gently, warm breath bathing her breasts.

She straightened at once, eyes widening.

"When are you going to be willing to sleep with me, Joey?" He'd asked the question before he could tell himself not to.

She blinked fast, avoiding his eyes. "When you get your memory back."

"What if I told you I was getting it back already? What if I said I remembered every minute of our...wedding night?"

She swallowed hard. "I'd say you were lying."

He nodded. "Can't blame a guy for trying." He looked toward the dresser. The strap of the teddy still hung out of the drawer. A confused jumble of anger, disappointment and desire pummeled him. He tried to ignore it and licked his lips. "What if I never remember?"

She shook her head. "You will. I'm going to help you."

"I think seeing you in that red number would help me a whole lot, Joey."

"I really wish you wouldn't talk to me like that."

He smiled slowly. "Makes you hot?"

"Makes me angry. You're obnoxious as hell, you know that?" She glanced down at the second hot cloth in her hand and slapped it onto his chest. "Here. This one's for the back of your neck. You can do it yourself."

She stood and turned to go. Driven by his own demons, Ash lunged from the bed. "You've never worn them, have you? Not any of them."

Her back stiffened. She said nothing.

He grabbed her arm, turned her slowly to face him. He forced himself not to hold her too tightly, or to jerk her around. It made no sense to feel this angry. This was about him, not her. And yet he was driven to know. "Answer me, Joey. You've never worn them, have you?"

"No. I've never worn them. Why is it so damned important, anyway? What do you think, that I put them on and parade through the streets? Jump out of cakes? What?"

Why this feeling of relief? She could be lying through her teeth for all he knew. God knew it wouldn't be the first time. And why the hell did he care what she wore, or for whom?

He released his breath and sat down on the bed. He lowered his head, and for the first time he really wondered why she would buy the things and not wear them.

"So you're stocking up on silk and satin,” he said. “You must have big plans. Expecting a prince on a white horse to come along?"

She stood perfectly still, her eyes searching his, hurt, but more than that. It felt as if she was trying to see what drove him. "Princes turn into frogs, Ash. Happens every time. I almost forgot that for a little while today. Thanks for reminding me.”

He heard the real confusion, the pain in her voice and wished he could take back his words. Dammit, the idea of her wearing those things for someone else had filled him with rage. The thought that she could be anything like his mother. He'd just wanted her to deny it.