Dark Whispers. Debra Webb
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voices—as if someone is in the house. I get up and search every room only to find I’m here alone.” If only she could convey how very real the voices sounded. It terrified her that perhaps her brother was right and she was imagining them. “Until this morning.”
“What about your colleagues at the office?”
The uneasiness that plagued her when she thought of work seeped into her bones. Since the fall, her professional inadequacy filled her with dread whenever the subject of work came up. She’d once lived for her career.
“I have my assistant, Carol. Art Rosen is the partner I work closest with. I’m well acquainted with everyone on staff. I have no rivals or issues with my colleagues, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Friends or a boyfriend?”
Ah, now he would learn the truly saddest part. “Before the injury, I had lots of friends, most were associated with work. We lost touch during my recovery.” She forced a smile. “There’s nothing like tragedy to send the people you thought were your friends running in the other direction. It was partly my fault. I was always so strong and self-reliant. People didn’t want to see the weak, needy me. Except for Sadie. She’s my psychologist as well as my friend.”
“Boyfriend?” he repeated. “Fiancé?”
She drew in a big breath. “There was a boyfriend. He had asked me to marry him but I kept putting him off. Work was my top priority. About three months into my recovery, he apparently no longer had the stomach for who I’d become.”
The dark expression on the investigator’s face told her exactly what he thought about such a man.
Natalie shook her head. “Don’t blame him, Mr. Hayes. I’m—”
“Clint,” he reminded her.
“Clint,” she acknowledged.
“If he cared enough to propose,” Clint argued, “there’s no excuse for his inability to see you through a difficult time.”
“He proposed to the woman I used to be.” Natalie understood the reasons all too well. Steven Vaughn had ambitious plans that didn’t include a potentially disabled wife. “I’m not that person anymore. I doubt I ever will be. Part of me was lost to the injury and now my entire life is different. I don’t blame him for not wanting to be a part of it. After all, if you invest in gold, silver is not a suitable substitution.”
Clint studied her for a long moment before going on. “No one in your circle would have had reason to want to do you harm at the time of your accident or now?”
Natalie laughed, a self-deprecating sound. “Therein lies the true rub. Though my current short-term memory works well now, everything beyond six months ago is a very different story. So I can’t answer that question because I can’t remember. To my knowledge I have no enemies. My colleagues and family know of no one who gave me any real trouble in the past.”
“How much of your memory did you lose?”
“Perhaps the better word is misplaced. The injury jumbled things up. Our lives—our memories—are stored. Like files in a filing cabinet. Imagine if that cabinet was turned upside down, the drawers would open and those files would spill all over the floor. The contents of the files are still there, but they’re hard to retrieve because now they’re out of order.”
“So you do remember things.”
She nodded. “Yes. As my brain healed from the injury, it was like starting over. I had to relearn how to communicate, how to function, mentally as well as physically. As my vocabulary returned, I used the wrong words like saying hands when I meant gloves or feet when I meant shoes. Memories came in disorderly fragments. Most often they returned when prompted by some activity or person. It’s difficult to say what I’ve lost when I have no idea what I had. My sister and brother remind me of childhood events and then I recall them vividly. I can look at photographs and recall almost instantly what happened. So, I suppose I’ve temporarily lost many things. But, so far, the memories return when triggered.”
“Then someone may have caused your accident two years ago and you just don’t remember.”
The dark foreboding that always appeared when she spoke of the fall pressed in on her even as she shook her head. “No. I was here with my sister. There was no one else in the house. My sister and I have been over the details of that night numerous times. If you’re suggesting that someone pushed me down the stairs, that isn’t what happened.”
“All right then, we’ll focus our investigation on life since the accident.”
She wanted to nod and say that was the proper course of action and yet some feeling or instinct she couldn’t name urged her to look back for something she had missed. Frustration had her pushing the idea away. The hardest part of her new reality was not being able to trust her own brain to guide her 100 percent of the time. She also wanted to correct his use of accident. She had never been able to see what happened that way. To Natalie it was the fall—a moment in time that changed her life forever. A part of her wondered if her inability to see it as an accident was her mind trying to tell her something she needed to remember.
“Since you only recently returned to work, has there been a particular case that may be the root of this new trouble? Maybe someone believes they can scare you into some sort of cooperation.”
“I somehow doubt that giving my two cents’ worth, so to speak, on the steps that have been missed or that should be taken on other people’s cases would garner that sort of attention. Considering what happened today, I doubt I’ll have a position at the firm much longer.”
Natalie decided that was the part that hurt the most. Losing her friends and even her so-called soul mate hadn’t been the end of the world. It was losing her ability to practice law that devastated her completely. Work was the one thing that had never let her down. Being an attorney had defined her.
What did she have now?
This big old house and...not much else.
Her attention settled on the investigator watching her so closely. She hoped he could find something to explain how the man she shot suddenly disappeared other than the possibility that she really was losing her mind.
Richard Arrington Boulevard and 6th Avenue
Tuesday, September 20, 10:00 a.m.
Clint’s first client as a private detective had been at work for an hour when he decided to make his appearance at the offices of Brenner, Rosen and Taylor.
He’d stayed with Natalie last night until her sister, April, arrived. He’d gone home afterward and done some research on Natalie’s career and background. He’d discovered that one of the senior associates at Natalie’s firm was Vince Farago, an old school pal of his from Samford. Clint gritted his teeth. He wondered if Natalie was aware that the man could not be trusted in any capacity. Farago was the proverbial snake in the grass.
Clint would stop at Natalie’s office and check in with her after he visited with his old friend. He had a few questions for Farago, and frankly he intended to enjoy watching the guy squirm.
The moment he entered the posh lobby the receptionist looked up. “Good morning, sir, how may I help you?”
Another receptionist manned the ringing phones, ensuring someone was always available to greet arriving clients. The building spanned from 6th to 29th, filling the corner of the busy intersection much like New York’s Flatiron building. The lobby’s glass walls looked out over the hectic pace of downtown Birmingham.
“Clint Hayes,” he said. “I need a moment of Mr. Farago’s time this morning.”
The receptionist made a sad face. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Hayes, but Mr. Farago is completely booked today. May I set up something