A Season To Believe. Elane Osborn
seat belt broke? It would hardly make sense to buckle up if one were intent on suicide. And do you really think Jane would know how to rig a car to explode?”
“That evidence was inconclusive.”
“Wilcox, none of the evidence in this case, taken a piece at a time, is conclusive. But when you put together the fact that Forensics found scuff marks indicating that the car had been pushed off the cliff, that the air bag had been disabled, and that the steering wheel revealed only Jane’s fingerprints—not even one belonging to the owner of the car—any cop with two brain cells to rub together could make a case for attempted homicide.”
Jane tensed as Wilcox took a step toward Matt. Matt was a couple of inches taller, but the police detective’s muscular form carried a silent, credible threat.
“If someone tried to kill her, why haven’t they made another attempt? Her whereabouts and the fact that she hadn’t died in that accident were well publicized.”
“Exactly,” Matt replied. “As was the fact that she had no memory and that several of her doctors believed the amnesia might have been caused by the trauma to her head, and thus be permanent. Why risk getting caught while making another attempt to kill her, when the media made it clear that there were no clues to her past, meaning the authorities had no idea who would have a motive to murder her?”
Wilcox shook his head. “Look, Lone Ranger. I know that you and your partner enjoyed tilting at windmills, solving the impossible cases. Me, I have enough to do pursuing criminals I have half a chance of catching.”
He turned to Jane. “You should go see that therapist person who was working with you, the one who hypnotizes people. If she manages to help you recall a fact I can follow up on, then call me.”
With that, Wilcox turned and left the room.
Jane drew a deep breath, then let it slide quietly through her barely parted lips. She reached for the purse Jessup had placed on the desk, then turned to Matt.
“Well, I think that was enough excitement for one day. I’d better be getting home.”
Matt turned to her, effectively blocking the path to the door. “First, we need to talk. I understand there’s a coffee shop in the basement.”
Jane frowned as she placed her cup next to a small plate that was almost completely covered by an enormous chocolate chip cookie, then lowered herself into the chair Matt had pulled out for her. We need to talk, he’d said. It hadn’t been a request. And what a good girl she was being, responding to the man’s understated demand like a sheep stepping back into formation at the direction of a border collie.
Not that she didn’t want to talk to Matt. She had a million questions to ask him—over a year’s worth, in fact. But something about the way his eyes had narrowed when he’d uttered those words suggested strongly that he wasn’t going to be the subject of their discussion. Unless, that is, she moved quickly.
“No one ever told me why you left the force,” she said.
Matt paused in the act of scooting his chair closer to the table and looked up sharply. His eyes met hers, a dusky shade of sea green, slightly wide with surprise. When he frowned, that color turned murky. Jane felt a tremor in her chest, but held his gaze as she continued.
“I tried to come see you at the hospital after you were shot,” she said quietly. “But you were in intensive care for a long time, and I was told you weren’t allowed visitors. Then it was time for Zoe and I to—”
“Leave for Maine,” Matt said. “I know. I was the one who set that up, remember?”
Remember? How she hated that word.
“Of course I do. I remember everything that has happened to me since I woke in the hospital. For example, I recall the fact that I never got a chance to thank you for all you did for me. You, and Manny.”
Her voice deepened as her throat tightened over the name. She swallowed as she gazed across at Matt, saw his expression go bleak, watched him glance away briefly before meeting her eyes once more.
“There wasn’t anything to thank us for,” he said softly. “We were doing our job. I just wish we could have finished it.”
Jane shook her head. “You went far beyond just doing a job. Despite my lack of memory, which gave you a lack of motive, you and Manny stuck with me, did everything you could…”
Her words trailed off as she thought about all the times one or both of the men had sat in her room, explaining things she found confusing, making her laugh when the darkness closed around her. She drew a deep breath.
“You were needed elsewhere. And it was hardly part of your job to arrange for me to get a new identity. In fact, I realize now that you two spent a lot of time with me, in a case that was going nowhere. That could have gotten you into a lot of trouble.”
With Matt’s eyes gazing into hers, Jane felt an embarrassed flush heat her cheeks. The word trouble, when used with respect to Matt Sullivan and Manny Mendosa, was a woefully inadequate one. It would serve her right if Matt reminded her then and there just how inadequately.
A year ago August, the two detectives had been told to put her investigation on a back burner while they worked another case. Two weeks later, Manny had been killed by an unknown assailant. That was more than “trouble.” That was tragic. And, until now, she’d been robbed of the opportunity to express her sorrow over Manny’s passing to the man in front of her.
“I wanted to call you, after I heard about Manny,” she said softly. “But—”
“I know,” Matt interrupted. “I was undercover. In fact, I heard about Manny’s death while driving up the coast, carrying some marked bills as the final step in flushing out the head of a money-laundering scheme. We got the guy, but not before he shot me.”
He paused and glanced away again. Jane saw a frown drop over his eyes. It disappeared in a flash as he returned his attention to her.
“I got your card when I finally regained consciousness. It was good to hear from you. You know how it is when you’re tied to a hospital bed—not much to do but read your cards and letters and catch up on your soaps.”
He grinned as he finished speaking. Jane was quite familiar with the way Matt Sullivan used humor to deflect pain. It was a trait she’d adopted herself, finding it easier to laugh at life as she tried to dodge its slings and arrows than to let herself be swallowed up in the shadows lurking in the darkness of her unknown past.
“Soaps?” she said, taking the bait offered. “Aren’t you the fellow who sat by my bed, telling me what a waste of time they were? How they distort reality?”
“Yep. Same fellow. Turns out that sometimes reality begs to be distorted, or at least ignored for a bit.” Again he paused. Leaning forward, he looked meaningfully into her eyes. “Only for a while, of course. Then it’s time to deal with whatever you’ve been handed.”
Jane fought the temptation to look away. “It appears you’ve done that admirably. You mentioned that you’re a private detective now. Do you like working on your own?”
“I work with my cousin, Jack. Also an ex-cop.”
“Still trying to put the bad guys away?”
Jane recalled Matt and Manny trading jokes and insults about past cases, arguing over who had found what evidence, who had missed seeing something. It had been a comfort listening to them, not just because they made her laugh, but because she learned that the emptiness she found in her mind each time she tried to recall the past hadn’t affected her ability to follow a conversation, to make the connections necessary to find things funny, sad, amusing or frightening.
“As many as possible,” Matt replied. “Keeps us pretty busy. Not too busy, though, to take up old cases. Yours, for example.”
Jane was aware that her smile had frozen. “You heard what I told Wilcox, Matt. Nothing