Kiss Page 17

  “Why?”

  “Greener grass.”

  “In Victoria?”

  “It’s a wireless age.” He gestured to his laptop on the coffee table. “Green grass grows almost anywhere.”

  “You’re obtuse and annoying.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “You’re a danger to yourself.”

  Shauna drank her tea to give her time to fathom what he meant.

  “A danger?”

  “Because you don’t know what you are doing.”

  “There it is: so tell me what I am doing.”

  “I am not the one to tell you.”

  “Then who is?”

  Miguel crossed his hands over his stomach. He nodded to her drink. “You almost done with that?”

  “It’s rude to run off a guest.”

  “It’s rude to wear out your welcome.”

  Shauna scooted to the edge of the sofa cushion and set down her half-full mug on the coffee table, struck by an idea. She stood and walked around the coffee table, then sat on its opposite edge so that she was knee to knee with Miguel, shins almost touching.

  He shifted to put some distance between them.

  “You don’t want me to go,” she said.

  “You’re self-absorbed too.”

  His eyes seemed pained.

  She leaned forward and rested one hand on his knee, hoping for a connection, an image, a memory.

  Did she have any control over this . . . this thing, this ability at all? Miguel studied her hand but made no move to withdraw further or remove it from his knee.

  “Why would anyone want to kill Corbin?” she asked.

  He seemed not to have heard her.

  “Corbin seemed to think I was mixed up in something. He acted”—Shauna weighed her words—“secretive. Protective.”

  The staccato sounds seemed to snap Miguel out of his reverie. He met the challenge in Shauna’s gaze and matched her body posture, leaning in toward her face.

  “Do you want to be protected?”

  “What on earth am I in danger of?”

  In one swift move he took her chin in his hand, not the gesture of a lover, but of a scolding parent who wanted his child’s full attention. When he squeezed her jaw between his fingers, she winced. His frown deepened and his eyes turned glassy.

  “You are in danger of everything that you do not think is dangerous,” he said.

  “Are you dangerous?”

  “Yes.”

  For a shocking moment, Shauna thought he was going to kiss her. Or hit her. She tugged against his grip and, when she found herself immobile, she closed her eyes and held her breath, waiting for whatever came next.

  Though she had been hoping for it moments earlier, she was not prepared for the flash of light when it came—the bright promise of an insight, the expectation of a coveted piece of information that Miguel would not give up on his own.

  Nor did she expect it to be followed in an instant by blackness, immediate and total and chilling. She’d come away with nothing.

  Her mind reeled as if it had been kicked across a field. She opened her eyes and spread out her arms, palms down, dizzy.

  Miguel was on his feet, standing back from her, his chair toppled as if he had jumped up and knocked it over. He was staring at her, one hand bracing the crown of his head, the gesture of a desperate man.

  He leaned over and gripped her by the arm, yanked her upright off the table.

  “You really ought to go.” This time, there was no discrepancy between the words’ meaning and their delivery. He marched her out of the room.

  On the way past the sofa, he bent over to scoop her folder off the seat, slapped the manila against her chest so that she was forced to take it, then, still gripping her arm, dragged her to the door.

  “There are things you need to forget,” he said, throwing the door open with his free hand.

  What had happened? How had this gone sideways so quickly?

  “You sound like Wayne,” she complained, sinking under the burden of disappointment again.

  “Like who?” Miguel’s grip tightened and her fingers began to go numb.

  “Wayne Spade. A . . . colleague.” The image of Miguel leveling that gun would not leave her mind. “You know him, I think. Don’t like him, I’d guess.”

  “And why would you guess that?”

  “How many journalists you know walk around threatening to kill people?”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “Does Wayne know you’re here?” Miguel asked.

  Shauna shook her head. Miguel released her and she let herself sink against the wall, hopeless. Nothing about this man or his place in her past life—real or imagined—made any sense at all to her. He dragged a hand down over his neat beard, considering her frustration. She slid down the wall into a squat and tipped her head back.

  “Shauna.” When she looked at him again, he was kneeling in front of her. The sound of his voice, now soft, speaking her name, was hope resurrected.

  “I am helping you in ways you can’t understand right now. Whatever this looks like to you, I need you to believe that it is protective. It is for your best.”

  She shook her head.

  “Shauna.”

  “I need more than that.”

  “I can’t give you more.”

  “You mean you won’t.”

  “I mean I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Miguel sighed and reached for her shoes, which she had kicked off just a few feet away. He cradled her right foot in his hand and slipped on her shoe in one smooth motion, a gentle act that caused her mind to drop every other crushing reality except one: this little bungalow in Victoria, Texas, might be the only safe place for her in the universe.

  He did the same with her left foot, and then helped her to stand.

  “I will tell you one thing that you ought to know.”

  “Please.”

  “Wayne Spade is not your friend.”

  “How about something I don’t already know?”

  Miguel stared at her. He dropped her hand and took a step back. All tenderness abandoned, he laid a hand on her shoulder and directed her out the door.

  “You will not come back here,” he said.

  She turned around and he set the door between them. She heard the dead-bolt turn.

  20

  Shauna did not see much of her surroundings as she pointed her car north and set it on the highway back toward Austin, where Wayne and the legal system expected her to be. She needed to process this. She needed a plan.

  Going to Victoria had been a ludicrous idea. On the other hand, it was no more ludicrous than her other method of fact-finding, to be sure—stealing people’s memories. And Miguel Lopez in the flesh was at the very least confirmation that the memories she took were real. Her faith in her ability was on the way up.

  She had become a memory stealer without having the foggiest idea where this skill had come from. But she understood so little these days, and she had other more important questions to sort out.

  How could she get more memories? And how could she get the ones she needed most—the memories that she could use to reconstruct her own story? She needed to try harder than she had so far, hoping with haphazard wishes for something to happen.

  Shauna tried to boil down her experiences to the bare minimum factors that were present each time she’d experienced a dream or a vision. By the time she reached the little rural town of Gonzales, she had narrowed the field to two:

  Physical touch.

  Emotional vulnerability.

  The first was easy; the second much harder to create. She could only invite that kind of openness in a person. She couldn’t demand it. And still unknown was whether she could fish for particular memories. If she was at the mercy of neurons that fired through history at random, unearthing the truth would take too long.

  And the cost to her pride might be more than she was will
ing to pay. The whole fiasco with Scott Norris could very well show up in print someday.

  Nevertheless, by the time she entered the southern city limits of Austin, she had formulated a thin plan to gather as much of the truth as possible from Wayne.

  No more secrets, he had said. She would hold him to it.

  Shauna considered rebooting Corbin’s phone but thought better of it—what if Wayne recognized the number?—and pulled off to use a gas station’s pay phone instead. She called Wayne. He picked up before the first ring had sounded through.

  “Shauna?”

  “Way—who is this?”

  “Shauna, where are you? We’ve been worried sick!”

  “Uncle Trent?”

  “I came in this morning to see you, honey. Wayne told me you know everything.”

  “Not quite everything, I’m sure.” She wondered how many lies Wayne had told her father’s best friend to keep up his charade, how many plates of deception Wayne could spin at the same time. She would need to take care with what she said or risk endangering Trent Wilde’s life as well.

  “I’m sorry for the secrets, Shauna. I wanted to talk with you about it myself when the time was right. That came sooner than expected. I hope you under-stand why we felt it was necessary.”

  “Of course.” Although this particular piece of knowledge left many other questions unanswered. “Where’s Wayne?”

  “Gone crazy with worry.”

  “I left him a note.”

  “Not always enough, sweetheart. He’s wrapping up a shower.”

  “Tell him I’m on my way in.”

  “Better: meet us at Town Lake in half an hour. The picnic area off the south parking lot. We’ll pick up some breakfast.”

  “I’d really rather—”

  “Landon is back in town, Shauna. Let’s talk first before you see him again.”

  “If I’m lucky I won’t see him again.”

  “Town Lake it is, then.”

  “Uncle Trent? How’s Rudy?”

  “Missing you, honey. But otherwise fine. Pam Riley knows her stuff.”

  “Can you talk to Patrice for me? About lifting her lockdown? Letting me back in the house to see Rudy?”

  “Well, I can talk, but as to whether she’ll listen . . .”

  “Landon won’t even try to convince her.”

  “I’ll do what I can, sweetheart.”

  “Thanks.”

  “See you soon.”

  She waited in the grass along the side of the bike path, watching the water flow downstream and contemplating whether her idea would work or fail spectacularly. If the latter, she would probably face consequences that she could not foresee. Maybe she should abandon this angle, dream up something more reasonable.

  As if anything about her situation fell into the category of reasonable.

  She heard a shout—her name—and turned to see Wayne waving at her and walking ahead of Trent Wilde. Wayne outpaced his boss in just a few strides and reached Shauna quickly, pulling her to him.

  “You’re okay! Where did you go? Why didn’t you tell anyone?” She had not expected the worry in his voice, and it set her on edge, deception after deception.

  She could play along.

  “I left you a note—didn’t you see it?”

  “I did, but after Smith’s murder I couldn’t imagine . . . you should have woken me up, or Khai. Someone. Where have you been?”

  “I . . . the murder rattled me too. I needed some time to think.”

  “Think here next time, okay? With me? I can give you space and stay close at the same time.”

  He was so dangerously convincing.

  “I will. I promise.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I just . . . drove. To clear my head.”

  Shauna turned to greet Uncle Trent, but Wayne kept an arm around her waist. She leaned into him willingly even as Trent placed an affectionate kiss on her forehead.

  “You look good, honey,” Trent said, smoothing the front of his wool blazer. Black turtleneck today, contrasting with that fuzzy white hair.

  “Feeling better.”

  “Glad to hear it.” His permanent smile widened. The man was downright optimistic at all times and never failed to warm her heart.

  “Does Landon know about the murder?” she asked Trent.

  “The news stayed local as far as I know. If he heard, I doubt he knows you’re connected in any way,” he said.

  “I’m not exactly connected.”

  “I doubt Landon and Patrice would see it any other way,” Wayne said.

  “Well, so far the press is in the dark, fortunately,” said Trent.

  The dreadlocked Scott Norris flashed across her mind. She would have to promise him yet another favor to keep him quiet on that point.

  Instead of explaining, she said, “And so we’re going to treat this news just as we’ve treated the accident.”

  “There’s no need to treat it any way so long as Landon remains unaware,” said Trent. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?” He winked at Shauna.

  “That’s not really up to me, is it?”

  “What do you mean?” said Wayne.

  “Detective Beeson comes around asking more questions and Landon will figure it out soon enough. Nothing I can do about that.”

  “You were an unfortunate witness,” Wayne said. “He has your story, no need to keep poking around in it. And Landon is almost never around these days.”

  He spoke so easily for a man with a dead man’s camera and phone in his possession. She kept her voice level. “The detective has no reason to think my story’s true. I don’t even understand all of it myself.”

  Wayne squeezed Shauna. “What you know is true. You’re still too wrapped up in everything you think you don’t know, Shauna. Have a little faith.”

  Oh, she did have plenty of faith in the truth she had unearthed thus far.

  “And we’ll make Beeson go through the attorney, honey,” Trent said. “This will be over soon.”

  “That would be nice. I’m ready to move on, put the past behind me.”

  Wayne’s eyes caught hers and brightened.

  “I’ve talked to Delaney,” Trent said. “You meet with him Thursday?” Shauna nodded. “He says this whole thing can be handled in a simple plea agreement. You won’t even have to serve any time. We’ll keep your record clean, get you moving on with your life.”

  “That sounds nice. I need to start looking ahead.”

  “You let us help with that, okay?” Wayne said.

  “That’s right, honey. You let us help. I’ve got a place for you at MMV if you want it. You come with us to Houston, and I’ll make sure my girl is taken care of. But you take the time you need, hear?”

  Shauna smiled and hoped it looked genuine. “That is really more than I deserve. Thank you.”

  “Not at all. Now, Wayne, my man”—Trent handed over to Wayne a white paper sack that he’d been holding—“you two fill your bellies while I go pay my respects to the senator. Gotta be on the afternoon puddle jumper to catch a meeting tonight.”

  “Thanks for coming all the way out, Uncle Trent.”

  “Happy to do it, sweetheart.”

  He shook hands with Wayne, and Shauna watched him leave.

  Wayne released her waist and took her by the hand, then led her down the path to a picnic table in view.

  “I can’t tell you what a relief it is to me to see you move on.”

  She breathed more evenly, buoyed by the possibility that he believed her claims. “I never meant to worry you about it.”

  “No no no. It’s not like that.” Their steps hit the ground in sync. “But I do care about you.”

  “You’ve been wonderful. I’m sure I haven’t made it easy.”

  “Well, that’s not your fault now, is it?” He set the bag on the table and turned to take Shauna’s other hand, so that he held them both as she faced him. She couldn’t have choreographed this more to her favor.
“But your choosing to leave the past behind does make things easier. There’s only so much I can do to help with that, and the rest of the time I have to stand on the sidelines and worry about your getting hurt. This way you’ll get—we’ll get—a clean slate. Come with me to Houston.”

  Wayne’s request was so full of anticipation that it invited her to take a step closer, closing the gap between them. She looked her first real intentional opportunity in the face.

  He half leaned, half sat against the short end of the table.

  “I have to wait for the trial.”

  “Maybe not so long, if we can strike a plea agreement.”

  “You don’t care about the Ecstasy charges?”

  “I don’t believe there’s anything to them. And I know what I believe about you.”

  She dropped her eyes and her voice. “Which is?”

  “That you are stunning and wise and incapable of hurting anyone.”

  Wayne was taking this act to greater distances than Shauna had anticipated. She tried to match his stride.

  “And you have been more kind than I deserve.”

  He smiled at her.

  “How about the drug trial, my therapy?”

  “Nothing that can’t be done in Houston.”

  “And what about Rudy?”

  “What about him?”

  “I can’t leave him.”

  “Houston isn’t that far away. You’re making excuses now?”

  She laughed. “No, I’m just trying to think through everything. Think in a new direction.” She made sure to look directly into his eyes. “You seem to know how to get me where I need to go.”

  She slipped her arms up onto his shoulders, half wishing she could have the security he offered instead of the hit-or-miss answers her pretense might be able to get from him. She allowed her fingertips to brush the fine hairs at the base of his neck.

  On the other hand, did it really matter if there was no clear-cut line between what he willingly offered her and what she wanted to take? Maybe not. She had to know what she was capable of learning.

  He pulled her closer to him and she went willingly. “I don’t know what I would do without you,” she whispered.

  “No need to find out,” he said, so close to her that she felt rather than saw his lips move.

  This time, she waited for him to kiss her. She closed her eyes and in the breath it took him to meet her lips, she set her mind firmly on the night of the accident—on Cale Bowden’s accident report, on the skid marks she’d seen on the bridge, on Wayne wading into the water to save her—hoping that Wayne’s mind might give up what it had stored away.