Karen’s sharp brown eyes softened. “That won’t be necessary. I believe you. Besides, I’ve known you more than a year, Faith, and one thing I’m sure of is that you’d never do anything to harm this shelter or the women and children who depend on it.”
“How did I … get involved here?” Faith wasn’t sure she wanted the answer, but knew she had to ask.
“The same as the rest of us.” Karen’s smile was faint and brief. “In your case, an ex-husband.”
Faith swallowed, aware of a chill but no memories—still no memories. “Do you know his name? What happened between us?”
Karen shook her head. “Those are the kinds of questions we don’t ask around here. And you never offered to talk about it, beyond saying you’d divorced him and that he worked somewhere out on the West Coast.”
“Did I come here because I was afraid of him?”
“I think you came here initially because your doctor believed you needed to know there was some place in Atlanta where you’d be safe. That’s common among abuse victims, the need to have a safe place. Also, I think, because you’d been at a shelter where you used to live, and it helps to spend time with people who understand what you’ve been through.”
Faith wished she understood—or felt what she thought she should feel. But she didn’t remember being frightened or hurt by anyone, much less a husband.
Though that would explain several small scars she had found on her body, she realized.
Trying to concentrate, she said, “So you don’t know much about my past?”
“We try to live in the present here. You may have talked more to the others, but this is considered a temporary shelter, and we have a fairly high turnover rate. I’m afraid there aren’t many still here who’d know you. Andrea and Katie, maybe Eve. I can’t think of anyone else.”
“I suppose you wouldn’t consider giving me the names and current addresses of any of the women I might have confided in months ago?”
“Against the rules. I’m sorry, Faith.”
“No, I understand.” She sighed. “If I could talk to the women who did know me, I’d be very grateful. But I also wanted to ask you about Dinah Leighton.”
Karen’s thin face tightened. “God, that’s just awful, her disappearing like that. When it first happened we all wondered about that guy she was involved with—but then we would, wouldn’t we? Not exactly an unbiased group here.”
It was the first time it had occurred to Faith that Kane might have been suspected of involvement in Dinah’s disappearance. Slowly, she said, “Did the police think he might have … hurt her?”
“The usual speculation from the media, as I recall, but I don’t believe the police ever considered him a serious suspect. According to the newspapers, his movements were pretty well accounted for during the time they think she vanished, and nobody could offer even the whisper of a motive why he might have wanted to get rid of her. She wasn’t afraid of him; I knew that and so did everyone else.”
“How did you know?”
“She didn’t have that look in her eyes.” Karen’s smile was a little sad. “The one we all see in the mirror and recognize instantly in another abused woman. The one you don’t have anymore.”
That startled her. “I don’t?”
“It’s how I knew you really had lost your memory. You don’t remember being hurt, Faith. You don’t remember the fear, the humiliation, the shame. You don’t remember cowering the way we’ve all cowered while a man used his strength and his rage as weapons.”
Faith had another realization—that there were some things in her past she hoped she never remembered. But before she could comment, Karen continued.
“Dinah had never experienced that either. And though she didn’t talk much about Kane MacGregor, what she did say was pretty clear evidence that she cared about him.”
Faith wanted to stay on that subject, but she knew all too well hers was a personal curiosity, that it wouldn’t help them to find Dinah. And they had to find Dinah, they had to.
Soon. Before it was too late.
“How well do you know Dinah?” she asked, consciously using the present tense.
The director considered the question. “In some ways, I knew—know—her quite well. In other ways, I’m not so sure. She was intelligent, compassionate, unusually generous. She was easy to confide in and kept other people’s secrets as well as she kept her own. But I couldn’t tell you anything about her past, or about what she did or where she went when she wasn’t here.” Karen paused. “She came here to do a story on the shelter months ago, and after her job was done she kept coming, volunteering her time, donating money. She met you here.”
Faith stiffened. “She did?”
“Yeah. And it was very unusual, the way you took to each other right off. An instant bond. I remember that first day, you sat on the front steps and talked for hours. I asked you about it later, and you said that for the first time in your life you were beginning to believe in reincarnation, because Dinah must have been very close to you at some point in your existence, and yet you two had never met before. You said she was the only person you could ever remember trusting instantly and totally.”
Faith thought about that for a moment. “Was I—did I claim to be psychic in any way?”
Karen’s eyebrows shot up. “You never did to me. You were always very down-to-earth, even laughed at yourself for considering that reincarnation might be possible.”
“What about Dinah?”
“Never heard anything like that from her, either.”
Which, Faith thought, meant nothing. Dinah had clearly kept the “sections” of her life separate as far as she was able. What Faith was still unsure of was which section of Dinah’s life she had belonged in: the humanitarian section where a shelter held abused women whom Dinah had clearly felt sympathy for, or the work section where there had been a story that might have endangered them both.
“Did she spend much time here right before she disappeared?” she asked finally.
“No, we hadn’t seen her in weeks. In fact, we hadn’t seen her until just after your accident, when she came to tell us what had happened. We wanted to send flowers or visit, but she discouraged us from doing either.”
“She did?”
Karen nodded. “Said you were in a coma and the doctor thought more visitors wouldn’t be advisable, that she’d keep us informed. She came by a few times, and then … we never saw her again. Things got hectic here, the way they usually do, and … time passed.”
And Faith had been forgotten. She understood that, even though it caused her a pang, and managed a smile. “I see.”
“I’m sorry, Faith. You and I weren’t close, but I should have been a better friend.”
“Don’t worry about it. One good thing about having no memory is that the slings and arrows hardly hurt at all. Karen, may I see those women who might have talked to me?”
“Katie’s the only one here today, I’m afraid. That’s her trying to play the piano. Her mother, Andrea, made the mistake of letting her ex get too close a couple of days ago, and now she’s in the hospital. As for Eve, she’s out of town visiting relatives. Should be back any day now, though.”
Faith was getting used to disappointment. She listened for a moment to the distant, inexpert piano notes. “I gather Katie is a child. How old?”
“Seven, though she seems older.” Karen’s sad smile returned. “They all grow up too fast in this house. But you can talk to her. She always liked you, as I recall.”
“How about Dinah? Did Katie like her?”
“Very much.”
The little girl was alone in what appeared to be a communal music-and-games room. She wore white pants and a Barbie T-shirt, and her long blond hair was held back from her face with pink plastic clips. She was more than a little doll-like herself. She was also extremely grave, accepting without a blink Karen’s explanation that Faith had been “sick and doesn’t remember things as well as she wants to.”
br /> Faith felt momentarily deserted when Karen left her with the little girl, then sat down on the bench beside her and said, “Hey, kiddo. What’re you playing?”
Katie frowned, wide blue eyes gazing at Faith for a long silent time before she looked back down at the keys and tapped middle C twice. “I can’t play much. ‘Chopsticks,’ but I don’t like that. Some of ‘Beautiful Dreamer.’ You haven’t been here to teach me anything new.” The last was said with a careful absence of accusation.
“I’m sorry about that, Katie.” Without thinking about it, Faith put her fingers on the keys and began playing a few notes. “Would you like to learn this? It’s called ‘Moonlight Sonata.’ Isn’t it pretty?” Music. Something else she hadn’t remembered knowing until now.
Katie cocked her head, listening critically. “It sounds sad.”
Faith stopped playing. “So it does. I’d forgotten that too, I guess. We’ll just have to find something else I can teach you. I’ll bring some music with me next time, okay?”
“You said you would.” Again, the little girl’s voice was neutral, the noncommittal tone of someone who had learned early that the wrong words, the wrong inflection, could incite violence.
Faith didn’t like the way that made her feel, but all she said was, “I won’t forget, Katie.”
Katie looked at her. “Where’s Dinah?”
Faith hardly knew how to answer. Keeping it simple, she replied, “I don’t know, Katie.”
“Why don’t you ask her?” Katie asked reasonably.
“If I don’t know where she is, I can’t really do that, can I?”
“Just close your eyes and ask her,” the child said, a touch of impatience in her voice now. “You used to. It was a game you two played. You’d close your eyes and say, ‘Dinah, call me,’ and the phone would ring.”
“It would?” Faith said numbly.
“Sure. Don’t you remember that?”
“No,” Faith said. “I don’t remember that.”
FIVE
“You haven’t said much since we got back,” Kane said.
That was true, but Faith was still unwilling to talk about all she had learned at Haven House. She had related only the bare bones—that she and Dinah had met there, that both had spent some time there. She’d told him without emotion that she had been married to an abusive man, was now divorced, and still didn’t remember any of it. She hadn’t mentioned the conversation with the sad little girl, the revelation that she and Dinah might have been connected more surely than she had previously imagined.
She wasn’t sure she believed it herself.
“You haven’t said much either.” Restlessly, she moved around the living room, ending up at the piano in the corner near the French doors, which opened onto a balcony. It was dark outside, late. Too late to do anything more, to go anywhere or ask questions or get an inch closer to finding Dinah, and if Faith was maddened by that, she could only guess how Kane must be feeling.
Then again, he’d been going through this for weeks, and by now must have learned the futility of driving himself to exhaustion, must have forced himself to accept that sleep and food were necessary, that moments of inactivity had to be endured no matter how desperately he needed to be out searching for Dinah.
“Neither of us had much luck this afternoon,” he said. “Guy couldn’t tell me any more about your accident, and nobody at the shelter could tell you anything useful.”
She sat down on the piano bench and absently picked out a tune with one hand, idly watching her red-polished nails move over the keys. “I hate this,” she murmured. “Not being able to do anything.” Both hands began playing now. The quiet music kept her from hearing the ticking of the clock on the nearby wall, but it did nothing to muffle the ticking she was conscious of inside herself. The minutes and hours were slipping past so quickly. So quickly.
After a moment, Kane crossed the room to lean against the side of the piano. “You play well.”
Made aware of what she was doing, Faith suddenly felt awkward and uncertain. Her fingers tangled, struck a series of sour notes, and went still. She laced them together in her lap. “I didn’t even know I played at all until today. Does Dinah?”
“No.” He smiled faintly. “She claims to have a tin ear, says music is just a lot of noise to her. So I consider it remarkably generous of her that she usually manages to stay in the same room when I practice.”
Faith thought that in Dinah’s place she would put up with more than noise if it meant spending time with Kane. But she wasn’t the one in love with him, she reminded herself. That was Dinah. Dinah’s memories of intimacy she remembered, Dinah’s emotions she felt.
Not her own. Of course not her own.
Trying to think about something else, she recalled the afternoon’s vivid dream. Abruptly, she said, “Isn’t it possible that Dinah’s disappearance has little to do with her work or my past, that she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and got into trouble?”
“Of course it’s possible. It’s what the police believe, since they’ve been unable to turn up any evidence to prove otherwise. But I don’t believe that. And I don’t think you do either.”
Faith hesitated. “Did—Was Dinah ever attacked by a dog?”
Surprised, Kane said, “Never, as far as I know. In fact, animals were pretty much crazy about her. Why?”
“I—had another dream today. When I took a nap after lunch. How was she dressed the day she vanished? Was she wearing jeans and a blueish sweater?”
“Yes.” He straightened, fingers drumming restlessly on the polished surface of the piano. “What was the dream, Faith? What did you see?”
“Nothing helpful, that’s why I didn’t mention it sooner. It was too dark to know where she was. She parked the Jeep near a building and—and crept closer. She was very wary, excited, anxious. Maybe even scared. And then a big dog came out of nowhere and attacked her.”
“You’re sure she was attacked?”
Faith remembered the hot breath of the animal, the tearing teeth and the way its claws had raked her flesh, and swallowed hard. “I’m sure.”
His expression was grim. “Yesterday you were sure she was being tortured.”
“Kane, all these … memories, these flashes from Dinah’s life and experiences, are out of sequence. I can’t tell what the proper order is supposed to be, if something happened weeks or months ago—or yesterday. But I think it was the night she disappeared because I’m certain she was attacked, and you would have known about it if it had happened before that night. I think the attack was a part of whatever led up to her disappearance.”
“And the torture?” He bit out the words.
“I still believe she is—or was—being tortured. I believe her captors want some kind of information from her that she isn’t willing to give them.”
“How can you know that? How can you?”
She didn’t flinch from the rough demand, but it took all her resolution to meet his haunted eyes. “I don’t know how, not really. They told me at the shelter that Dinah and I seemed like sisters from the moment we first met, that we were instantly and maybe inexplicably close. And I can’t explain that any more than I can explain any of the strange things I’ve experienced since I came out of the coma. But I know, I’m absolutely convinced, that what I’m seeing in these flashes is real. Somehow, there’s a connection between me and Dinah, a tangible bond that exists.”
“Then why can’t you tell me where she is?”
“I … don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“Have you tried?” Kane leaned toward her across the piano, his voice intense. “Have you made any attempt to reach her directly?”
Katie’s blithe assertion that she could do just that rose in her mind, but Faith shied away from it. What if she tried and failed? What if the attempt somehow severed the tenuous connection she knew existed?
“Faith?”
She felt trapped, cornered by his force, his need to reach Dinah. “I don’t
know how,” she whispered.
“There must be a way. Concentrate, Faith. Close your eyes and think about Dinah.”
She didn’t want to. With her eyes closed, the blank darkness of her mind was far more frightening, and gazing into that was not something she willingly faced. But Kane had asked it of her, demanded it of her, and she couldn’t refuse him.
So she closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on Dinah, made herself think of nothing except the question of where Dinah was. Nothing else. Nothing …
“There’s no proof,” Dinah said.
“Then we’ll have to get proof,” Faith retorted. She chewed on a thumbnail for a moment. “But carefully. These guys play for keeps, Dinah.”
“You don’t have to tell me that. If what we suspect is true, they’ve already killed to protect their secret. They won’t hesitate to kill again.”
“Oh, it’s true all right. I’m positive of that. So we need insurance, something we can use for bargaining power if we find ourselves in a corner.”
“Faith …” Dinah hesitated, but only briefly. “Look, I know how much you’ve lost. I know how angry you are—”
“No, you don’t. You don’t know.” Her voice was harsh, clipped. “They took everything away from me, Dinah. Everything. And they got away with it. The goddamned bastards got away with it.”
“Which is all the more reason why we have to be careful now. We have to be sure, Faith. We have to get proof, and it has to stand up in court. Otherwise, you’ll never get your justice.”
“Justice?” Faith looked at her with an odd little smile. “Yes, of course. Justice.”
“Faith—”
The scene shifted dizzily, and she found herself back in that dark, damp room, her wrists bound to the arms of the chair. Her hands were numb, and when she looked down at them through blurred eyes, she saw that the wires had cut into her flesh almost to the bone. Scarlet blood dripped steadily onto the floor.
Idly, she wondered how much she had left.
“Tell me.” The man’s voice was astonishingly quiet, almost mild. She tried to peer up at him, but the dimness and her swollen eyelids made it impossible to see anything but a shadow looming over her. “All you have to do to stop the pain is tell me what I want to know, Dinah.”