something. “I put Bryan’s numbers on it, too. But I’m closer—only fifteen minutes away. If you need anything, feel free to call me, okay?”
“You’re going, then?” He almost tried to snatch the words back and wondered if he could have managed to sound any more like a disappointed four-year-old.
Her chocolate eyes melted. “I’m going out to talk to Dr. Overton. But I’ll come in and say goodbye before I leave.”
“No need. You’ve told me all you know.”
She moved close to the bed again, and for a second he thought she was going to touch him, put a hand on his shoulder or brow or some sappy thing like that. And while he didn’t think he would mind her putting her hands on him in the right circumstances, he definitely didn’t want it like that.
She didn’t, though. She said, “Aaron, your work has seen me through some…difficult times. It’s probably been more important to me than you can imagine. And if I can return the favor by helping you now, then that’s what I want to do. So if you need anything, call me. Okay?”
He frowned at her, finding this whole thing very strange. She was a fan. He had a fan. Images from the film of Stephen King’s Misery ran through his mind, along with a surge of frustration that he could recall old movies but not a damn thing about his old life.
Still, he replied, “Okay,” and let it go. He didn’t want to need this woman’s help. He wanted to think that all he really needed was his past.
“Okay,” she said. “It was a real thrill meeting you, Aaron.”
He nodded. “Wish I could say the same. But I don’t feel like I have—met me yet, that is.”
She sighed. “You’re talented, gifted even. Special. You really are.”
Hearing that from her made him feel kind of queasy inside, and then suddenly he was sucked into his own head, into what he thought must be his own past.
He saw himself, and thought he would have recognized his own body even if he hadn’t spent several long minutes staring into a mirror when he’d first awakened.
He was standing on a sidewalk in the dark, in the pouring rain. Streetlights gleamed on slick pavement. He stood motionless; then, slowly, he raised his arm and looked down its length to the black handgun resting easily in his hand. The laser sight shot through the murky gloom and appeared as a tiny red spot on the chest of the man who stood farther along the broken sidewalk, laughing and talking to the person walking beside him.
He felt himself take a breath, release half of it, and squeeze the trigger. He heard the soft pffft of the silencer, felt the 9 millimeter buck in his hand. And then he saw the man—his victim—jerk stiffly, crumple to his knees and topple facefirst onto the sidewalk.
The victim’s companion looked down for a moment, then glanced up and said, “He never saw it coming. You’re a freakin’ artist, Mr. Adams. An artist. You know that?”
“Yeah,” he heard himself mutter. “I’m something, all right.”
He blinked away the memory and was back in the hospital bed, looking at the woman who’d paused near the door to glance back at him.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He gave his head a shake. “Yeah. Fine. Sorry, I’m tired. I guess I zoned out a little.”
“You’ve had a rough day. Get some rest.”
“Yeah. I will, thanks.”
She smiled at him, a gentle, reassuring smile, and then she walked out of the room. Aaron stared at the ceiling and wondered what that vision had been about. He hoped to God it wasn’t a memory and was scared to death that it had been. He didn’t think he was a reclusive novelist anymore—if he’d ever believed it. He didn’t think that was even close to what he did.
3
“It wasn’t my car,” Carrie Overton said softly.
Olivia had left Aaron, though she’d done so reluctantly. He certainly wasn’t what she’d expected. But she was captivated—and eager to spend more time with him, even while rather disgusted with herself for feeling that way.
She was torn. He was a hero to her. Yet he was still a man. She didn’t know what she’d expected him to be. Some kind of genderless word wizard, a spiritual, asexual guru, she supposed.
But he was one hundred percent male in every way that she’d been able to detect. So how did she reconcile the author she’d so admired, and the purity of the bond she’d felt with him through his work, with the gorgeous, sexy man in the hospital bed? The type who would normally send her running in the opposite direction.
She didn’t know. And there were a hundred other things on her mind at the moment, things far beyond her questions about Aaron and who would want to kill him, and why he knew about fingerprint dust and hit men and defensible positions. She was also thinking about having to cancel tomorrow’s fundraising event, telling the main office to refund money for the one hundred spots they’d sold, and the length of time she’d left Freddy home alone. Even though he had a doggy door and a fenced-in backyard, he didn’t like being by himself for extended periods. She actually came home between classes to spend time with him most days.
So Carrie’s statement wasn’t translating in Olivia’s brain just then. “What?”
Carrie held up a set of keys. “The car that my brilliant son and his best friend, Kyle Einstein Becker, decided to take out joyriding today—the car they were driving when they found our John Doe in there—it’s not mine.”
Olivia’s eyes widened. “Are you saying they stole a car? Sam stole a car? Come on, Carrie, Sam wouldn’t steal a Tic Tac.”
Carrie nodded and jangled the keys. “I need you to take it, so he doesn’t do this again.”
“Excuse me?” Olivia was baffled. “How can I take a stolen car?”
Carrie shoved the keys into Olivia’s palm. “Sorry. I’m not explaining this very well. I feel guilty as hell for not being honest with the police, but I don’t want Sammy ending up arrested for grand theft auto.”
“What’s going on? Whose car is it? Do they know it’s missing? Are they pressing charges?”
“Not exactly.” Carrie lowered her head, and her long red curls curtained her face. “Long story short, okay? I’m dating Karl Mallory.”
“Professor Mallory—head of the math department? I had no idea he was dating again.” Olivia thought Karl Mallory was a milquetoast dishrag without much of a spine or a hint of a personality, and that a beautiful, intelligent, successful woman like Carrie could do far better. “Seriously? Since when?”
Carrie nodded. “Two dates. It’s very casual. But still—he’s in Europe for the summer, and he left his gorgeous, prize-winning showpiece of an SUV in my garage until he gets back. That’s the vehicle my son took out today.”
“Oh,” Olivia said. “Bryan didn’t mention that.”
“That’s
