Walking The Edge: A Romantic Suspense/Espionage Thriller (Corpus Brides Trilogy Book 1) (16 page)

She took a spoon of
couscous
into her mouth, and as the frown lifted from her features, she smiled.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” he asked.

She nodded.

“The best in Marseille, made by my mother,” he added with a grin. He’d wanted to share that with her, God knew why, really. Normalcy, even some semblance of it—something he wanted with her. If only for a moment, he’d take it.

“Your mother is Algerian?
Tagine
is an Algerian dish, isn’t it?”

“Moroccan,” he replied in between spoonfuls, wolfing down the food and delighting in the spicy taste reminding him of his youth.

“You don’t look like your mother hails from the Maghreb,” she said.

He sure didn’t, not with his blond hair and blue eyes.
Here comes the crux of the matter
. “She’s my foster mother, actually.”

She remained silent, as if pondering what he had just said. At least she didn’t say anything about his own family not caring for him... Thank God for small favours.

“I don’t know if I have any family,” she said, then shrugged, a hard mask descending upon her features.

Silence settled between them.

“Is that a start on those answers?” she suddenly asked. “Telling me you grew up in foster care?”

He sighed and placed his spoon on his plate. This moment had been too good to be true. He should’ve known better. “You don’t let up, do you?”

*

She bit her lip, needing the pain to ground her. His tone sounded weary, and she’d offended him. He’d said many times that he’d given her his word. She shouldn’t doubt him. A heavy weight dropped onto her shoulders and she slumped in her seat.

“I’m sorry.” She brought a hand up and pressed it to her throbbing temple. Talks about family and ties had made her think of something she hadn’t been able to put her finger on. She knew a special tie existed and belonged solely to her, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember. And that hurt. It burnt like acid dripping onto her heart to cause lasting pain and damage, and she wanted nothing but to lash out when such hurting engulfed her; she shouldn’t be the only one suffering. Flawed logic, but emotions knew no rationality, did they?

He sighed, then leaned back in his chair. “You’re right. Let’s get this over with.”

This clipped tone bade nothing good. She’d really pushed him, this time. “Gerard, no—”

He reached out and closed his palm on her hand, silencing her. A soft gasp escaped her. Did that mean he wasn’t angry? The man must have the patience of a saint to put up with her.

Their gazes met over the plastic boxes of food, his eyes dark and serious. Strong foreboding closed like a tight grip on her lungs.

“You said your name is Amelia Jamison,” he started.

She cleared her throat for a breath. “Or so I’ve been told.”

“Right.” He paused, eyeing her with a frown. “You supposedly had a boating accident seven months ago, and you woke up with amnesia. The man by your side at the hospital identified himself as your husband, his name being Peter Jamison.”

She nodded. Again, it struck her how much this story sounded like a fabricated tale. Too polished, with that little something niggling in her gut telling her she was being duped.

On a deep inhale, she peered up at Gerard. “Except I’m starting to doubt the accident really happened. I found no mention of a blast aboard a boat anywhere off the southern coast of France.”

“You did your research.” He sounded startled; confirmed by the raised eyebrows. “Good. There has been no boating accident of the likes you mentioned.”

To have it confirmed by an official knocked the breath out of her, and she gasped. It had all been lies... “Then what happened?” she asked softly, directing the question more to herself than to him.

“I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”

She blinked at the determination blazing in his words. He would help her, after all. Relief soared through her, her shoulders sagging from the tension letting up. She wouldn’t be alone...

“But there’s more,” he said, “and I don’t know where to start.”

Ominous dread returned to fill her heart, and she braced herself for what would come next. “Go on,” she mumbled.

He clasped her hand tighter. “Peter Jamison is a teenager who lives in Wyoming, USA. He definitely isn’t an investment broker working in London.”

She brought a hand up and covered her mouth. Damn it! She’d
known
something wasn’t quite right about Peter. Or whoever he happened to be, with whatever name he possessed. It hadn’t been her going mad, then. The pieces of the picture really hadn’t fit together. Why, though? Nothing made sense. Who could she be, to find herself embroiled in such a cover-up?

“The company he’s supposed to work for,” Gerard continued, “is what we call a brass plate firm.”

He’d lost her there. She tore herself from her thoughts and frowned. “A
brass
plate
firm
?”

He nodded. “It’s like its name suggests. There’s a physical nameplate for the company, but nothing inside. It could be a screen, or just a sham, to not attract suspicions.”

“Suspicions as to what?”

“That’s what we don’t know,” he added after a few seconds.

It all came back to more questions... Silence settled between them. The words they’d uttered danced in the air, feeding all sorts of thoughts in each one’s mind. Hers took a singular track, leading her to a startling realization.

She glanced up and held his gaze. “So my name might not be Amelia Jamison, after all.”

*

That look of confusion on her face, and the way her eyes lost their focus and filled with doubts—he couldn’t bear to see it.

Gerard squeezed her hand, more to give himself something to do than to offer support, because a storm brewed inside him, too. One that wrecked havoc in an area of his soul already reduced to Ground Zero destruction seven months earlier.

“I don’t think so,” he finally answered.

Your name could be Mirka
. But he didn’t say it, because he had no idea if this could be true. Until she recovered her memory, they wouldn’t know. He also couldn’t give her any false hope. Mirka
had
died, after all...

Something else. Focus on anything but
her.

“Which brings us to this.” He retrieved the key and placed it on the table.

She picked it up and ran her finger over it. Her face scrunched into a frown as she contemplated the thin metal. Thoughts appeared to be zipping behind those narrowed eyes.

“What?” he asked.

“558.” She glanced at him, then pointed at the key. “It’s carved into the key. See?”

He nodded. He’d seen that, too, in the soft grooves on the flat end. Time to test his theory; could she have a ‘hunch’ and lead them in the right direction? “You have any idea what it could mean?”

She shook her head.

Dejection on her features. She really
was
clueless.
Merde.

He could prompt, though. “I was thinking it could be the key to a safe.”

Her head came up, hope burning bright in her eyes. “In a bank?”

He shrugged. “Or a train station.” Other possibilities existed, like locker rooms in private gyms, or post office boxes, but he didn’t air his suspicions. He wanted to see what her reaction would be.

She seemed to be pondering his words. Intense concentration tensed her features.
What is she thinking?
He didn’t have long to wait.

She peered up. “You know any station that holds such locked boxes?”

So she’s had a hunch.
He observed her through narrowed eyes. A picture had started to form in his brain, and he remained as loath to contemplate it as he grew excited about the possibility.

Not just instinct guiding her, but intimate knowledge.

With her amnesia, she may not know where the thoughts came from, but a part of her brain knew it could tap into the information well and supply it to her conscious mind.

And she’d know all this if she herself were a cop.

Or an agent.

The realization sent sparks of warning and a hefty dose of adrenaline into his system. He treaded on shifty grounds with her, with no idea how deep the hole under her went. How to proceed now?

“We can go look,” he finally said.

Resignation filled him. They needed to close this case, however strange and unofficial it might be. One way or the other, he’d get to the bottom of this mire. He’d help her, too, and whatever happened after they found that locker would happen, come what may.

She didn’t appear any less hesitant than he did when they set out after their lunch to investigate all the train stations in Marseille. But unlike him, she didn’t hide her apprehension and her anxiety, her body shaking slightly with nerves every time they set foot into a potential location for the box the key would unlock.

Gerard grew grimmer with every passing moment. Her ignorance proved a blessed relief for her, since she had no idea what world she’d evolved in before she’d lost her memory. But he knew—at least, he had suspicions, and these ate him alive. Who was this woman, and what had really happened to Mirka Lehmans all those months earlier?

Box 558, in the next to last station, opened with a soft click that reverberated like a blast in his mind.

Her startled look met his when the eye-level panel swung out and exposed a long, dark, and narrow space. He picked up her hesitation in the way she bit her lip; could almost hear the pounding of her heart, echoing the frantic rhythm of his own pulse.

He nodded in encouragement, and she turned, slowly reaching inside the box. She froze for a second, then pulled her arm out; clutched in her hand lay a big, grey envelope.

As she started to pull it open, he reached out, his hand covering hers.

“Let me do that.”

He knew what to do with a suspicious package. She might be the one who’d led them to it, but she needn’t be the one at risk when opening it.

After closing the box and removing the key from the lock, he brought the parcel close to his ear but in a way not to attract suspicion should anyone be looking at them. Satisfied the envelope didn’t feel heavy—concealing a bomb, maybe—he gently shook the package.

The swishing sound of papers moving inside reassured him the parcel contained nothing dangerous at first glance. He clutched it close to him and grabbed her hand.

*

She took his lead and silently followed him back to the car. By now, she’d figured out the drill—
don’t talk in public when something unusual happens
.

The rushed trip to the Peugeot reminded her of the one at the library earlier, and she couldn’t stop thinking that she wanted to be anywhere but there right then. Dread twisted her stomach into knots and made her want to retch. The locker had opened—no longer a fictional possibility. Whatever that envelope contained would reveal clues to her past. Or at least, she hoped.

Or not... Not knowing might be best, after all. She could still disappear. Just up and leave.

No. She had to know. Peace of mind would never come if she didn’t figure out the puzzle of her existence.

Once inside the vehicle, she reached for the envelope.

Gerard grabbed her hand, stilling her. “We don’t know what’s inside. Caution is needed.”

Right. So she better bide her time until they returned to the garage. Her patience, however, ran thin by the time they sat down at the kitchen table, the parcel between them.

He handed her latex gloves and a sterile mask. She glanced up in surprise.

“Precaution in case there’s any powder that could blow up in our face. This thing has been in the box for we don’t know how long, so there probably isn’t some highly volatile biological threat in it—”

“But we’re better off taking our precautions.” She finished for him.

“Yes.”

Did she imagine this, or did he gulp before saying that word?

He donned his gloves and placed the envelope flat on the table before slitting three of its sides open. By peeling the top cut flap away, he pulled the envelope apart. He froze, then looked up at her, and then down at the wads of Euros and several small booklets.

Passports. What the hell...? She peeled off her mask, scooped them up, and fanned them out over the envelope’s surface.

Dutch, Italian, and Swedish. Three nationalities, and as she opened the little books, the same picture of a soft-faced, honey-blonde woman with deep-set blue eyes stared back at her. The names were not the same, though. Angela Cilliers, Paloma Massimiliano, and Frieda Johansson.

Three doppelgangers? That didn’t make sense.

“What does it mean?” she asked as she looked up at Gerard.

Any further questions died on her lips at the sight of the ashen tone of his usually golden skin. He had removed his mask, too, and seemed in shock, his gaze on the opened documents.