Double Blind (21 page)

They'd never believe me. I was caught. Meanwhile there was a killer out there.

“He also told me, Ms. Newberry, that at your last meeting you threatened to call the police.”

My heart skipped. “Maybe I did. I don't remember.”

“And you said you'd sue Cognoscenti.”

I shook my head. “I didn't mean that.”

“It appeared to him that you were very upset at the company because you'd received a placebo and were threatening to derail the trial.”

Mom smacked the table. “
They're
the ones who were threatening. It was that very day someone made that phone call to me. You heard the tape.”

Yeah, wait a minute. I was the victim here. “I was
not
threatening to derail the trial.” My voice rose. “I went there for help. They refused it. Then they pulled me from the trial and sent me packing.
Then
someone from the company called my mother, and later left another threatening message outside my door. After that they broke into my apartment to get rid of the evidence. And to terrify me.”

Bremer made no response. I seethed all the more. “Listen to me, please. You've got to look into this murder. Because the man who did it runs Cognoscenti. He's surely heard all my details of
his
crime. He knows
I
know.”

Bremer let the last sentence echo. He put a fist against his hip. “The results came back from the evidence the tech collected at your apartment. We found no foreign prints.”

“He was probably wearing gloves.”

“And there was no evidence of forced entry.”

“But he got in, didn't he. And I wasn't there to open the door for him.”

Bremer rubbed his eyebrow. “I want to believe you, Ms. Newberry, I really do. But I'm having a hard time putting this together. I can find no physical evidence that anyone was in your apartment. And the alleged reason you give for the break-in—the theft of that written message—can't be substantiated either. No one claims to have seen the actual message but you and your mother. And Mr. Sterne denied any knowledge of someone at the company contacting you, either by phone or in writing.”

“So—what?” My mother's tone was pure flint. “We're just making all this up?”

Bremer spread his hands. “Are you?”

“That's ridiculous!” She huffed back in her chair. “My daughter's never given the law any trouble in her life. Nor have I.”

“Look.” I forced my words to a simmering calm. “The main thing is—there's a killer walking the streets. And now I even know who he murdered. Her name is Patti Stolsinger. We matched her picture on the Internet. I'll bet you know her identity already, don't you. And you're just leading me on here. But I'm telling you—now Hilderbrand surely has his sights on
me
. I'll end up dead, too.”

Bremer surveyed me, then opened the mysterious folder. He drew out a single sheet of paper and flipped it toward me. “That her? The woman in your ‘memories'?”

It was the same picture we'd seen online. Hilderbrand's arm around Patti. Sadness hit me. She'd been so unsuspecting. Did he know then what he was going to do?

I nodded.

Bremer stabbed me with those eyes of his. “You're sure.”

“Yes.”

“Patti Stolsinger. Age thirty-eight.”

Yes, yes,
yes
.
How many times did I have to say it for the camera? “Have they found her?” The question snagged in my throat.

“Found her?”

“In a lake somewhere? In the Bay?”

He raised his chin. “No.”

So she was still there. The knowledge made me want to weep. All this time. How long had it been? Was there anything left of her?

I licked my lips. “Look, I know I can't prove how I know all this. But that woman deserves justice. And I want to be safe. You've got to look at William Hilderbrand.”

“Ms. Newberry.” The officer bounced a fingertip against the table. “I have to tell you, I'm confused. I really don't know what to do with what you've told me. As I said, we investigated the alleged break-in and found no evidence. Now you insist this is the woman you've ‘seen' murdered—in memories emanating from the chip implanted in your brain.”

How crazy he made it all sound.

This was it, wasn't it? The moment when he arrested me. I would definitely need an attorney now. Where to find one? Would they let me out on bail? Only to return to my apartment, where I was a target for a maniac?

Bremer gestured toward Patti's photo. “I discovered that Miss Stolsinger resides in Sunnyvale. I called that department to ask if they had any kind of open case on her. The answer was no.”

What?
“You mean they don't even know she's missing?”

“I had the department do some checking. They tracked down her place of business as Biocent, also in Sunnyvale. The officer went to the company, asking to speak with Miss Stolsinger. She was in her office.”

The words iced the blood in my veins. I gaped at him.

Bremer spread his hands. “That's the main source of my confusion, Ms. Newberry. You insist that this woman”—he reached over and pulled the drawing toward himself—“has been murdered and dumped in the water somewhere. But I can assure you of one thing. She is very much alive.”

Chapter 25

I barely felt the car seat under me, barely heard the
sounds of traffic. All I could do was stare through the windshield of Mom's rental car, my mind numb.

What can you do when truths you
know
have been ripped away? Have been balled up and set on fire?

I'd walked out of the police station on robot legs, the world tilted. Imagining the snide laughter of officers behind me.
“Crazy Lisa Newberry. Should be locked up.”

“Maybe it's the wrong woman.” Mom gripped the steering wheel, her back not touching the seat. “She just looks like the one in your visions.”

“No. It's
her
.”

How many times had I seen Patti Stolsinger—shouting . . . choking . . . dying? I knew that face like I knew my own. It. Was.
Her
.

We crossed El Camino. My fingers dug into my legs. I didn't want to go home. What was I supposed to do? How was I supposed to live?

“You might as well go back to Denver, Mom.” My voice brittled like dry leaves.

“I can't leave you now. Not like this.”

Like this
.
Spinning with no place to land.

“You've already missed two full days of work. They must need you.”

“You need me more.”

My chest collapsed. I folded over and leaned my head on the dashboard. “I'm going
insane.”
The awful word dropped onto my knees. Rolled off to the floor. “What did Cognoscenti
do
to me?”

Mom held my shoulder. “No, you're not. There has to be an explanation.”

I cushioned my head with both hands. My brain geared on, running scenes of the murder.
No!
I wanted to scream. Jump from the car and tear down the street. I wanted to lay my own skull open, rip out the cursed chip.

“Lisa, hang with me.” Fright zigzagged Mom's words. “Please. We'll do . . . something.”

But there was nothing we could do. Nothing.

I reared up with sudden force. “Maybe Bremer's lying. They didn't talk to her at all.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don't
know.
” I pressed my fingers against my temples. “Maybe Cognoscenti got to him. Bribed him.”

Mom's silence shrieked.

She didn't believe me anymore, did she? Thought I'd gone mad, just like the police did.

We reached my apartment building. Mom parked and turned off the engine. I gazed up at the second story. Had I really once had a life there? With a husband—and sanity?

“You will get through this, Lisa.”

I gazed at the floor.

“Come on, let's go inside. I'll fix you something to eat.”

Her panacea. Like I could stomach anything right now.

My door opened with a loud
click
. The sound sliced right through me.

The sun was setting as we got out of the car. Somehow I made it up the stairs.

Woodenly I used my new key to open my apartment door. All fear of another break-in had withered. They'd trashed my brain. What difference did it make if they trashed my home?

I went to the couch and sat down. Deep inside a voice chanted,
“He's lying, he's lying, he's lying.”

I
couldn't
be completely crazy. How had I known Hilderbrand's house? His car? Although Bremer had never confirmed the SUV or its license plate. But I'd bet I was right about that, too. The knowledge was stitched in my gut.

Just like the knowledge that Patti was dead.

Next thing I knew I was on my feet. I strode into the kitchen and yanked open a drawer, snatching out the phone book for Redwood City down to Sunnyvale.

Mom hovered by the counter. “What are you doing?”

I smacked down the book. Flipped through the residential section. Maybe, just maybe . . . I found the S's, my finger running down Ste . . . Sti . . . There, a listing! I couldn't believe it. Stolsinger, Patricia. 617 Nickle Street.

“Get me some paper and a pen.” I pressed my finger against the letters as if they'd disappear from the page.

Mom brought them to me. I wrote down Patti's address and phone number.

My hands flipped the large book shut. “I'm going to see her.” I headed toward my purse.

“Lisa, that's not a good idea.”

“It's a
very
good idea. Because I don't believe she's there. She's
dead
.”

“Lisa, don't.”

I whirled on Mom. “I'm going! You stay here.
I'll
figure this out.” I slung my purse over my shoulder and made for the door. On the way I scooped up Ryan's baseball cap, lying on the coffee table, and stuck it on my head.

Mom hustled behind me. “What are you going to do once you get there? Knock on her door?”

“Why not?”

“And when she answers?”

“She
won't
, Mom!” I flung open the door. “She's dead!”

“Wait.” Mom grabbed my arm. “At least let me come with you.”

“What for?”

“I can't let you go out there alone.”

Out where? Into the world? Because I just might unleash my insanity upon it? “I don't want you to come.”

“You
need
me to come. I'm driving.”

“Well, you better hurry up, because I'm not waiting.” I stomped out of the apartment and banged the door shut. Forged down the hall. Seconds later I heard my door open and Mom trotting after me.

She caught up, panting. “You could just call—”

“Anyone could answer. How would I know it's her?”

“But you could talk—”

“The person could lie.” I carved to a halt. “Look. I
have
to do this. Because I am going stark raving mad, and I
have
to do
something
!” I wheeled away and trounced down the stairs.

Mom followed.

In the car she asked me for the sheet of paper with Patti's address. I handed it over. Mom punched it into the GPS.

I pressed back in the seat, trying to stanch the wild flow of my pulse.

The sky mottled to dark as we headed south on 101. My limbs refused to loosen.

Some time later we exited onto Stevens Creek.

My thoughts had settled to a slow boil. If I found Patti Stolsinger—looked her right in the eye—so be it. I'd deal with the outcome and get on with my life. Probably move—anywhere. Maybe a change of scenery would wipe my brain clean like a white slate. A tabula rasa. Sounded good to me.

The rental car's GPS told us to turn right, left, then right again. The canned woman's voice remained so calm, so factual. As if my universe wasn't tilting on its axis. I wanted to shake the thing and yell,
“Don't you understand what this means to me!”

We reached Nickle Street.

My nerves began to vibrate.

“Your destination is on the left,” chirped the GPS. And there we were, at number 617. A stylish one-story with a recessed entrance and large windows. The house was dark inside. No porch light.

Mom pulled over to the right curb. Streetlights illumed the road. I opened my door. “Stay in the car.”

“No—”

“
Stay
in the
car
!” I got out on unsteady legs. My courage nearly failed me then, but I plowed across the street. Up the house's three steps and across the dim porch. The air smelled like jasmine.

A doorbell button emitted a faint glimmer. I pushed it.

Silence. No footsteps. No flicked-on light seeping through the front windows.