Forget Me Not: A Novel (Crossroads Crisis Center) (10 page)

“Prison is bad enough.” Paul shuddered. “Do you know what they do to men like me in there?” He rocked back and forth on his feet. “I can’t do time. Not even for you.”

Mentioning the Florida State Correctional Facility and NINA had the intended impact. “Then I suggest you remove the obstacles—the sooner the better—because, frankly, Paul, I won’t do time without you.”

Paul’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his bony throat. “Just so we’re clear, sir. You want them all taken out? The subject, Edward, and Harry?”

No way was Gregory walking into that admission. “I want them neutralized.”

Paul pushed, too clever for his own good. “By neutralized you mean dead, right?”

“I’d never order anyone killed, Paul. I’m a philanthropist. My mission in life is to help people.” Gregory covered himself——things like this tended to end up as bargaining chips in trials. “You’re a resourceful man. Surely there’s another way to neutralize them.”

“None as expeditious—or as fail-safe—as elimination.” Paul turned to leave the office.

“Paul.” Gregory called out as Paul’s hand curled around the doorknob. When he looked back, Gregory issued his real instructions. “Do permanently resolve this situation. As a rule, I detest complications. On this matter, I won’t tolerate them.” They were a luxury he couldn’t afford—and one NINA wouldn’t forgive or forget. “Deal with the subject first. She can do us the most damage.”

“Yes sir.”

Paul’s cell phone chimed. He checked caller ID and his expression brightened. “Our recruit, sir.” Holding up a wait-a-second finger, he took the call. “Talk to me.”

A second later, he mumbled something Gregory couldn’t hear, then hung up and looked over, his eyes glinting. “Sir, we’ve found her.”

“Excellent.” Soon this matter would be firmly in hand. He took a
sip of steaming tea and then set the fragile cup back on its saucer. “What is in the box?”

“Oh. I forgot, sir.” Paul walked back and passed the box to Gregory. “Something to atone for the gaff of losing our subject.”

Gregory opened it. Inside lay a bloody finger. He glanced up at Paul and waited.

“Our recruit assures me he won’t be making any further errors.”

“Excellent.” Gregory tossed the finger and box into the shredder, then reached over and lifted his teacup, pausing to admire the fine bone china and its delicate pattern.
Eclectic. Expensive. Exquisite
. All his favorite things. “About the subject, Paul. What will you do?”

He straightened the knot in his tie, his glasses, and then looked Gregory right in the eye. “The only thing I can do to assure she doesn’t put us in prison.”

“What exactly is that?”

Grudgingly respectful and unapologetic, Paul stared at him, not in the least repentant. The strong light glinting on his glasses dulled in comparison to the white-hot fire burning in his eyes.

“I’m going to kill her.”

B
en let his gaze drift across Crossroads Crisis Center’s facade. It looked innocent enough. Just a beige and brown mottled-brick building sitting in the village proper with a wide door set beneath a white-trimmed alcove and welcoming glass windows that stretched in broad arcs nearly all the way across its front. A discreet brass plate with its name hung to the right of the door, and day-and-night electric candles with simulated flames burned in the upper arch of each window.

Susan had paid a small fortune for those candles. She’d been militant, intricately planning everything even tangentially connected to the center and demanding that down to its most minute detail it be welcoming and in no way intimidating.

Her devotion had been a source of enormous pride, but he would be disingenuous if he didn’t admit, at least to himself, that his pride was tainted by regret at knowing what few others knew: the force that drove Susan to militancy.

She hadn’t been abused, just deprived of peace. In some ways, that could be equally difficult. The center was her world. She’d worked for years to get everything just right. Then just three weeks before seeing her dream become a reality, she’d been murdered.

Three lousy, heart-wrenching weeks. The worst three weeks of Ben’s life.

Again feeling the loss of everything that mattered to him, he fisted his hands in his slacks pockets and stared at the building’s gently sloping roof, shaking inside. He couldn’t do this. His gaze slid down to the entry. He couldn’t make himself walk through that door … and remember.

His personal Camelot was no more. And never would be again.

Standing on the sidewalk, he glared at the candle flame in the arch above the door. Why did this have to happen now? Just last night, he’d
finally
accepted a social invitation that didn’t offer the promise of some information on Susan’s case. It’d taken him three years to be able to do it. Three years … and the very next day, this woman shows up.

Wearing Susan’s necklace.

Calling herself Susan.

Hating all of the conflicting emotions assaulting him, wishing for numbness again, he briefly closed his eyes.
Don’t feel. Just don’t feel. If you don’t feel, the pain won’t rip you apart. You can keep looking for answers
.

Once he’d lived for Susan and Christopher. Now he lived to search for answers. Numb, he could keep going. He could do this. He could go inside and demand answers. The necklace was real, not a sham. Susan had always worn it. It had disappeared at the accident and only reappeared now—on this woman’s neck. And where it had been in the interim could hold answers.

Susan and Christopher deserved answers.

Stay focused. Just stay focused. Ignore the woman. She’s going to look like Susan, but she’s not
. He swallowed a knot in his throat.
She’s … not Susan
.

Taking in a steadying breath, he pulled his fisted hands from his pockets, jerked open the glass door, and then strode inside.

The entrance had been designed to resemble a family room rather than a reception area, and Susan had been right about the warm blue and cream—the colors, textures, and printed fabrics were soothing.

Melanie Ross, the youngest Crossroads staff member at twenty, sat behind her chunky desk. “Mr. Brandt?”

He glanced over at her. Framed by her spiky black hair, Melanie’s face looked stark, and her shock at seeing him was evident. “What are you doing here?”

Avoiding the portrait of Susan, Ben kept his gaze fixed on the girl. “Are they in the conference room, Mel?”

“Y-yes sir.” She pulled herself to her feet. “But you can’t go back—I mean, you shouldn’t. They’re with a patient.”

He cut across the tiled floor, skirted a plush floral-printed settee, and clipped a stack of magazines on the edge of the table. They splayed across the table but didn’t spill onto the rug or the tiled floor.

“Mr. Brandt … ” Melanie’s voice faded.

When he got to the hallway leading to the conference room and private offices, Mel intercepted him. “Mr. Brandt,” she said in hushed tones. “You really can’t go in there right now. Mrs. Crane and the docs are interviewing a patient who came in last night. She’s had a bad, bad experience, and her morning’s been rough.”

Thanks to that patient, Ben’s morning hadn’t been a whole lot better. “It’s okay, Mel.” He moved on down the hallway. His heart thudded erratically against his ribs. Susan’s presence here was overwhelming. Somehow she had infiltrated every wall, and though he logically knew it was impossible, he half-expected her to step through one of the office doors.

Stop it. Susan is dead and buried. She’s not here. Not anymore
.

Outside the conference room, he hesitated and his gaze automatically slid farther down the hall to the etched-glass chapel doors. Prayer was common here, an integral part of the center’s work. But prayer hadn’t saved his family, and it hadn’t spared Ben from loss or grieving.

Bitterness burned his throat. He looked away. The woman on the
other side of the door looked like Susan. He had to be prepared for that, and not let it affect him.

How had she gotten Susan’s necklace?

“But, Mr. Brandt,” Mel persisted.

The phone rang.

Mel didn’t move.

Ben looked over at her and saw her defiance. She intended to stop him from entering the conference room, regardless of whether or not he signed her paychecks. He nearly smiled. “Relax, Mel. They’re waiting for me. Go on now and get the phone. It could be someone in trouble.”

Relief swept over her face. She turned on her heel and began moving. “Knock first. Surprises aren’t good for Susan right now, and if Mrs. Crane gets upset with you, don’t blame me.”

Though it had nothing to do with Mel, Mrs. Crane was already upset—likely nearly as upset as Ben. Peggy had been Susan’s dearest friend for most of her life. What a shock it must have been for her when that woman walked in—

No.
No
. He couldn’t afford to think of that now. He couldn’t afford to think about her. He had to focus on one thing: Susan’s cross.

Digging deep for will and sheer grit, Ben steeled himself and prepared to battle the demons of hell to determine the truth about that. Then he opened the door and walked into the conference room.

Susan gripped the arms of her chair, not knowing what to expect. In the flesh, Ben Brandt was larger, more determined, and even more grim-faced than he’d been on the computer screen—and on it, he’d scared her. Now, he had her shaking again.

Without a word to anyone in the room, he walked over and stopped beside her chair, then hiked an eyebrow.

Not sure why, she nodded. He lifted the cross hanging at her neck in his large hand, flipped it over, and then read the inscription.

Pain flashed through his eyes. He clamped his jaw and jerked his hand. The delicate chain broke.

“Ouch!” Her neck burned. She rubbed it with her fingertips.

Peggy Crane and Lisa Harper gasped.

Dr. Talbot stood up. “Ben!”

“Sit down, Harvey,” Ben said without sparing him a glance. Crushing the cross that had given her comfort in his clenched fist, Ben glared down at her. “Where did you get this?”

Susan resisted the urge to slide out of her chair and put something substantial between them. “I-I don’t know. I told you the cross and card were in my pocket when I came to in the woods. I put the cross on because it made me feel better.”

“Save the nonsense.” His voice thundered through the room. “I want the truth.”

“I told you the truth.”

“Ben, you don’t understand.” Dr. Talbot scooted back his chair, stood, and started around the edge of the table. “Don’t do this.”

“I understand perfectly.” A muscle in his jaw ticked. “This woman walks into Susan’s center, wearing Susan’s jewelry, pretending to be Susan, and you tell
me
‘don’t do this’?” He guffawed. “What’s wrong with you?”

“You don’t … ” Dr. Talbot stopped. “She doesn’t know—”

“She does.” Shoving the cross into his slacks pocket, Ben turned back to her. “I don’t know why you’re doing this to me, but I’m not buying into your game. If it’s money you’re after, forget it. You’re not getting a dime from me.”

He thought she was faking all this for money. How dare he? How ridiculous—and insulting. Surely she would never do anything like that. What believer would ever do anything remotely close to that?

Digging her nails into her palms stung and left marks, but it was all that enabled her not to scream at him, to keep her tone soft. “I didn’t ask you for money.”

“You haven’t yet,” he shot back. “Consider it a timesaver.”

Her back went ramrod stiff and her voice constricted just as tight. “You’d be prudent to wait until an offense against you has been committed before expressing outrage, Mr. Brandt. That is, unless you’re fond of humbling yourself with apologies for infractions that exist only in your mind. Or maybe you like being considered arrogant and rude and as cold-hearted as a stone.”

“Your offense is right here.” He pulled out the cross and then dangled it between them. “At best, you’re a thief. At worst … ”

That was more than enough. She narrowed her eyes. “Be careful, Mr. Brandt.”

He stopped suddenly, his face contorted, and his voice dropped low, menacing. “I don’t take well to threats.”