gave me this cockamamy story about forgetting who she was, then told me to call the police and ask for the detectives who had been in charge of her case. When the officer I spoke with said that neither of those men were on the force now, she came up with your name. Until you showed up, I was sure she was lying.”
“Nope. She was telling you the truth. At least, the part about her being Jane Doe Number Thirteen. The scarf story we’ll have to check out.”
Jane barely heard the last words. Her mind was stuck on Jane Doe Number Thirteen. She hated that name, hated the memories it conjured up—waking to find she didn’t know where she was, who she was, why her jaw was frozen shut, why her face was bandaged, what was causing the deep ache in her pelvis. Even worse had been the cheery nurses smiling at her when she shook her head in response to their questions, doctors asking if this hurt, if that hurt.
Then the detectives had arrived, with more questions. But Manuel Mendosa and Matthew Sullivan hadn’t been anything like Wilcox. Patient and kind, they had never treated her like a suspect. Jane’s stomach twisted as she realized she’d somehow managed to forget that, of the two detectives who had worked on her case, one was now dead and the other—
The click of a key in the lock broke into Jane’s thoughts. She turned as the door swung open, then started. The man standing there was that second detective—Matthew Sullivan.
The man looked just as she remembered—black hair and dark green eyes; tall and athletically trim in his faded jeans and tan, open-neck shirt. But as he stepped into the room, Jane noticed that his face was more deeply lined, making him look older than his mid-thirties. And the expression in his eyes was almost grim.
He stopped just inside the doorway and his glance skimmed the two men on the other side of the desk. When his eyes met hers, they widened momentarily, then he smiled. That deep dimple she recalled so well creased his left cheek, but his eyes still lacked the devil-may-care expression she remembered so well.
“Hello there, Jane,” he said.
She’d always found his deep voice soothing, but today there seemed to be a harsh edge to it. Conscious of the way he continued to study her, she slowly got to her feet. His gaze swept down, then back up. His smile widened, and all the carefully chosen words Jane had been about to utter tumbled out in random order.
“Matt. I’m surprised to see you. I was just thinking about you.” Realizing that her voice sounded more raspy than usual, she cleared her throat. “Worrying, actually. Well, worrying isn’t exactly the right word. Though I did do that when I heard you were shot, of course.”
Jane knew she was rambling. She forced herself to speak more slowly. “What I was doing before you came in was berating myself for forgetting that you’d left the police force and—”
“Forgetting,” Wilcox broke in, “seems to be a habit with you, doesn’t it?”
Jane turned toward the detective, but not before she saw Matt’s dark eyebrows move together in a quick frown.
“Just what is going on here?” Matt asked.
Wilcox leaned back in his chair. “I’m here to investigate a report of shoplifting. What are you doing here?”
“I was at the station, trying to get some information on a case Jack and I are working on. I happened to hear Baker call you on your cell phone about a matter involving Jane Ashbury and Maxwell’s. I decided to find out what was going on. I know it’s not my case anymore, but call it for old times’ sake. Care to fill me in?”
In the silence that followed, Jane glanced from one man to the other. Matt, with his narrowed eyes and firmly set lips, didn’t look at all like a man who was asking a favor. And Wilcox, with his hard blue eyes and head cocked to one side, didn’t look like one who was predisposed to grant one. But slowly the man’s lips curved slightly.
“Sure. Why not? So far, we have established the fact that Miss Ashbury here ran out of the store carrying this scarf, valued at one hundred and thirty-four dollars. She claims that she became confused, didn’t know where she was, what month it was, or even who she was. That, however, has yet to be proven.”
Matt looked at Jane. Before he could say a word, however, Mr. Jessup spoke up.
“Well, actually, when the salesgirl called me, she did say she had a customer who seemed to think it was May, and was acting rather strangely.”
Matt’s gaze seemed to sharpen. “May?” he asked Jane.
She barely managed to nod before Wilcox spoke.
“All right. So she was confused. Familiar story, right? That doesn’t explain why she took the scarf with her.”
Matt turned to Wilcox and took a step toward the man as he asked, “What’s wrong with you? My guess is, she forgot she was holding it.” He turned his attention to the security guard. “Where did you apprehend Miss Ashbury?”
“She was standing in front of the store, staring into the window.”
“I see. Where was the scarf?”
“In her hand.”
“Had the tag been removed?”
The man shook his head.
“Would you mind telling me just how many shoplifters you’ve known to stop right outside, with the stolen merchandise in clear view?”
Jessup sighed. “None. But she was moving away when I grabbed her. And her story—”
“Needs to be confirmed,” Wilcox finished as he stood up. “Mr. Jessup, let’s go speak to that salesclerk. I think we can safely leave her in Mr. Sullivan’s custody. He used to be a cop.”
A minute later, Jessup closed the door, leaving Jane alone with Matt. The silence in the room seemed to grow, demanding to be filled.
“I’m sorry about Manny,” she said. “I wanted to come see you, in the hospital, but I was told you couldn’t have visitors. Then Zoe took me to—”
“Hey,” Matt broke in.
He stepped toward her, halting once he was two feet away. Jane could almost feel the strength emanating from him. Or was she recalling the way his arms had held her so tightly as she sobbed uncontrollably the last time she’d seen him?
“I’ve been out of the hospital for a year now,” Matt said. “If anyone should apologize, it’s me. I’ve been meaning to look you up, but—”
“But,” Jane interrupted. Embarrassed by where her earlier thoughts had wandered, and the weakness she’d shown that long-ago day, she went on quickly. “You’ve been busy putting your life back together. I understand how that goes.”
Matt’s jaw tightened. He knew Jane wasn’t offering an empty reassurance. If anyone knew what it took to put a life back together—or create a new one out of nothing, for that matter—it was Jane Ashbury.
In the middle of May, nearly a year and a half ago, he and his partner had been called to the scene of a suspicious accident. A car had gone off a cliff near the ocean and burst into flames, but not before a young woman had been thrown onto the rocks.
