She felt as if he’d doused her with cold water. “Why?”
“About Henry, they said.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Absolutely not. In fact, they asked about you and I told them you were still recovering from your accident.”
“They wanted to talk to me?”
“It’s nothing. I explained about your amnesia and directed them to speak with Dr. Bauer about it.”
Obviously, he didn’t want her talking to them. Was he protecting her? Or someone else?
Maybe he was protecting himself?
She shook her head slightly, wondering where that had come from, chasing it away. “Thank you. Have you eaten?”
“I have. Can I get you something?”
“I can do it. I’m thinking a big bowl of oatmeal.”
She was aware of him watching as she busied herself making it. Like he was counting every step, measuring every move. It made her feel oddly uncomfortable. She thought of asking him why or to stop, but didn’t want to hurt his feelings.
She turned toward him. They said each other’s names simultaneously.
“Logan—”
“Bailey—”
They stopped, laughed, then said in unison. “I’m so sorry about—”
They stopped again. “You first,” he said.
“No, you.”
He crossed to her and took her hands. “I’m sorry I acted like an ass with Billy Ray last night.”
“I’m sorry I acted like a petulant teenager. Stomping upstairs that way.”
“It’s my fault. Besides, you have a legitimate excuse.” He tenderly touched her bandages. “How’s your head this morning?”
“Better. A rubber mallet’s replaced yesterday’s hammer.”
He bent and kissed her. “Did you take something for it?”
Before she could answer, his cell pinged the arrival of a text. “Hold on, I need to check this.” He did, then stepped away. “I’ve got to go. My attorney’s on his way.”
“Your attorney? On his way where?”
“To meet me at the sheriff’s office.”
She blinked, confused. “I don’t understand.… You’re just going in to answer a few questions about Henry. Why do you need a lawyer?”
“Because there are people who think I have something to hide.”
Like Billy Ray.
And his own wife.
Why had she thought that? She had seen and heard Billy Ray’s arguments, they added up to nothing more than wishful thinking.
He lightly touched her brow. “Why the frown?”
She hadn’t realized she was frowning and tried to relax it. “I wish you didn’t have to go.”
“I know. Me, too.” He kissed her again, lingering, then groaned and stepped away. “I better go.”
“Yes.”
He started for the door, then stopped and looked back. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“What?”
“That I want my lawyer with me.”
But it did. To her. It felt wrong.
She clasped her hands together. “Call me when you’re finished.”
He said he would and she watched him leave, then reheated her oatmeal. Although she had lost a taste for it, she forced herself to eat every bite.
Something nagged at her, like a sliver or a bug bite. Irritating, festering.
What happened the day of her accident? The two days before? Why couldn’t she remember?
The bump on her head, Dr. Bauer said. She had no reason not to believe him, yet she had this terrible feeling … this sensation of something terrible and dark hanging over her.
Bailey stood, carried her empty bowl to the sink. She told herself to shake it off. It was the memory loss making her feel this way. The big blank spot where those three days were supposed to be. She rinsed her bowl and set it in the dishwasher. Maybe she’d give Dr. Bauer a call? Ask him about it, ask if most of his patients felt this way.
The doorbell pealed. She dried her hands, then went to answer it. Two men, both in sport coats and ties, one young and the other middle-aged, stood on her front step.
She didn’t open the door and the older of the two held up a shield. “Mrs. Abbott? Detectives Rumsfeld and Carlson, Saint Tammany Sheriff’s Office.”
She cracked it open. “There must be some mistake. My husband is on his way to your office.”
“No mistake, ma’am. May we come in? We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I thought my husband already told you that I—” She stopped, realizing they knew very well what they were doing. “I see,” she said, stepping away from the door to allow them in. “He’s being questioned there, and I’m being questioned here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the older one replied. “May we sit down?”
“Of course. This way.” She led them to the keeping room, with its windows facing the gardens. The sun tumbled through, warming her.
The detectives sat directly across from her. She found their gazes uncomfortably intense. “We understand you had an accident on Wednesday?”
“Yes.” Her hand went instinctively to the bandages. “I was riding. I fell and hit my head.”
“How? What caused the fall?”
“I don’t remember. In fact, I don’t remember any of it.” She moved her gaze between the two. “But I think you already know that. Am I right?”
Neither responded. The older of the two glanced down at his notebook, then back up at her. “You’re suffering from Traumatic Memory Loss, TML.”
“Yes,” she said. “Retrograde. That’s what the neurologist called it.”
“His name?”
“Dr. Bauer.”
“First name?”
She got the feeling the detectives already knew it. They were one up on her—she didn’t have a clue. She told them so. “I’m sure that information would be easy enough to come by.”
“Of course.” He looked at his notes. “What, exactly, does ‘retrograde amnesia’ mean?”
“Actually, Detective Rumsfeld, I’m sure Dr. Bauer could explain it much better than I.”
She saw something sly in the detective’s expression; it caused a shudder to ripple over her. This man was not her friend. “And I will ask Dr. Bauer, but right now I’d like to hear it from you.”
“It means the blow to my head affected my memory.”
“Does it?”
She met the detective’s gaze evenly. “Yes. That’s what Dr. Bauer said.”