told him to let the subject drop. She’d run away from home, huh? How young? It certainly explained her harder edges. So who was the soft, sweet Sammie Jo who’d spent the past few hours with him … and who was suddenly and completely absent?
Although the house was nominally furnished, they still spent much of the afternoon assembling simple furniture and establishing that Sam didn’t know a flat-head from a Phillips screwdriver. She could clean with a vengeance, however, and the little house fairly sparkled before she slowed down enough to help him tape up black-out shades in a bedroom for her. For his part, he stayed busy and did his best not to think at all. Not to remember. Another first house. Another life.
Sam called him from the living room. She’d unpacked the NRQZ-approved, flat-screen TV he’d carried in for her, but she needed help hooking it to the house’s cable system. The phone, electricity and cable were already turned on, so they got a picture right away. She was in transports of ecstasy.
“TV junkie much?” he asked as she nearly bowled him over with a hug of thanks.
Another woman’s laughter echoed in his head. Another woman’s arms around him. He must not remember!
Sam was speaking. “… have no idea. How else am I supposed to spend my nights?”
His arms tightened involuntarily around her. “I can think of a few ways.”
She swatted his arm before he released her and headed for the kitchen. He’d discovered a while back that kitchens were great places to work off a case of panic. Lots of fussy little jobs to do with his hands and attention to detail to distract him. Tomorrow he’d have to go grocery shopping. He already had supplies for a simple spaghetti alfredo in deference to Sam’s vegetarian preferences, and he set about whipping it up.
They ate a late lunch on tray tables in the living room, which felt cave-like with the windows draped in thick curtains. She’d taken out her contacts, and her eyes glowed an unearthly shade that was more than a little unsettling. He was fascinated, though, by how Sam continuously cycled through no less than four television shows. “You’re going to wear that remote out,” he commented.
“Get your own if you’re worried about it,” she shot back.
The tough, mouthy version of Sammie Jo was back, apparently. Which one was the real person and which one the act? It was hard to tell. He had to give her credit for distracting him, though. He’d made it all the way through the meal without one flashback. Small steps, buddy. Small steps.
“So how do we go about gathering all this supposed intel the neighbors possess?” he asked.
“Can you bake?” she asked obliquely.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
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