In This Life (10 page)

“Since you’re the expert, what can you tell me about memories? Specifically false memory and episodic memory?”

He leaned forward, interested and intrigued. “Episodic memory is associated with personal memories and involves sensations and emotions related to a particular place or time. False memory is more of a syndrome. It’s usually centered on a traumatic experience, resulting in memories that are factually incorrect but that a person strongly believes.”

“Meaning that episodic memory is more accurate?”

“It’s not a matter of accuracy in the way you’re thinking.” Paul leaned back in his office chair, folded his hands behind his head, and stretched out his legs. It was his thinking pose, and one he’d been doing since I met him at Amrose four years ago. “It’s more the difference among where and what and when. Episodic memory is re-living an occurrence along with the sensations the memory invokes, but you don’t confuse it with your current place and time. You see the memory for what it is — a snapshot into the past.”

“And false memory?”

“It’s more a distortion of an experience, but it can also be the result of a fantasy that the individual believes is factual.”

“Like something that happens in a dream?”

“That’s possible, yes.” Paul tilted his head and studied me. “Why? Have a client who’s exhibiting this behavior?”

“No,” I said, getting up and closing the office door. “I am.”

I told him everything. From my flu to the phone call and the envelope, to dinner and the bar and the hospital stay that followed. I finished with the flowers and the police, and all the episodes I’d experienced in between, and when I was done I’d shared more with Paul than I had with David.

Paul’s lips thinned. “Your episodes,” he said, “are the reasons why you’re asking me about memory.”

I nodded. “Because they
feel
like a memory, Paul, but I’m wondering if this is a false memory. The problem is that it seems very real and that’s what’s confusing me.”

“Do you recognize anyone in these memories? Or any place?”

I let out a small laugh at the question, not because it was funny but because Paul had so readily accepted my experience as something genuine. David didn’t, and couldn’t, because he relied on facts and tangible evidence to make a decision while Paul relied on incidents and the perceptions behind them.

“I don’t recognize anything,” I said, sitting the edge of the desk. “But at the same time I do.”

“Well, the fact that you’re questioning the memory’s validity is a good thing. It shows you’re not crazy.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

“I’m serious.” He got up and sat on the desk next to me. “If you want to get to the bottom of this, I’d suggest trying not to fight the episode the next time it happens. Go with it and see where it takes you. Try to make a connection between when it occurs and what you’re doing at the time it happens, and where you are. You might find an association and answers to your questions.”

“What if I can’t?”

“If you can’t find an association then you can talk to me again.”

Paul’s gaze met and held mine. A small smile, one that hinted of things we’d done a long time ago, curved up the corners of his mouth. My heartbeat slowed, my breathing grew deeper, and in the seconds that passed I remembered just how easy it used to be with Paul. Conversation had always been uncomplicated and time spent together always felt relaxed. There was never a crisis to handle or argument to reconcile. It was simple. Except for the fact that he was married and I was in love with David.

Paul’s computer alarm went off, alerting him to his next appointment and breaking the moment between us. He got up, checked the calendar entry and disabled the alarm. When he looked at me again, he was back to professional mode. “By the way, I heard about what happened on Friday with Mrs. Reynolds. Did Logan really show up at your office?”

“Yes,” I said, grabbing my handbag and filling him in on those details, too. “I even called her this morning to talk about it.”

“What happened?”

“She hung up.”

Paul held the door open for me. “Why even bother pursuing her, Lottie? If Logan’s alive and she doesn’t care that he is, why get involved?”

“I have a feeling she wants to get my attention. Besides, Logan is my client.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to poke this particular beehive.”

“But she lied about Logan. Don’t you think that’s strange?”

“Lottie, she came after you once and only once. From there, it was you who did the pursuing. If she wants to talk to you, let her come to you on her terms. Same thing with Logan. What you really need to worry about is yourself and whoever’s sending those deliveries.”

“I guess.”

“No guessing because you know it’s true.”

Past Paul’s shoulder and on a bookshelf I saw a photo of him, his brother and his niece, Deborah. Paul followed my gaze and let out a sigh filled with melancholy.

“Deborah would have been eighteen this year,” he said. “Such a waste and so much life ahead of her.”

I took his hand and squeezed. “I tried doing everything I could for her. You know that, right?”

Paul squeezed back. “I know.”

The computer alarm beeped a second time. “I have to go,” he said, but he kept holding my hand and a few seconds of unspoken thoughts and unfulfilled promises and what-ifs lingered in between. Then he pulled away and gestured that I should leave.

When I got to my office, I settled in, dug into my bag, and pulled out Galen’s profile to review one last time. The file was thick but I kept to the basics. He had been born in Australia and had a sister four years younger. His family moved to Saudi Arabia when he turned three, and then the United States when he turned ten. An IQ of 172 awarded him a high school diploma by the age of fifteen and a Bachelor of Arts in Criminology from John Jay College at seventeen. At nineteen, Galen joined the Marines, became an officer and completed a six-year tour before accepting an honorable discharge. PROs recruited him immediately after and had been his employer ever since, during which time he served in their offices in New York, Japan, and the United Kingdom. The file contained flattering military testimonials, commendations for medals of valor and evaluations from PROs’ psychiatrists attesting to Galen’s emotional stability and mental health.

And, for some reason, David didn’t trust him.

I was debating how to handle the meeting and provide David with an unbiased evaluation when Alicia called and announced that Galen Briscoe had arrived. Quickly, I slid his file back into my bag, smoothed my dress, and walked to the office door.

I opened it, ready to greet my first client of the day, and my eyes met his. They were the color of the deepest, darkest sand and alive with something caught between humor and self-satisfaction. My heart skipped a beat and then kicked hard in my chest.

It was the man from the bar Friday night.

“Doctor Morgan?”

Galen’s voice soothed me into a strange calmness that intrigued and scared me. I nodded because I couldn’t find my voice.

“I am Galen Briscoe,” he said.

He held out his hand and I took it, unprepared for the heat that surged between us, and the images came hard and fast — sweaty, intertwined bodies, his hungry mouth on mine, and a desire so desperate, so insatiable, it devoured everything we were.

I tugged out of Galen’s grip, breathless and overheated and unhinged. I stared back at him and swore I could see the two of us in the depths of his sand-colored eyes. With a pounding heart, I headed for the window. I needed space and time to think, not to mention a good dose of cool, calming air.

“Take a seat,” I said, unable to restrain the huskiness in my voice. Whether he took the seat or not didn’t matter. In fact, I didn’t even care that he may have considered my immediate disregard of him as rude, and when I opened the window and felt the fresh summer breeze rush in, it did little to temper my overheated body and the fine sheen of sweat that covered it.

“Doctor Taletta Morgan,” he said, reading my diplomas from the other side of the room. “Unusual name.”

Once again his voice blanketed me in a calm that eased my alarm as quickly as his touch ignited it. It was deep and refined with a hint of an accent thrown in, and I would have asked him to continue talking just so I could keep taking pleasure in it. I closed my eyes, determined to fight the startling and primal effect he had on me, and didn’t face him until the restlessness in my body subsided.

“Taletta is a derivative of Taletha,” he said, peering over at me. “Did you know that?”

I shook my head, still unable to find my voice while some baser part of me took pleasure in his, wanting more. “No,” I said after clearing my throat. “I didn’t.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and continued browsing around my office as if it were his own. I tracked his lean body and long legs, and the form-fitting silk T-shirt and black slacks that accentuated it. Understatedly wealthy. Supremely self-confident. And an unexpected enigma to me.

“It’s a biblical name,” he went on. “Taletha is Aramaic for
little girl
and is taken from the phrase
taletha cumi
, meaning
little girl arise
. Jesus spoke the phrase to bring a little girl back to life.”

I had the vague sense his explanation was as much a description of facts as it was an indirect question to me, but I felt at a loss as to how I should respond. The cadence and rhythm in his speech had an intoxicating effect, and on shaky legs I made my way to my armchair and sat down.

“Do you study the Bible?” I asked, feeling beads of sweat form on my lower back and upper lip again.

“No.” He smiled, and it was genuine and almost as alluring as his voice. “I have been very well educated, although I think you probably already knew that.”

I tried focusing on the reason Galen was here in the first place and the job I had to do, but his knowing grin widened and my heart stumbled over itself once more.

“There is no need to be surprised, Doctor Morgan. I am sure you have done your research on me just as I have done on you.”

He looked at me as if he saw right through me, as if he knew something about me that no one else ever could. As I watched him settle into the sofa, shifting and moving with ease, I knew this to be true. In some deep, dark place, I knew this man. Knew what moved him to passion along with what pleasured and pained him.

But I didn’t know how or why.

“Do we know each other from somewhere?” I asked. “You seem so very familiar.”

His eyes narrowed but he didn’t answer right away. “I saw you at the bar the other night.”

“No, I don’t mean that. I meant do we know each other from somewhere else?”

Again, he took his time in responding. “Perhaps.”

Some part of me knew he was lying.

I did my best to shrug off my fascination and pressed on. “Your educational background is exceptional,” I said. “Your military and work experience is equally extraordinary. I’d like to talk more about that.”

Galen leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees. “Have I come at a bad time, Doctor Morgan? You seem distracted.”

I planted on a confident smile. “I’m fine.”

He considered me a few moments longer. “I feel uncomfortable about this, too,” he said, settling back into the sofa. “This is the first time in my career that I’ve ever had to complete a secondary evaluation for a new position. And knowing that you might have power to sway the decision about me doesn’t make me feel particularly confident about the process.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I feel like I must be on my best behavior or be forced to face uncertain consequences.”

Those last words swept over me like a lover’s caress, pleasurable and full of promise, and I squeezed the armrests to steady myself. “Should I expect something else from you?” I asked.

“No. I’m simply not convinced that you will be unbiased. You are, after all,” he added, “Bellotti’s woman.”

The inflection in Galen’s voice changed and now carried a hint of jealousy that I found odd. Yet it was there, and on some level, I felt compelled to soothe it.

“I assure you, Galen, that I can separate my personal life from my professional one.”

He said nothing and the corners of his mouth tipped up into a subtle but evocative grin. An emotion I didn’t want to identify rushed over me.

“Well, then,” I said. “Let’s move on, shall we? How do you enjoy working for PROs?”

“I love the work. Love the physical challenge, too.”

I grabbed a notepad and pen from the end table and jotted down some notes. “What do you do for them now? What’s your current job spec?”

“I’m a sniper.”

I paused, feeling Galen’s gaze settle on me as I stopped writing. I’d never met someone who openly admitted they killed for a living, and I wondered if that piece of information had been excluded from his file on purpose.

“I’ve been doing this for nearly the entire eight years I’ve worked for PROs,” Galen added.

“Have you ever had the desire to do something else?”

“No. My job is most rewarding. There’s something to be said for taking down an authority that is not fit to be in power.”

I looked up, curious about what that meant. “And how do you determine who should have power and who shouldn’t?”

Galen paused. “Perhaps I didn’t explain myself well. My job is not to judge, Doctor Morgan, but to do what is in the best interests of the client who hired us. There are occasions when we seize power, but that’s rare. Mostly we help transition governments or regimes to a more stable leadership. Or overthrow factions that prey on the less fortunate.”

They were the same politically correct words David used to describe his job to strangers, too. Words that, I knew, told only a very small part of a much bigger truth. Still, I was able to recognize that Galen had a strong moral code as well as a hearty dose of ego and superiority complex mixed in — common characteristics among the PROs professionals I’d met through David over the years. It came as no surprise that Galen had them, too.

“And what do you dislike about the work?” I asked.