started asking questions.
Chapter Three
Megan’s heart pounded as she switched on the light and grabbed the cordless phone. She had to search the apartment.
Sliding from the bed, she reached for the umbrella on the desk, planning to use it as a weapon if necessary. Praying she wouldn’t need it, she inched through the room, pausing every few feet to listen for an intruder, but silence hung in the air, deathly calm and frightening.
Her fingers tightened around the umbrella base as she rushed to close the window. On guarded feet, she tiptoed to the doorway and peered into the hallway. Nothing but shadowy blank walls. She took a tentative step, then crept down the hall and checked the small den. Darkness bathed the area, cloaking it in heavy shadows, the leaves of the ficus plant in the corner spearing the wall like thready fingers ready to grab her.
The floor lamp looked ominous, the sofa, the closet, every small crevice a possible hiding place. Taking a deep breath, she flicked on the light, and braced herself. Thankfully her apartment was laid out as one open room, so she could see both the kitchen and den at once. Her gaze searched the parameters. Nothing. She sucked in a deep breath and tiptoed around the corner, then checked underneath the breakfast counter. Again nothing.
Thank God. Adrenaline surged through her as she ran to the door and checked the locks, the windows, the closet. But everything remained intact. No spooky demons or monsters hiding inside or beneath anything.
Her breathing still unsteady, she crept back to the bedroom and stared at the room. The deep maroon walls looked almost bloodlike, the shadows of the tree limbs ominous. She had once thought the room a cozy sanctuary for her and Tom.
Now it seemed frightening. She glanced outside for the dark sedan, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. The car was gone. Still, someone had been inside her house.
Should she call the police? And tell them what? That she thought someone had been in the house because her window was open?
Or had she just imagined that someone had been there? Had she been dreaming of Tom? But what about the faint scent of a man’s cologne lingering in the room? Was she imagining that, too?
Stumbling back to bed, she reminded herself how safe she had felt when she and Tom had moved in.
Now she felt anything but safe.
MONDAY MORNING, COLE stepped inside the research center on Catcall Island, feeling lost. His leg throbbed and he leaned on the cane in disgust. He needed a good run, some vigorous exercise to release his tension, but running was definitely out of the question. And the exercises he did to strengthen his leg were painful, slow and frustrating as hell.
“Good morning, Dr. Hunter. I’m Connie, your secretary.”
He offered a strained smile. Had he met her?
“I worked for Dr. Wells.”
“I…I’m sorry about your boss.”
She gestured toward Wells’s office, which adjoined hers, although each had separate entrances to the hall as well. “I’m afraid Dr. Wells didn’t get a chance to tell me much about you, but welcome to the center.”
“Thanks.” Unfortunately he couldn’t tell her much, either.
“If you need anything, just let me know.” She backed toward her desk where he noticed the computer. “Dr. Parnell mentioned that you won’t be seeing patients for a while.”
“That’s right. I need time to get acquainted with things.” He pushed open the door to Wells’s office. His new office. “But thanks for the offer.”
“The delivery man brought in your boxes already.”
Great. Only he had no idea what was in them.
He stepped inside, scanning the space. The office seemed familiar, yet foreign at the same time. Propping the cane beside the desk, he stretched out his leg and began to rifle though the desk. The next few hours, he searched his memory for anything to jog his mind as he unpacked the stacks of research books and material he had been told belonged to him. Books and notes on schizophrenia, bipolar disorders, hypnosis, manic depression and every mental disorder known to man filled the boxes. He thumbed through each one, frowning at some of the technical jargon. Was he supposedly a specialist on one particular disorder? And if so, why didn’t any of the material ring a bell in his foggy brain?
Hopefully they would, he told himself, he just had to be patient. Be patient and move through the days, settling in and familiarizing himself with the routine, the research center, with the work Tom Wells had been doing. Wells’s own books and research manuals cluttered the bookcases on one wall, the materials piled haphazardly as if in no particular order. A small oval plastic cup overflowed with paper clips, shredded paper filled the trash can, and a coffee stain darkened the sleek black top of the desk. The man obviously hadn’t been obsessive compulsive about neatness.
Except that all his notes were typed, not handwritten.
Probably couldn’t read his own writing.
He halted, wondering how he had made that deduction. Was it the first sign that he was a psychiatrist? It was a small tidbit but he clung to it. Now what should he do?
A silver-framed five-by-seven photo of Megan Wells and her husband occupied the corner of the desk. His gut clenched at the ghostly feeling that encompassed him.
She wore a pale blue sundress that accentuated her eyes, he wore a white polo shirt and khaki shorts. Tom’s arm was thrown around his wife’s shoulders, wind whipped through their hair, sails flapped in the breeze, and the bright sun gleamed off their smiles. They had looked amazingly happy.
He didn’t think he was normally an emotional man, but it seemed like a betrayal to Wells’s memory for him to move into his space so soon after his death. To take over his office and discard his personal things. To put Wells’s wife’s photo aside and add one of his own. Not that he had any personal photos to add.
But Jones had insisted that Tom would have wanted his work to continue, that Tom lived for his research and prided himself on his commitment to his profession and his patients.
What about his wife? Had Wells been a doting husband or had he been so obsessed with his work that she had taken second place?
He shook away the troubling thought, wondering why he had even given it a moment’s interest. Megan Wells had looked happy in the photo. And she had been grief-stricken at her husband’s funeral. Besides, she was not his problem.
God knew he had enough of his own.
Still, so far the memories of her had been more tangible than any others.
Maybe she held some secret key that might unlock his past.
MEGAN ENTERED THE RESEARCH center hospital area through the security checkpoint, stopping only to accept brief offers of sympathy from various employees.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” Doris, one of the young research assistants said.
“It’s better to keep busy.” Megan moved on for fear of breaking down. Several of the other staff members echoed the same
