You Must Remember This. Marilyn Pappano

      Chapter One

      Juliet Crandall sat at her computer, her fingers resting on the keyboard, but her attention was distant from her work—about fifty feet distant, she estimated, at a table in the library’s reference section.

      The man seated there was one of Grand Springs’s intriguing mysteries. He was called Martin Smith—an unimaginative name for such an intense and handsome man—but no one knew who he really was, he least of all. He was a regular at the library, poring over newspapers, magazines, old high school yearbooks—anything that might jog his memory. It looked as if it was yearbooks today.

      She wondered why he wasted his time. Grand Springs wasn’t so large that a student at one of the high schools could go totally unknown. If he had attended school here, someone would remember. A handsome face wasn’t easily forgotten. Six foot three, lean and mean weren’t very forgettable, either. No, if Martin Smith had lived here long enough to get his picture in a yearbook some twenty years ago, someone would know.

      Though Juliet had been in town only a few weeks, she’d learned from library gossip that he’d been searching for ten months for some clue to his identity, and for ten months, he’d come up empty-handed. The police department—Juliet’s other new employer—had taken his fingerprints and sent them off to the state crime bureau and the FBI, but they’d gotten back a not-on-file response. So he wasn’t a cop or a criminal. He’d never been in the military, applied for a gun permit or held any sort of job that required a security clearance. Just like a few hundred million other people in the country.

      Not. She’d seen her share of ordinary, everyday, average citizens, and Martin Smith, whoever he was, was definitely not like them. He was the stuff fantasies—hers, at least—were made of. Broad-shouldered, lean-hipped and long-legged. Carelessly tousled blond hair and stunning blue eyes that actors and models paid money to achieve with contacts. Skin of creamy gold as if he’d just finished up a month on a tropical beach instead of a winter of snow and ice in the Rocky Mountains. His clothes were casual—jeans, always jeans, faded ones that fit the way women wanted, and shirts, plaid flannel, chambray, plain white with the sleeves rolled up or snug-fitting T-shirts.

      He was enough to distract even the most dedicated computer analyst-programmer-archivist from her work.

      And she’d never even spoken to him.

      He had sought help from the woman who’d held this job before her, but in her two weeks here, he’d never approached her. Maybe he’d developed a preference for working on his own. Maybe he’d simply run out of things to check. Maybe he just didn’t think she had anything to offer him.

      That wouldn’t be a first.

      With a sigh, Juliet forced her gaze from the window that was her small office’s only interesting feature and tried to focus on the computer screen. Grand Springs was finally bringing its library into the age of technology, reorganizing and computerizing. It was her job—every Tuesday and Thursday, at least—to do just that. The rest of her work week was spent at the police department, upgrading their computer system to allow them to take full advantage of the FBI’s new computer systems. When both jobs were completed, she’d be taking a full-time position in the police department as head of their records division. It wouldn’t be exciting, but at least it was different from what she’d done previously.

      She’d lived all her life in the same Dallas neighborhood—heavens, in the very same house. It had been cheaper to live at home while attending college, cheaper than getting a place of her own when she’d gone to work. After her father’s death, she’d stayed to help her mother, and after her mother’s death, she’d stayed because it was comfortably familiar. Just as she’d stayed at the same job all those years, sitting in the same cubicle at the same keyboard, seeing the same people. She had shopped at the same stores, followed the same routines and faced the same depressing future.

      At least here things were different. Not perfect. No, she was still the same shy, quiet woman she’d always been. She still didn’t have many friends. She still got all hot and tongue-tied at the idea of dealing with members of the opposite sex unless they were old enough to be her father or young enough to be her son. She still spent all her free time alone, and she still conducted her social life—what there was of it—in cyberspace.

      She’d had hopes for more—that she would fit in here in a way she never had in Dallas. That she would make friends. That she might even meet the mysterious man she’d dreamed of since childhood who would sweep her off her feet with offers of marriage, babies and happily-ever-afters. After all, her last birthday had put her squarely in her mid-thirties. Time was slipping away fast. Just yesterday she’d been a dreamy teenager, lost in the books that were her refuge, convinced that someday her life would change. Tomorrow she would be a sad old maid, lamenting life’s unfairness, regretting the emptiness and loneliness. Today was all she had.

      “Excuse me.”

      For a moment, lost in the future she dreaded, Juliet didn’t respond to the quiet interruption. When she finally looked up, she wished she hadn’t. Her face grew warm, her mouth went dry, and her fingers went limp on the keyboard.

      “You’re the new computer whiz.”

      All she could do was stare and nod dumbly.

      “I’m Martin Smith.” His mouth twisted in what might have been meant as a smile but was actually a grimace. “At least, that’s who I’ve been since last June.” He came farther into the room and extended his hand.

      Her palm was probably sweaty, but it would be too noticeable if she took time to wipe it on her dress. She shook his hand, then quickly drew back.

      “You’re…?”

      The heat in her cheeks increased a few degrees. It was a simple process. He gave his name, and she offered hers. How could she forget? “Juliet. Crandall. I’m new. I replaced—” The other archivist’s name flew right out of her memory. “Whoever used to do this. The computers