Stolen Memory. Virginia Kantra
at her, she’d really think he was a nut job. “The bump is on the side of my skull, Detective.” He slid his fingers into the hair above his ear to show her. “I was lying on my back.”
“But you don’t remember how you got there.”
“No.” He couldn’t delay confession any longer. He drew another deep breath. “I don’t remember anything around the time of the attack.”
He didn’t remember anything, period.
Oh, he had some basic stuff down. He could dress and feed himself, turn on the lights and dishwasher. If he didn’t stop to analyze how he did it, he could even operate the TV and computer.
But he had no knowledge of who he was or what he did or how the hell he was supposed to continue doing it.
The detective blinked, once. “You mean you have amnesia?”
She didn’t believe him. “Amnesia can be a product of head trauma,” Simon said stiffly.
“Is that what your doctor told you?”
“No. I looked it up on the Internet.”
His computer, thank God, had been up and running when he’d searched his office. He hadn’t dared to turn it off, since he had no idea if his files were password protected.
She laid her pen flat on her notebook. “Mr. Ford, I’ll be happy to take your statement. I can take a look around, talk to your security people, check for signs of forced entry. You have surveillance cameras, right? But I really think you need to see a doctor.”
She didn’t understand.
He hadn’t explained himself clearly.
Frustration made him abrupt. “That’s the last thing I need.”
“Excuse me?”
“I told you, my company is in the process of launching new laser technology. I can’t have my competitors—I can’t have people in my own company—thinking I’ve lost it.”
“But doctor/patient privilege—”
“It would still get out I’d seen a doctor. Someone is bound to ask why. I can’t afford any weakness.”
“Why not?”
She probably thought the bump on the head had made him paranoid. But he wasn’t. He knew he wasn’t. He felt the sharp certainty of threat, the only tangible guidepost in the fog that was his brain.
And he couldn’t explain that to her without sounding even more crazy.
“Look,” he said, using really basic concepts and small words she could understand, “Wednesday night somebody got into my lab and hit me over the head and robbed me.”
“You were robbed.”
She was doing that echo thing again.
Simon set his jaw. “Yes.”
“Are you sure? I mean, if you can’t remember…”
“The safe was open,” he snapped.
Now—finally!—she picked up her pen. “And do you have a record of the safe’s contents?” she asked, still plainly humoring him.
“There’s got to be a list somewhere.” His notes were precise and methodical. His desk was ruthlessly systematized, his bedroom uncluttered. Everything he’d seen pointed to his being an orderly, organized, painstaking individual. He must have kept an inventory of something as important as the contents of his safe. He just hadn’t found it yet.
“It would help if you could locate it,” said the detective practically. “Where was your security guard during this attack and robbery?”
He stared at her.
“You said he came up with you from Chicago,” she reminded him gently. “He showed me in. Mr. Quinn?”
Simon shook his head, forgetting his resolution to avoid sudden movements. Pain momentarily grayed his vision and robbed him of breath.
When he could speak again, he said, “Not Quinn. Quinn Brown is my household manager. Apparently he was visiting his daughter for a few days. He arrived yesterday.”
Simon calculated he’d been alone at that point for almost twenty-four hours and conscious for five or six. He hadn’t recognized his employee’s face. He hadn’t recognized his own name, either, when Quinn had called him, except that it had appeared on the various notes and papers he’d found.
It had been a relief, he remembered, to realize that it was his name, that this must be his house.
Some sense of self-preservation, a horror of weakness or perception of danger, had kept him from confessing his confusion and utter helplessness to his household manager.
The same instinct made him cautious now.
“The guard was supposed to stay at the house until Quinn returned. But when Quinn came to work, no one was here.”
Detective Baker frowned. “Except you.”
Simon inclined his head in careful acknowledgment. “Except me.”
She tapped her pen on her notebook. “Doors and windows?”
At least she appeared to be taking him seriously. “Locked. And the security system in the house was on.”
“The safe?”
“Open. Either someone else knew the combination—which seems unlikely—or I opened it myself. I could have been putting away my notes for the day when I was interrupted.”
“I’ll take a look at it,” she said. “This other guard—have you tried to reach him? Who’s in charge of your company security?”
He didn’t know. “I thought it best to contact the police.”
She caught his implication immediately. “You think it was an inside job.”
Simon was grateful for her quick understanding. But he didn’t answer her directly. “I don’t know.”
“Isn’t there anyone you can trust?”
He didn’t know that either. He’d searched the office and the master bedroom for clues. Nothing. On his dresser sat a framed photo of a teenage girl with a row of silver earrings whose eyes were the same shape as the ones he saw in his mirror. His daughter? But then why didn’t she live with him? There were several bedrooms upstairs, but no magazines, no makeup, no feminine clutter. Only a bikini, forgotten in the back of a drawer, and some half-empty bottles of shampoo and conditioner stashed under a sink suggested he sometimes had visitors.
His apparent isolation was frightening. He must have friends and family. Perhaps a woman? But they had left no trace in his life.
What kind of a man was he?
The detective was still waiting for his answer, watching him with what was certainly only professional concern in her eyes. Or impatience.
Isn’t there anyone you can trust?
He wanted to trust her. But was that because she was trustworthy or because he was desperate for connection, eager to imprint on the first person he saw like a baby duck? The idea revolted him.
“That’s what we need to find out,” he said.
She tilted her head. “That’s going to be tough if you can’t remember who attacked you.”
Even tougher if he didn’t tell her the whole truth. But how could he?
“Amnesia is usually a temporary condition,” he offered instead.
“How temporary?”
She was persistent. He admired that, even if it was inconvenient. He shrugged. “A few seconds to a few weeks. I have been able to recall everything since I regained