You Must Remember This. Marilyn Pappano
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Smith. He didn’t have to be anybody at all, and he didn’t have to pretend that he was coping with being nobody. He could be as angry, bitter and afraid as he wanted—as long as he got it under control before leaving again. Control was important. He remembered that, although he didn’t remember why it was, or what would happen if he lost it.
The apartment was gloomy, and turning on the lights didn’t help. It was one room with a kitchen in this corner, a bathroom in that corner, a closet over there and living quarters in the middle. The furniture had come with it—a bed and night stand, a sofa and chair, a table and four ladderback chairs. Everything was ragged and worn, but still functional.
Like him.
He wasn’t a particularly neat housekeeper. The floor needed sweeping, and the rag rugs needed washing. There was dust on the tables and the lamp shades, and sections of newspapers were scattered everywhere. Ignoring the dirty dishes in the sink and the dirty laundry in the corner, he went to the bathroom and stripped out of his clothes.
Normally he tried to avoid the mirror hanging above the sink. He’d learned the art of focusing his attention so narrowly that he saw only parts—jaw, chin, cheeks—when he shaved, of combing his hair without seeing the face it framed. On occasion, though, he was drawn to the mirror. He could sit for hours staring at the total stranger whose face he wore, desperately seeking some connection, some tiny distant hint of recognition that never came. When he’d seen enough, it usually took far less time to get so drunk that he couldn’t see, period.
This afternoon he stared, cataloging features that he knew by heart and yet didn’t know at all. Blond hair in need of a trim, blue eyes, crooked nose. High cheekbones, thin lips, square jaw.
His gaze slid lower. There was a scar on his upper right chest—round, raised, the edges uneven. A gunshot wound, Dr. Howell had said. The long, straight, clean scar underneath it was from the incision made to remove the bullet. There were a matching set on his back and other smaller scars on his chest and back, plus one on his arm from something jagged—maybe a broken bottle or a dull knife that had torn instead of cut.
God help him, what kind of person had he been?
Violent.
Criminal.
Dangerous.
Had he been a dangerous man? He didn’t want to believe it, but sometimes he did. Sometimes he dreamed that he had been exactly the sort of person who could threaten, intimidate and hurt—maybe kill—someone else. Sometimes the dreams were so vivid, so intense, that they terrified him, and he spent the rest of the night pacing the room to avoid falling asleep again.
That was the first thing he had to tell Juliet Crandall this evening. She hadn’t wanted to help him in the first place. Warning her what kind of man he might be was only fair.
He’d never felt compelled to warn Terry Sanchez. But he had never seen Terry outside the library, and all he’d wanted was her assistance. He wanted a lot more from Juliet.
A hell of a lot more. But he couldn’t have it. He might have a wife and kids somewhere. There might be warrants for his arrest. Whoever had tried to kill him before might try again. Before he could have any kind of future, he had to find out about his past. He had to find out whether he deserved a future or whether everyone would have been better off if one of those bullets had killed him.
Maybe, once he knew the truth, then he could want someone. Maybe then he could have someone.
Scowling, he turned the shower to hot and stepped into the tub. It wasn’t yet four o’clock. He would be ready to go to Juliet’s house three hours early. Or maybe he would never be ready to go to Juliet’s house.
He bathed quickly, grateful when he got out that the mirror had fogged over. He dressed, combed his hair straight back, then stretched out on the couch to watch the clock. He didn’t turn on the television in the corner or pick up the morning paper his landlady had brought over when she’d finished with it. He just lay there, wishing, wondering, regretting.
The minutes crawled, but finally the bedside clock read six-forty-five. He left the apartment, slipped through the gate in the back fence and made his way to the block where Juliet lived. Her car, a sensible gray sedan, was parked in the driveway, and the front door was open. He raised his hand to knock on the screen door, then stilled.
He could see a corner of the living room, an equal wedge of another room and down the wide hall to the kitchen. As he watched, Juliet turned the corner at the far end and started toward him. She was wearing a dress, a garden-party sort of dress of soft, flowing fabric, subdued flowers, ribbon trim and a row of little white buttons that ran from the modest V-neck all the way to the ankle. They were already fastened from the waist down, as if she had simply undone enough buttons to step inside the garment, and she was buttoning the rest now, her steps slow and leisurely, her head bent.
Maybe he stifled a groan or a board creaked or his skin was sizzling from the sudden influx of heat. Whatever the cause, abruptly she raised her head and stared at him through the screen. He felt dim-witted, thick-tongued and embarrassed, as if he’d been caught spying. He wanted to turn and walk away, to pretend that he’d seen nothing. Truth was, he hadn’t seen anything. Just a narrow strip of pale skin that dipped between her breasts to her waist. Just her fingers working the small buttons. Just enough to know that he wanted more.
She turned her back. When she faced him again, the last button was securely fastened and her face was tinged pink. She held the screen door open a few inches. “Hello.”
He took hold of the handle, but didn’t pull, didn’t step inside. Instead, in a masterpiece of clumsiness, he blurted out, “Before we start, I think you should know that someone tried to kill me.”
“Today?”
“No. Several years ago.” When she looked puzzled, he explained, “I don’t know who I am—who I used to be—but apparently it was someone with enemies. Someone who did something worth killing over.”
For a long time, she simply looked at him. Then abruptly she shrugged, making her hair sway. “Or maybe you were the victim of some crazy with a gun. Lord knows, there are enough of them around. Come on in.”
He went inside, then flipped the hook on the jamb into the eye on the door. By the time he turned, she was already in the room on the right.
It had once been a formal dining room and still held dining room furniture. The pieces were old and oak—an oval table big enough to seat six, four chairs that matched, two office chairs on wheels and a china cabinet. The oak was heirloom quality, suited to a country house with a family to fill the chairs. Here it did duty as a desk, supporting her computer and printer. The shelves of the china hutch held books, flash-drives and printer cartridges. Packages of paper were visible in the cabinet underneath before she shoved the door shut as she passed.
She sat in a bright blue chair in front of the computer but made no effort to turn it on. We’ll talk, she had said, and that was apparently all she intended to do. Doing it here, he assumed, instead of the living room where they would have been more comfortable was her way of keeping it strictly business.
“I’ve been thinking about this all afternoon, and I’m not really sure I can help you.”
He didn’t want to hear that, pretended he didn’t hear it as he circled the room. There were blinds on the windows, no curtains and nothing on the walls but a corkboard directly behind her. From across the room, he couldn’t make out any of the notes thumbtacked to the board. When he pulled out the chair beside her, he still couldn’t read them. Her writing was atrocious.
“Exactly what was Terry doing?”
“We went through old newspapers and school yearbooks, checked town records, looking for something I might remember.”
“You think you’re from here.”
“I know I’ve been here. From the start, I’ve had this feeling…” He wasn’t one to talk much about feelings, or if he did, he disguised them with other words. Instincts. Intuition.