And Mulroney will help me find the threads that lead to the truth, even if Damien had nothing to offer.
For a brief moment, I allow my thoughts to be tugged back to Damien. It’s true that I was the one who suggested the break, after a fall weekend in New Hampshire. We often went away together because there was less of a chance of being busted out of town than in the city, and we purposely picked spots we figured our colleagues weren’t likely to surface in. It had been an amazing weekend. Hiking on beautiful trails, reading on the porch of our inn, a three-hour lunch at a restaurant along a rushing river.
On Sunday, however, Damien’s car had broken down and we ended up spending the night in New England. I called my assistant the next morning, saying I’d decided to extend a weekend visit to my dad’s since he wasn’t feeling well. Damien had emailed his assistant on Monday morning to say he had a last-minute meeting with an investor—and then made a point of showing up at the office midafternoon.
But clever Greenbackers weren’t so easily fooled. A few of them had probably already had an inkling, and the simultaneous unplanned absences clearly ratcheted up their suspicions. I sensed them watching us more closely after that. I hated it. I didn’t want people to assume that I’d slept my way to my most recent promotion. “We should put things on hold for a while,” I’d told Damien. But I never meant forever. And it was gutting when I realized several months later that he’d started dating someone else.
What does it matter now, though?
I swing my legs over the side of the bed so I’m sitting on the edge, grab my phone, and try Gabby, reaching her voice mail. I leave a message asking her to call me, and before I have a chance to set the phone down, it rings in my hand. Mulroney.
“Ms. Linden?”
“Yes, hi.” From the main part of the apartment, I hear the sound of Hugh’s key turning in the lock. “Did you receive the retainer okay?”
“Yes, thanks. We’re all set on that front. And I’ll be starting the canvassing at eight tomorrow.”
“Great.”
“I’m actually calling to tell you about the results of the blood test.”
My heart lurches. “This soon?”
“Yeah. And you were right to wonder. The blood on the tissues isn’t yours.”
17
Ally?” Hugh calls out. He’s standing now in the doorway of the darkened bedroom. I can only see his backlit silhouette.
“I’m in here,” I tell him.
“Ms. Linden?” Mulroney says. I direct my attention back to him as I try to process his news.
“Sorry, that was my husband coming home. You’re sure about this?”
“Very. It’s a lab we use regularly. The blood on the tissues is A positive, which, by the way, is the second-most-common type. About 34 percent of the population has it pumping through their veins.”
“So someone was injured in my presence.”
“Seems like it. I’ll let you go, but I’ll touch base tomorrow, midafternoon-ish, fill you in on what we turn up by then.”
“Is everything okay?” Hugh asks after I’ve signed off. There’s worry in his voice. Maybe because he’s found me in the bedroom without the lights on.
“Yes, fine, I was resting in here when my phone rang. Are you ready for dinner? I picked up a few things.”
“Great. I’ll change and be right out.”
We brush past each other in the dimness and I hurry to the living area. Mostly on automatic pilot, I set the broccoli on to steam and nuke the chicken dish.
So Gabby’s theory might be right, I think as I dress the lettuce. Rather than being a victim myself, I might have witnessed something happen to someone else. Maybe the person fell, or was mugged, or hit by a car, and I tried to assist him or her. Maybe I grabbed a wad of tissues to stanch the flow of blood, and then lost my phone in the confusion.
But I don’t carry tissues in my purse. Did another passerby thrust them into my hand? Or did the injury happen at an indoor location, where I had access to a restroom?
The biggest question of all: Was whatever happened traumatic enough that it made me dissociate?
While I finish prepping dinner, Hugh returns to the great room, and slides into a dining chair, the sleeves of his pale-blue sweater pushed to his elbows. It isn’t until I bring the food to the table, though, that I get my first really good look at him today.
I’m startled. His face is drawn, and his eyes faintly bloodshot with fatigue. I realize that I actually haven’t seen him since last night because I was in bed sleeping when he departed for work today.
“This smells great,” he says, pouring us each a glass of sparkling water. “But please don’t feel you have to make a fuss.”
“It’s not a problem. If it was stressing me out, I’d let you know. How about you? You look tired, Hugh.”
“I admit I’ve been tossing and turning lately. It’s tough reshuffling the deck on a case at this late stage. And if we lose—and we very well might—it’s going to bite me in the ass.”
Hugh’s not the kind of guy who would ever, say, throw his tennis racket in a snit or even sulk after losing a bet, but he likes to win, and it’s tough for him when a prize ends up out of reach.
“You’ll figure it out, Hugh, I know you will.”
“Let’s talk about something else for now though, okay?” he says.
Something else. Sure, I’ve got a few things that could really cheer him up. Ha-ha.
“Of course. I’m just sorry you have all this to contend with.”
He flashes me a rueful smile. “Nobody said this kind of job would be a picnic. So the podcast went well?”
“Yes. The show wasn’t a home run, but at least I felt comfortable doing it.” I tell him about the interesting comment that my author guest made regarding executive presence, and I also share Sasha’s provocative remark—and how it bordered on a dig.
“Sounds like she’s best ignored. . . . How about your book? Have you been able to catch up on that?”
“I’m behind where I want to be, but I’m going to go over notes with Nicole this week, and I’ll gear up from there.”
“Is that who you were talking to?”
“Talking to?”
“On the phone when I came in.”
“No, Nicole’s on vacation until tomorrow. . . . That was actually a private investigator. I hired him this afternoon.”
Hugh opens his mouth and immediately closes it. I sense he’s biting his tongue. What part does he mind? That I closed the deal without running the terms by him? That I did it at all?
“I know you weren’t exactly wild about the idea,” I say, “but I really think it’ll help. When I was at Dr. Erling’s yesterday, she said that my memory might never come back, and this could be the only way for me to find out where I was those two days.”
“Well, it’s your call, Ally.”
I’m about to add that Mulroney has already turned up something worthwhile—the blood type on the tissues—but decide to save it for later. I sense the topic is only adding to Hugh’s stress. It also doesn’t seem like the right moment to raise my recovered memory.