“But just that small space of time?”
“Apparently. Like I said, when I woke up, I had no recollection of what had happened. The last clear memory I have was of getting ready to go for a walk. That last Wednesday, after all the rain.”
“Anywhere in particular?”
“What?”
“The walk, heading anywhere specifically.”
Henry’s, she realized. No one had asked her that until now. A shudder passed over her.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I—” She stopped, clasped her hands in her lap. “I just realized I’d been going to check on Henry. And now he’s…”
“Dead.”
She nodded, blinking against tears.
“I wondered if you saw him that day?”
“I don’t remember.”
“There’s no reason you wouldn’t have, is there?”
Would there be? The gaping hole in her memory shouted, “Yes!” but she shook her head. “I don’t imagine.”
“I wonder if that was the last time you saw him alive? I wonder what you talked about?”
She didn’t have an answer and after a moment he went on. “Actually, Mrs. Abbott, I’m not a complete stranger to TML,” he said. “As you can imagine, many a criminal has suffered from ‘amnesia.’”
“I’m not a criminal.”
“I’m not saying you are.”
Subtle stress on the “you.” Implying someone else involved was. Someone close to her.
Logan.
Rumsfeld went on. “The way I understand it, traumatic memory loss can be caused by a physical trauma, but also a psychological one. For example, an experience so disturbing or upsetting, the subconscious suppresses it.”
A psychological trauma. Could that be the cause of her amnesia?
“What do you think, Mrs. Abbott?” The detective looked her in the eyes. “What could have been so very traumatic, you had to block it out?”
Bailey stared at him. Her heart pounded heavily; her mouth had gone bone dry. “Henry,” she said. “Finding him. His blood was on my clothing.”
“What else?”
“I don’t know.” She twisted her fingers. “That wouldn’t be enough?”
“You tell me. Would it take something you would want to deny with every fiber of your being, Mrs. Abbott? What could that be?”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying, Detective. I don’t remember anything else. Just Henry’s blood!”
He leaped on the comment. “So, you do remember something?”
“Yes … no…”
The other detective spoke up. “You look pale, Mrs. Abbott. Could I get you a glass of water?”
She looked at him, grateful. “Yes, thank you.”
Rumsfeld went on. “Just a moment ago, you said you didn’t remember anything.”
“I don’t … didn’t, I mean. Yesterday I awakened from a nap.… I thought I’d heard a gunshot and I looked down and saw … blood.”
He frowned. “There was blood on you?”
“Not right then.” She brought a hand to her throbbing head, the bandages, then dropped it. “I might have been dreaming it or remembering it, I don’t know. You can ask Logan about it. Or my sister-in-law. She was here.”
Carlson handed her the water. She brought it to her lips, hand shaking. She took a few sips, then looked up at the young detective. “Thank you.”
He squatted in front of her. “I’m sorry if we upset you,” he said gently. “I know you cared about Henry Rodriquez, Mrs. Abbott. I’m sure you would want to help us find his killer.”
“Of course,” she said. “I loved Henry.”
“You may have seen the shooter. You may have heard something important. A clue that will help us find who did this.” He handed her his card. “Will you call me as you remember? Anything, even something you think is unrelated?”
“I will.”
Carlson stood back up; Rumsfeld followed him to his feet.
“Thank you, Mrs. Abbott. That’s all for now.”
Bailey nodded mutely and showed them to the door, still holding the glass of water. They drove off, the truth of the young detective’s words ringing in her head.
She might have seen or heard something important. Something that would lead them to Henry’s killer.
To hell with Dr. Bauer’s warning, she decided. She couldn’t just wait around to remember what happened. She needed those memories now.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Monday, April 21
10:55 A.M.
Bailey hurried up to her bedroom. She had a plan. Dr Bauer had said her memory could be triggered by a sight, smell or sound. The last thing she remembered was being on her way to Henry’s. It seemed to her that his cabin might be the best place for her to start. If the cabin didn’t do the trick, she’d try the woods around it.
Where Henry had been shot. Where she must have found him.
She changed into jeans and a long-sleeved, chambray shirt, donned socks and boots. Hiking out there might be a better choice for jogging her memory, but she didn’t feel strong enough.
Bailey headed back downstairs and outside. The way she figured it, she had about an hour until Logan returned. She was certain he wouldn’t approve of her plan, and didn’t want to give him the opportunity to talk her out of it.
She fired up the Range Rover and headed out. The closer Bailey came to Henry’s cabin, the more her feeling of dread grew. Her every instinct urged her to turn back.
But that didn’t make sense. How could she hide from what she already knew?
Apparently, quite efficiently.
No more. She had lived through whatever it was once, she could do it again.
The small house came into view. The Cajun cabin was exactly how she remembered it, save for the bright yellow crime scene tape stretched across the front.
At the sight of that tape her stomach clenched.
Henry. Gone. Shot in the back.
Her friend. Dead.
A sob rose in her throat; she fought it back. Sweet, sweet Henry. Of all people, he least deserved that.
Bailey resolutely closed the distance to the cabin. She braked directly in front, cut the engine. Climbed out. And collected herself, her thoughts.
Three little steps. The garishly bright crime tape. The short walk across the porch to the front door.