Peril (12 page)

“During this time when your father and I were having trouble, I had an affair. I got pregnant—with you.”

“You're saying Dad is not my biological father?”

A plea for forgiveness bled from her mother's eyes. “I'm sorry.”

Morgan grabbed at her shirt with her hand, her heart now thumping painfully. “Why would you keep this from me for so long?” she cried.

“What good would it have done to know?”

She slammed her hand onto the cold granite. “You're the one who always talks about speaking the truth.”

Sally blew a stray hair from her eyes. “I know. I'm not perfect. I never claimed to be.”

Morgan fanned her hand against her chest to calm her rapid heartbeat. “Does this other man even know that you had his child?”

She could merely close her eyes and shake her head no.

“How long has Dad known?”

Her mother took a heavy hand and back swiped the base of her nose. “Only after the tests came back.”

“You kept this from him all these years?”

Morgan began to rise from the chair, but her mother clamped two hands on her knees. “You listen to me. I know you're confused and hurt.”

“Try betrayed.” Morgan seethed.

“This doesn't change what you have with the man upstairs. You are his child. He'll never leave you.”

“But you denied me a relationship with my biological father. How could you even think to do that?”

“I know you may never understand my choice, but it was to spare you. To ensure you still had a happy home. My hope in telling you this is now you have another potential donor.”

Morgan laughed out loud as the bitterness in her heart fought for release. “Mom, you're delusional. How exactly did this play out in your mind? I knock on his door, introduce myself as his long-lost, unwanted offspring and then ask if he'll offer up a blood sample or a cheek swab so someone can slice his back open and yank out a kidney to give to a daughter he's never known?”

Waves of hysteria began to wash over Morgan—second only to the moment when Teagan's heart tracing flatlined and she knew her baby girl was never coming back. Would she ever feel the same way about her family again?

“He was a selfish man.”

Morgan came up off the chair, inches from her mother's face. “Perfect! Now you want me to ask a selfish man to donate his organ.”

Her mother's hand came up to Morgan's chest. “You have every reason to be furious with me, but I am still your mother and I will not have you speak to me with such disdain.” She pulled her hair from her eyes. “I came to find out he'd deserted a woman and her young daughter a few years
before we met. His career, his discoveries were all that mattered. I was merely a side attraction.”

“Who is he?”

“Thomas Reeves.” Her voice suddenly went soft. “Dr. Thomas Reeves.”

“As in the famed neuroscientist?”

“Yes.”

“As in Tyler's boss?”

“Yes, the same man.”

Then Morgan's mind traced back the conversation. Something tugged at her heartstrings. Something she desired to always have that had been a constant hole in her heart.

He left a woman and her young daughter.

Morgan swallowed. “Wait . . . I have a sister?”

Chapter 12

Evening, Wednesday, August 8

T
HE FORTY-FIVE-MINUTE
drive to Vanhise's Boulder home gave Brett time to contemplate the known facts of his murder case. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, ticking the points off in his mind while the sun began to descend behind the Rockies.

Fact One: Amy Kent claimed to have memories of Zoe Martin's murderer.

Fact Two: Amy had given details that only the murder victim could have known
. Taylor Swift playing on the iPod hadn't been released to the press. Brett believed Amy's mother when she claimed Amy didn't know anything of the popular singer.

Fact Three: He'd found a set of dog tags
. Surely, these were the shiny rectangles Amy had referred to in her interview.

In the days since Amy's interview, Brett had trampled the ground of that park more days than he cared to admit. What was it about these young girls that drew him in so much? Zoe and Amy. One life tragically ended. Of course, it was his duty to find justice, to nail her assailant to the wall. Literal nailing was his preference, but he'd be happy to let the court ferret all that out.

Was it the fact that he'd divorced before he ever had children of his own? Normally, he wasn't touchy-feely about his life. But had he missed out on what family—a real, loving family—could offer?

He pulled into Vanhise's driveway, shut off the car, and made his way up the narrow walkway. Derrick opened the door before he knocked, patting him on the back as he ushered him inside. His decor wasn't quite the surf-skiing attire of his office but had a warm, lived-in feel. He eased the door closed behind him.

“I was surprised you'd want to visit, Detective Sawyer.” Vanhise motioned him to follow.

“Please, call me Brett. No need to be so formal.”

They walked a short distance to the kitchen. A small farmer's table sat to one side of the wall. Derrick lifted a pot of freshly brewed coffee from the counter and Brett gave a quick thumbs-up.

“Black?” Vanhise asked.

“How'd you guess?”

“You don't seem like the cream-and-sugar type.”

Brett took a seat as Vanhise placed the cup in front of him. “It's not foo-foo coffee, is it? Someone tried to give me raspberry flavored once and I almost booked them into jail just for the shame of it. I hate that stuff.”

“Simple, basic, Folgers.”

“That's music to my ears.” Brett lifted the steaming mug. “Cheers.”

“Whisky?”

Brett smiled. “Not tonight. But I appreciate you being so thoughtful.”

Vanhise stirred sugar into his cup and took a seat as well. “What brings you all this way? You were vague over the phone.”

Brett pulled the evidence bag from his pocket and set it on the table. “These.”

With one finger, Derrick pulled the plastic his way. “Dog tags?”

“They belong to a Dylan Worthy. I found them at Zoe's crime scene.”

“The rectangles bouncing off the light she referred to in her interview. After all this time?”

“It took me a while.”

“How can I help? Looks worth pursuing.”

“Oh, absolutely, I'll be hot on Mr. Worthy's trail. But I wanted to ask you . . . do you think it's possible? Transferring memories between people?”

Vanhise eased back in his chair. “A doctor has to be open to things sometimes that don't have clear, concrete answers.”

“So it is possible.”

A gray-muzzled chocolate lab lumbered into the room, sidled up to Derrick, and laid his huge head on his leg.

“Do you like dogs?” Vanhise asked.

“Not a fan of animals really. A dog I could take. Cats . . . I don't go out of my way to provide assistance if they're up a tree. Just don't have the time to take care of them.”

Vanhise motioned for the dog to lie down. The animal groaned displeasure. “Always wants a treat,” he said. Vanhise patted his head a few times
as he settled. “As to your question and the reason for your visit, I would say there's enough anecdotal evidence to consider that it is a real possibility. Memory is a funny thing. We don't really understand how the brain does it biologically, or even how young a person can be to form memories.”

“Have you ever known a patient with such an experience?”

“To be truthful, I've taken Amy on as a patient.”

“Is she the first person you've counseled with this kind of problem?”

“No, not really. I did counsel one particular patient who I believe formed memories in utero.”

“What made you think that?”

“Well, when she was growing in her mother's womb, a medical error caused hypertonic saline to be infused into the uterus. As a result, she was born very prematurely. Her skin was horribly burned by the salty solution. She was hospitalized for months and continues to have chronic medical problems because of it.” Vanhise sipped his coffee. “She and her mother began to see me when she started elementary school because she had suddenly developed an irrational fear of fire. I mean a horrible, paralyzing fear. Would dream of her skin being burned off. Well, in fact, she had suffered this injury, but no one ever thought she would have been old enough to retain any memory of it.”

“So that's what you decided? She remembered the injury and it resulted in a paralyzing fear of fire. How is that possible?”

“Brain waves can be measured at eight weeks in a fetus, and the brain is fully formed by twelve weeks. Some theorize pain can be felt by this time. I dated a NICU nurse once during my residency. She'd been taking care of a baby with a femur fracture—obviously inflicted. Well, the baby would fuss and cry every time the mother's boyfriend came toward the Isolette. He ended up confessing that he caused the injury.”

“The baby pointed the finger at his abuser?”

“The infant's reaction to this man became so remarkable to the nurses that they began to make notes every time it happened. There are lots of unexplained phenomenon in medicine, but if the brain is fully formed and functioning, why can't it process and store memories as well? Particularly traumatic ones?”

Brett tapped the table. “Has anything like that held up in court?”

“I don't know,” Vanhise said, setting his cup down. “But if those dog tags ultimately reveal your criminal, I guess you'll find out.”

Chapter 13

Morning, Thursday, August 9

T
YLER PULLED ON HIS
lab coat then sat at the bank of computers to check how the research subjects had progressed overnight. He could only stay an hour before he had to be back at Sacred Heart to check his pediatric cases. Considering how late he'd stayed there to sit with his sister, he'd let the finer activities of his morning routine fall to the wayside. He rubbed his hand over the stubble on his chin while he glanced through each patient's chart.

Concentrating proved difficult. How could he erase the vision of Seth, slack-jawed, a breathing tube snaked into his throat, the hiss and whine of machines keeping his shell alive?

Is that really what I think? That Seth isn't a part of his body anymore?

Tyler put his palms together, leaned forward, and closed his eyes.

Visions of Teagan coalesced behind his lids, her sweet face and extra-chubby cheeks. Perhaps not shaving today was more than lack of time, more like a subconscious attempt to remember his baby girl. His coarse whiskers tickling her feet would always bring bright smiles to her face. In fact, the first time she'd ever really smiled was when he rubbed her foot over his cheek after he'd skipped shaving one morning. It had been just the two of them. Morgan had been scheduled to work the weekend, leaving daddy alone with his new infant daughter.

He opened his eyes in hopes the bright overhead lights would flush out the vision. Moments when he allowed himself to dive into these memories never ended up with a good place to land. It was difficult to experience the good memories without the terrifying ones creeping in.

So much in him wanted to pray, to return to the place where he'd once felt comfort and solitude. The place he'd never thought he'd leave, especially in a moment of crisis. There'd been something of that in Morgan that drew him to her. Of course, her beauty struck the eye of most men,
but there was this quiet peace about her that was like warm salve on an open wound. Her spirit expressed contentment and his life had never been calm until they were together.

Most of his childhood had been spent trying to get the attention of his parents amongst the clamor of his older siblings. He was used to running the race: achieving good grades to get scholarships for medical school and getting the best transplant internship. With Morgan, less of that began to matter, and he found that his relationship with her had eased his sense of wanting it all for himself.

Their daughter intensified it.

And then she was gone.

The words on the computer screen fuzzed before him, and he blinked several times to bring them into focus.

An unexpected sound of a man screaming demanded Tyler's sudden attention. A clamor of poles falling. Glass breaking. Tyler stood from his desk. A nurse ran by.

“Dr. Adams! We need help down here.”

He ran down the hallway after her.

The scene in the room was a confusing blur of blue scrubs, arms and limbs flying. The nurses were wrestling with the writhing body of Brad Winters, a volunteer for the research protocol.