“When did she hit her head?”
“Two days ago.”
He thought about it. “I’d make sure the other symptoms of the concussion clear first. Unless there’s an urgent need to intervene.”
“Nothing urgent. Just trying to get her life back.”
“Good luck. Call me if there’s anything I can do to help.”
When Lucy returned inside she was surprised when Missy directed her to Valencia’s private wing. Valencia met her in the hallway outside the sturdy oak door leading to the kitchen. As always, she was dressed as if she were on her way to have tea with the First Lady. She wore a burgundy silk sheath, and her gray hair was swept up into a deceptively simple twist that Lucy knew was too complicated for her to ever re-create with her own rambunctious curls.
“Tiffany thought the kitchen might be a more relaxing place for a chat,” she explained. Valencia was the only person who used TK’s given name without fear of repercussions.
“Good idea.” Even Lucy, whose culinary skill set began and ended with pressing a button on a microwave, adored Valencia’s kitchen. The room somehow radiated all the love and care that had gone into the hundred years’ worth of meals prepared there. It was a perfect place to get an anxious interview subject to relax. “So, things are working out? Having TK live here?”
When Lucy had first met TK, the former Marine was camped out in an empty closet at the gym where she’d been teaching parkour and self-defense classes, and all her possessions were able to fit into the rucksack she carried on the old motorcycle she used for transportation. TK had reminded her of a feral cat then—homeless but too proud to ask for help. But now, living on the estate with Valencia, TK had shed her restless, aimless energy and was laser focused on her work.
“I love having her here,” Valencia said. “And she’s a huge help to Xander.” The estate’s manager and Valencia’s personal assistant, Xander Chen, was in his sixties. Hong Kong born and raised, he had a British accent that always made Lucy think of Batman’s butler, Alfred. “But don’t blame me for her new attitude—that’s all on you.”
“Me?” Lucy was surprised. It felt like she and TK argued about everything.
Valencia’s smile widened. “The Texas case was a wake-up call for her. Seeing you in action, she realized how much she still has to learn. You’re her role model.”
Lucy couldn’t help but glance down at her injured foot. Not even forty and already forced out of the job she’d loved, facing permanent disability, stripped of all her police powers, and placed in charge of a group of civilians? “Not sure I’m comfortable with that idea.”
“Get used to it.” Valencia meant more than simply mentoring TK, Lucy knew. It was hard though, seeing Burroughs and Oshiro this morning, being reminded of everything she’d lost when she left the FBI. “You have a lot to offer, Lucy. And I think you’ll be surprised at how much working without the constraints of law enforcement’s bureaucracy and regulations can offer in return.”
“Like interviewing a victim in your kitchen.”
“More than that. If Detective Burroughs and Deputy Marshal Oshiro hadn’t gone the extra mile in bringing her to us, the police would have had little to offer Sarah once they established her identity and that no crime was involved. Social services can’t do much either—they’re much too bogged down in cases of abuse and neglect, helping those who can’t help themselves. But we don’t have those rules to follow, constraints placed by caseloads or a results-driven administrative culture. We can help her, make certain she doesn’t fall through the cracks.” Valencia glanced at the closed door beside them. “Besides, it’s nice to work a case that you already know has a happy ending, isn’t it?”
Lucy couldn’t disagree. But there was another case that concerned her. “TK and Wash are worried about Tommy working this case. Apparently the anniversary of his wife’s disappearance is this week?”
Valencia’s expression clouded. “I should have thought to give you a heads-up on that. I apologize. How’s he holding up?”
“He’s going to document Sarah’s apartment for us, then he’s taking the rest of the week off to be with his daughter and hopefully escape the press.”
“I’d hoped that working Sarah’s case would keep his mind off Charlotte.” Valencia sighed. “But it’s probably better this way. Her case… it’s so frustrating, so many false trails.”
“Then you think she did leave voluntarily?”
“The evidence points that way. Most of it. But, no, I don’t believe that. I just can’t find anything to prove otherwise.”
“I’d like to take a look. If that’s all right with you.” Lucy was torn between the desire to find the truth—and help Tommy—and the knowledge that meddling in co-workers’ private lives never ended well. But if she was going to continue to work with Tommy, she needed to know everything.
Valencia’s nod was slow in coming. “I’d appreciate it. Fresh eyes might be exactly what we need.”
WHILE THEY WAITED
for Lucy, TK bustled around the kitchen, arranging the chairs at the farm table into an intimate grouping at the end closest to the stone fireplace that filled an entire wall. Sarah sat at the table and watched with the slightest trace of amusement on her face.
“Let’s start with the basics,” TK said. “Coffee? Tea? Soda?”
The question brought a frown to Sarah as she considered. “I’m not sure.” Her mouth twisted as if she was trying to re-create the taste of each option. “I can almost imagine how they smell, taste, but…”
“Smell is the most primal trigger of memories.” Ever since she’d begun working with Lucy, TK had been reading everything she could on interviewing techniques to complement what she’d already learned from her Marine training. She poured a cup of black coffee and set it before Sarah, followed by a glass of cola and an iced tea. “Real tea will take a few minutes.”
Sarah started with the iced tea. She sniffed it cautiously, then took a sip. “This is good, but needs something. It’s kind of tart.”
“Sugar coming up.” TK spooned and stirred while Sarah tried the cola.
She immediately wrinkled her nose. “No. Bubbles. Ugh.”
“And the coffee?”
Sarah tasted it. “Bitter, but feels familiar.”
“Try adding sugar and milk,” TK suggested. As she watched to see if Sarah completed the coffee-making ritual reflexively or if she had to taste-test her way through it, she distracted Sarah with more questions. “Any sense of where you drink coffee? Does it feel like you’re home alone? Just waking up? Or picking it up from a Starbucks?”
Sarah added two teaspoons of sugar and a healthy dollop of milk, stirred, then tasted and nodded in satisfaction. “Good.”
“You got it on the first try,” TK praised her.
“So the memories must be there, just waiting to come out. Starbucks,” Sarah mused. “I can see it, know what it is. They have the mermaid logo, right?”
“Right.”
“But it doesn’t feel like an everyday thing. When I think of it, it feels like, I can almost hear someone’s voice.”
“Like maybe you’re meeting someone?”
Sarah nodded eagerly, cradling her coffee mug in both hands and inhaling deeply. “This smell, it smells like… Do we know what direction the kitchen in my apartment faces?” she asked excitedly. “I can almost feel the sun coming in at a low angle. Like this is part of my morning. Coffee and sunshine.”
“We’ll take a look when we take you over to walk through it. Let’s try some more smells.” TK selected a few spices from Valencia’s well-stocked cabinets. As she was arranging them on a plate and covering them with a tea towel so Sarah wouldn’t be able to see the labels, Lucy came in and poured herself a cup of coffee.
“I like coffee with milk and sugar,” Sarah announced proudly.
Lucy raised her own mug in a toast. “Good start.” She sat down at the far end of the table and nodded to TK to continue.
“Close your eyes,” TK told Sarah. “Just tell us whatever comes to mind with each smell. Don’t try to identify the smell if it doesn’t come right away, instead concentrate on where you were when you smelled it, who you were with, any memories at all.”
Sarah nodded and closed her eyes. TK started with vanilla. “Oh. Warm and happy. I feel like I’m being hugged—like I’m a little girl. There are a lot of voices, all women, and we’re in a kitchen like this one only not as big. The oven is being opened and closed and my hands are wet—I’m washing dishes!” she exclaimed. “I’m young, not sure how old, but it’s a holiday…” Her face creased with concentration. “Thanksgiving? Christmas? It’s cold—the window over the sink is cold. I’m standing on a step so I can reach it.”
“Who’s with you?” TK asked in a gentle voice.
“Women. All older. I can’t remember their names, see their faces, but I feel safe. I feel loved.” Her eyes popped open, glistening with tears. “My family. I was home. But why can’t I remember more?”
“Relax. You’re doing great. Let’s try another.”
Sarah shook her head in frustration, her hair falling around her face. “No. It’s so damn hard. I mean, why can I remember stupid things like George Washington and how to make my coffee and that gray is not a color I’d ever wear, but I can’t remember my name or face or my own family?”
TK looked to Lucy, who nodded and shifted to the chair beside Sarah. Lucy placed her palm on Sarah’s arm. “My husband, he works at the VA, with PTSD patients. A lot of them also have traumatic brain injuries, memory problems. He says there’s a pattern to how memories are lost and found again—that usually the older the memory, the more likely it is to remain.”
“So we have to go through this over and over until I rebuild my entire life? I know you’re trying to help,” Sarah said, sounding miserable, “but I just want to go home. Can’t we continue this there? Maybe something will trigger things. Bring it all back. I really want to go home now.”
Made sense to TK. But Lucy hesitated. “Sarah, when you were in your apartment earlier with Burroughs and Oshiro, what did you feel?”
“Nothing. I mean, it’s a small place, was easy enough to figure out where my clothing was, simply because there weren’t many options, but nothing looked familiar. But we were only there for a few minutes, just long enough for me to change and get cleaned up after the hospital.”
“No sense of belonging?”
“No. Felt like a hotel room or something where it just happened that the clothing they said belonged to me was hanging in the closet. But maybe there’s more—a favorite blouse or piece of jewelry, I don’t know.” She frowned. “Why don’t you want me to go home?”
TK wondered that as well. She eased back in her chair to watch both Lucy and Sarah.
“It’s not that.” Lucy glanced at TK, then Sarah. “It’s just that most people, their homes have personal items. Notes scribbled in a calendar, photos on the fridge, mementoes…”
“Right. Exactly. Let’s go see.” Sarah stood eagerly—then paused and frowned at Lucy. “Wait. If any of that stuff was there, Detective Burroughs would have showed me, wouldn’t he? It would have given him a starting place. But he didn’t. Which means he didn’t find anything.” She shook her head. “How could that be?”
TK stood beside Sarah, annoyed at Lucy for upsetting her further. “Don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of it. But you’re right. Maybe there’s something he missed that you’d recognize. We won’t know until we go check it out.”
“But… who lives like that? What kind of person am I?”
“I wasn’t trying to upset you,” Lucy said. “Why don’t you wait in the reception area while TK and I clean up here, and then we’ll take you home?”
Sarah nodded, her face a blank. But then she glanced up. “Will Dr. Worth be there? I’d feel much more comfortable if he was.”
“Why? Do you feel sick? Need a doctor?”
“No. I’m fine. Just, I don’t know, he feels… not familiar, that’s too strong of a word. Comforting? I feel like I can think better, my mind’s not as fuzzy when he’s around. Does that make any sense?”
TK smiled. “Tommy’s a pediatrician. I think he has that kind of calming influence on us all.”
“Okay, then. I’ll wait for you out front.”
Sarah left, and TK turned to Lucy. “What the hell was that all about?”
“I wish I knew. But Burroughs and Oshiro both felt like there’s more going on with Sarah. Like maybe she purposely erased her past.”
“No. She’s not faking it. No way.”
“Not that. More like, maybe she’s hiding from someone, keeping a low profile.”
TK snapped to attention. “Lucy. The public service announcements—if she really is hiding from someone, we’ve just broadcast her face to the world.”
TOMMY PULLED HIS
Volvo up to the curb and looked out the window at Sarah Brown’s apartment building. It was a seven-story yellow brick building directly across from Shadyside Hospital. Anonymous would be how he’d describe it. No wonder the cops hadn’t found anyone who knew her here. She could have come and gone for weeks without seeing another resident.
He left the car and trudged up the steps to the building’s entrance. At least Sarah had still had her keys with her when she’d been found. He let himself into the lobby, checked her mailbox—empty, not even any junk mail—then took the elevator up to the fifth floor. The walls of the corridor were narrow, the carpet beige, the paint close to the end of its useful lifespan. The architecture had that pre-World War Two feeling, with high ceilings and elaborate molding—facts the otherwise bland decor hadn’t been able to obscure.
As he prowled down the hallway searching for 517, the smell of bacon and cabbage wafted from behind one of the doors. It reminded him of summer vacations visiting his grandparents’ house. How he’d loved those summers filled with hay bales, barn cats, horses, swimming holes, and ice cream hand churned as fireflies swirled against the twilight sky.
Until last year he’d carried that feeling of carefree contentment with him every day, even all these years later. Being with Charlotte, coming home to her and Nellie, it had felt like that. Every single day.
Until last year.