Forget Me Not: A Novel (Crossroads Crisis Center) (22 page)

Mark always seemed to stay a step ahead. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.” She gave him a half smile.

“We’ll hope.”

Karen stared at Ben a long moment, worked up her courage, and finally spoke her heart. “Would it sound ridiculous if I said I’d miss you?”

Relief and panic warred in Ben’s eyes. “No crazier than me saying I’d miss you.”

Her heart leapt. “Would you, really?”

He shrugged. “I would.”

She smiled and offered him her hand.

Ben clasped it and gave hers a gentle squeeze.

Mark cleared his throat at the door to Ben’s office.

Ben stepped away and rubbed his hands together. “Anything?”

Frowning, hesitancy in his step, Mark walked into the office. “Sorry, Karen. No missing person’s report has been filed on you in New Orleans.”

Disappointment speared through her. She put on a brave face. “So I guess I’m not from there, after all.”

“That, or no one is waiting,” Mark said.

That hurt. It shouldn’t—he simply recited a fact—but it did hurt. She was a good person; she believed that now. But how could she disappear and have no family or friends or work associates or anyone else even notice?

Whoever she was, she had no one.
No one
. The absence weighed her down. Small, insignificant, unimportant, useless …
Neither blessed nor a blessing
.

“Are you okay?” Ben asked.

She stiffened her spine, trying hard to bury her emotions. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Mark shot a worried look from Karen to Ben, as if he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure he should.

“Okay, I’m not fine, but I’m not going to get fine if you keep things from me.” Karen searched for her emotional rhino-hide. At the moment, it seemed elusive. “So just say what needs saying.”

“There’s still no missing person’s report.”

“So no one cares if I’m dead or alive or missing.” She hid behind a sniff. “Well, if I had an overinflated sense of importance, it’s gone now, isn’t it?”

“Karen, I’m sorry.” Ben stepped toward her.

She lifted a hand, silently asking him not to touch her. If he did at this moment, she was going to lose it and wail.

Why didn’t anyone care about her?
Why?

“And so it is with great pleasure that I dedicate the Chessman Wing to Seagrove Village Community Hospital.” Gregory stepped forward and clipped the ceremonial ribbon.

To thunderous applause from the small group gathered, he passed the scissors to Hank Green, coroner and the younger brother of the esteemed mayor. Waving to the crowd, Gregory spotted a stiff-backed Paul Johnson standing to the side, waiting for him.

“Go on inside, Hank,” Gregory told the coroner. “I’ll be right in.”

Jovial, Hank hooked up with the manager of the local supermarket, and they entered the building for the celebratory reception. When the door closed behind them, Gregory joined a solemn-faced Paul. “Where have you been?”

“Mobile, sir.” Paul grimaced. “I was injured last night and went to have myself checked out.”

Mobile, Alabama. The site of the mall bombing. NINA
. “Do I need to know what happened?” The subject wasn’t dead. Brandt himself had told Gregory everyone was fine, not that the entire village wasn’t talking about the attack. Why wasn’t she dead? That was all Gregory wanted to know.

“I’ve got two cracked ribs and a bruised kidney,” Paul said.

NINA in close proximity and he gives Gregory useless personal information? “I meant what happened at the cottage.” Gregory glared at him. “I assume from your injuries you levied the attack.”

“Yes sir.” Paul dropped his gaze, shielding his eyes. “She wasn’t inside.”

“So you shot up her bed for kicks?” He’d gotten a text message from his secret partner sharing that detail at the crack of dawn. Unpleasant, having your competence questioned, but it was the phone call with Brandt that most troubled Gregory. He couldn’t expressly remember Brandt asking if Gregory knew Massey, but he must have. Even awakened from a dead sleep, Gregory wouldn’t volunteer that information unless asked. Would he? Why couldn’t he recall specifically?

“One in the morning, rumpled covers—statistically speaking, sir, the risk ratio was less than one percent that she wouldn’t be in it.”

“You couldn’t just look and see that the bed was empty?”

Paul grimaced and the muscle in his left cheek twitched. “Stacked pillows gave the illusion that someone was there. She’s staying alone, ergo … But that’s not why I came to find you. This event wasn’t on your schedule.”

The flicker of irritation tinting Paul’s tone raised Gregory’s hackles. Putting it down to him being in pain, Gregory ignored it. “The mayor
and his wife went to New Orleans for an Emergency Management summit of the coastal states. Hurricane preparedness. Darla wanted to get there early, so John asked me last minute to fill in here.”

“New Orleans?” Paul’s eyes narrowed and his chin jutted out.

Uninterested in pursuing further talk about the mayor and his eye candy, Gregory asked, “Why are you looking for me?”

“Our recruiter was shot to death in his office this morning.”

A shudder rippled through Gregory. “Do we know why?”

“Not yet, sir. Nor do we know who is responsible.”

“Well, I suggest you find out quickly.” Gregory checked his watch—2:20. “The sooner, the better.”

“I’m working on it, sir.”

“Did you at least get his feedback on that voiceprint of Brandt’s?” “No sir, I’m afraid not.”

Truth or lie? For now, only Paul knew. “Unfortunate.”

If true, then Massey had died before Paul could get the information. Maybe a coincidence, but with his secret partner in New Orleans, who knew? Coincidence didn’t often coincide with murder.

Gregory straightened his tie. John Green had been a good mayor and the perfect secret partner, but if he’d killed Massey, he better have a good reason for not first discussing it.

Otherwise, he’d soon be joining the recruit.

Yet John making the hit wasn’t logical. He had no reason to go after Massey. He didn’t know Paul had hired the man, and Paul didn’t know Gregory knew Massey’s identity. At least, to Gregory’s knowledge, that was the case.

But what if John did know about Massey?

A chill swept through him. He could know. Paul had tested Gregory;
he had lied to him. Had that been about Massey? Was Paul doubling down on Gregory, playing both sides of the fence with John Green to cover his own assets?

Possible. Knowing Paul, probable. He was fiercely loyal, but his first loyalty was, of course, to himself. So if he believed it best served his interests, he could have told John anything.

Yet it was also possible that something else had misfired or hadn’t connected as anticipated. He looked at Paul. “What do you think happened?”

“Our recruit put the subject into the Jag to signal the gang to hit her. Someone interrupted, and the gang scattered. He could’ve stiffed them on payment, and they took exception to it.”

Gregory waved to a couple walking inside. “Or Edward took him out.”

Paul’s eyes darted around, as if calculating. “High rate of probability on that, sir. If he set up Brandt as a hireling to misdirect us and he interrupted the gang hit, then he’d want to eliminate that connection and any evidence.”

Edward
. Gregory grimaced. The voiceprint wasn’t necessary after all. “It’s time for a priority shift.”

K
aren.” Mark walked into Ben’s kitchen.

The doom-and-gloom expression he wore had Karen fighting panic. “Something else is wrong, isn’t it?” A glance across the table to Ben didn’t reassure her.

Ben put down his fork. “I’m afraid so.” He pivoted his gaze to Mark. “Did you talk to Massey?”

Mark looked as if he’d rather be anywhere than standing in Ben’s kitchen facing the two of them, sharing a late lunch. “I tried, but no. Karen, I’m so sorry to have to say this, but Richard Massey is dead.”

The force of his words knocked her back in her chair. Her only tie to her past—gone. She cleared her throat, summoned her voice. “What happened to him?”

“He was shot this morning,” Mark said. “Somewhere around eleven o’clock.”

Nora silently poured Mark a glass of iced tea, set it on the table, then with a hand to his shoulder nudged Mark to take a seat beside Ben. She gave Karen’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Be strong, girl. God’s in control.”

Nora went back and fixed Mark a plate, returned to the table with it, then went back, scrubbed the bar, and motioned for Karen to eat.

Mark hadn’t taken a bite and Ben wasn’t eating either. Doubting she could swallow, Karen picked up her fork. “Do they know who shot him?”

“No suspects.” Mark lifted his fork and filled it with sweet corn. “At least, not yet.”

Ben reached over and clasped Karen’s hand, his warm fingers covering hers like a protective blanket. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too. The problem is, what do we do now?”

Mark set down his chilled glass, swallowed. “I got through to his receptionist, Emily, and faxed her your photo. She didn’t recognize you, but she’d been out on maternity leave and just returned this morning.”

“She picked a bad day to return to work.” Karen chewed and swallowed a bite of the best meatloaf she’d ever tasted. “Nora, I love this meatloaf.”

“Plenty more over here.”

Mark reached for the shaker.

“Don’t you dare be adding salt to my food, Mark Taylor. It’s got plenty.”

He pulled back his hand and sighed. “Emily said she’d talk to the temp who’s been filling in for her and look through their files. I checked with the police again. Still no reports showing up on you being missing. We’re pretty much stuck on that end until we hear what Emily uncovers.”

Ben polished off the last bite of meatloaf. “Nora, is that fresh apple pie?”

“It is. But don’t get your mind set on it. It’s for the ingathering at church tonight.”

“Shoot,” Mark grumbled under his breath. “Nora makes good apple pie.”

“And everything else,” Ben added. “Did you take care of upgrading the security at the cottage?” he asked Mark.

“It was finished about three—a good hour ago. No one can walk
within fifty feet of it without being monitored at the security shack. And if they drop from a helicopter onto the roof, we’ve still got them.”

“Good.” Ben looked at Karen. “You had a fear of being in Seagrove Village. All things considered, it’s a compelling one.”

Where was he going with this? Karen’s throat felt dry, but she shook too badly to trust herself to pick up her glass and take a drink. She’d end up wearing half her tea. “I still fear it. I just wish I knew why. I’ve tried to remember, Ben. Really, I have.”

“Harvey and Lisa said you shouldn’t do that,” he told her, his concern evident.

“The center’s been bombed, everyone there’s at risk, all that’s happened here, and now my one link to my life, this Richard Massey, is dead. I can’t just sit here and do nothing until they find a way to kill me—and maybe hurt you and Mark and Nora in the process. I’ve got to try to remember.” She put down her fork. “Actually, I should leave so you’re not in jeopardy.”

“Your leaving won’t help.” Mark grabbed another biscuit from the basket at the center of the table. “It’s clear that Ben’s as involved in this as you are. If you did leave, they’d still be after him.” He broke the biscuit and slathered it with butter. “It won’t help, but it could hurt.”

“Mark’s right,” Nora added her two cents. “All this is about you and Susan, I’m thinking.” She snatched the butter off the table and stared down her nose at Mark. “I can feel your arteries hardening from across the room. Moderation, my boy.”

Ben hid a snicker behind his hand. “I agree with Nora.”

Karen couldn’t resist. “About Mark’s arteries, or this being about me and Susan?”

“Both,” he said. “There are too many connections for it to be anything else.”

Shame flooded her. “I’m so sorry, Ben.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just … am.”

“Mark, you stay on Massey’s receptionist.” Ben stood. “Karen, let’s take a ride.”

She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “Where are we going?”

“Something in this village frightens you. Maybe if we ride around, you’ll see something that spurs a memory.”