Stolen Memory. Virginia Kantra
me. If you didn’t have so much money, no woman would put up with you.”
Could he ask about the portrait of the schoolgirl upstairs? Simon wondered. No, not yet.
“What about you?” he asked.
“Are you offering me a raise, big brother?”
“No.” Should he? What did his brother earn?
“That’s okay. I don’t need more money.” Dylan grabbed a roll from the basket in the center of the table and buttered it lavishly. “I have charm.”
Quinn Brown stomped into the dining room. He glared at Dylan and shoved a phone handset at Simon.
No charm there, Simon thought.
“Call for you,” Quinn said. “Vince Macon.”
“Damn,” Dylan said.
Who the hell was Vince Macon?
Simon had spent some time yesterday studying his company’s organization chart, trying to grasp its structure, hoping to strike a name that would spark a memory. In the process, he’d learned that Lumen Corp employed over a hundred researchers and support staff at its Chicago headquarters and that his brother Dylan—surprise, surprise—was a vice president of marketing. But he didn’t recognize the name “Macon” at all.
He had to say something. Do something.
“You take the call,” he said to Dylan.
His brother’s face froze. If Simon had been in the mood for a laugh, it would have been funny.
“You’re kidding,” Dylan said.
“No. Why?”
“Because he’s one of your biggest investors and he hates me?”
An investor. Relief eased Simon’s shoulders.
“Good enough,” he said and accepted the phone. “Hey, Vince. Simon here.”
“Simon!” The voice was hearty, warm…and completely unfamiliar. Simon squelched his disappointment. “You’re a hard man to reach. What are you doing on the island?”
“Research,” Simon said.
“Ha. Good one.” Vince Macon lowered his voice. “I heard Dylan was up there with you.”
Simon looked down the table. His brother had settled back in his chair and was watching him. “Yes.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“I don’t know,” Simon said honestly, meeting Dylan’s eyes. “But he’s here.”
“You mean, in the room? Listening?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not having any…trouble up there, are you?”
A prickle of disquiet raised the hair on the back of Simon’s neck. Trouble? Yeah. He had a bump on his head, a missing cache of cultured gemstones and great big gaps in his memory. But why would Macon ask? How would he know?
“No,” Simon said finally. “No trouble.”
“Good. I’ll talk to you later then. When are you coming back to Chicago?”
Frustration bubbled inside him. He was stumbling around in a fog, trying to avoid dangers he could not see. His blindness was bad enough here, where the only people he bumped into were his brother and Quinn Brown. Who knew what problems would trip him up outside? Better perhaps, safer perhaps, if he stayed in safe isolation on the island until his memory returned.
But his mind remained a stubborn blank. Sometimes he had a flash, a moment’s hope. Last night he’d reached for his nail clippers, and his pleasure at finding them in the drawer he’d opened so automatically had been embarrassingly acute.
He couldn’t count on such moments. They were frustratingly rare in any case. His business, his life, even his own character were like a puzzle he had to assemble without all the pieces or any real idea of what the finished picture was supposed to look like.
And yet his business and his life might depend on his ability to fit it all together.
Every day that slipped away took with it another chance to compile the pieces and make sense of the puzzle. Who had attacked him? Who had betrayed him? Who could he trust?
“Simon? You still there?”
Simon collected himself. “Yes. I’ll be back in the office soon. A day or two. I’m close to something here.”
He wasn’t close to anything, he thought bleakly.
Or anyone, apparently. The only person he felt a connection with had just told him flat out there was no reason for them to ever see each other again.
At least Laura had been honest with him.
“Great,” Vince said. “I’ll see you then.”
They said a few more words and disconnected. Simon set the phone beside his plate.
Dylan leaned forward, stabbing his lettuce with a fork. “So what did the old bastard want?”
“What do you think he wanted?” Simon countered.
Dylan swallowed a mouthful of salad. “He probably told you to kick me out before I talked you into funding my foolish, evil schemes.”
“I can’t kick you out. You’re my brother. And a vice president of the company,” Simon added.
Dylan grimaced. “That’s always been an afterthought for you, hasn’t it?”
Had it? Simon wished again, desperately, he could ask for an explanation. He went fishing for one instead.
“You’re still my brother.”
“Half brother,” Dylan said.
It was another puzzle piece. Simon seized on it. “We still grew up together.”
Dylan gave him an odd look. “If that’s the way you want to remember it.”
Simon didn’t remember his childhood at all. He had a sudden image of wedging himself on the floor between his bed and the wall to read, and a shelf full of books. But no house. No yard. No memory of friends. Not even an impression of his mother’s face.
Why were there no pictures of his mother in the house? No family at all, except the girl upstairs.
He wanted to ask, but he was afraid to show any weakness.
Laura would have asked. No one would have counted it a weakness. No one would be suspicious if she was around asking questions. It was a function of her job, a component of her character.
Simon needed answers.
He wanted an ally.
He needed Laura.
He wanted Laura.
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