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  Tonight, he could have packed in seven hours, a luxury he occasionally indulged in. Instead, at midnight he sat awake at home, by Rudy’s bedside, only half-aware that he couldn’t have slept if he’d wanted to.

  Rudy slept trouble-free.

  The house was silent, empty except for the security detail that Landon found ways to ignore. Patrice had left after dinner, gone to Houston for a public appearance at a pediatric hospital first thing in the morning.

  She had kissed him good-bye at the garages.

  “You seem distracted tonight,” she observed.

  “I was thinking about some of the things Shauna said.”

  Patrice set a small overnight bag in the trunk of her car, then returned to Landon, who held her purse and coat. “Don’t you know by now how to prevent that girl from keeping you up at night?”

  “Yes. In fact I’ve become quite good at it.” He helped her into the jacket. “Maybe unfortunately good.”

  Patrice faced him. “Well, try to get some sleep tonight.”

  “You do the same. We’ll need it in the next couple of weeks.”

  She smiled and ran a light hand down his arm. “I’m not planning on sleeping much at all in the next four years.”

  He kissed her on the nose. “Then I’ll spend my waking hours tonight planning to make insomnia a reality for you.”

  She wiggled her eyebrows at the double entendre and kissed him once more before heading out.

  Instead of devoting his mind to the elections, though, Landon’s thoughts turned to his daughter.

  His daughter, who was so much like her mother—beautiful and passionate and stubborn—that at times Landon found it painful to look at her. Shauna reminded him of a life he’d lost long ago, a loss he’d had to turn his back on, just to survive it. The distractions of politics and the selflessness of his sharp-witted wife, Patrice, who had done all she could to help with Shauna’s upbringing, had made it possible in some ways. Rudy, however, was the heart-beat of the new life Landon created for himself.

  Shauna, on the other hand, behaved like some gangrenous limb that wanted to be amputated.

  Her continued insistence about that campaign money disturbed him. Hadn’t her doctors said she’d lost half a year’s worth of memories? Those kinds of details got buried under more pressing matters. Even so, how had she recalled their argument, and why was she so fixated on this thing? She had never shown an interest in his business or political affairs. She’d separated herself from them years ago.

  He’d always thought Shauna’s spats with Patrice and her vocal aversion to the political world was a means of seeking attention.

  If he were honest, though, he would have to admit that Shauna had no more propensity to lie than her mother. Xamina . . . Landon sighed. Xamina, the Guatemalan beauty with a name as exotic as expensive perfume, had never failed to tell him the truth with take-it-or-leave-it frankness. Shauna, as a child anyway, had behaved much the same.

  Pressed to think it through, he could think of no time she had stopped being as direct and hopeful as her mother.

  If it’s big enough to kill for, it’s big enough to destroy everything you’ve ever worked for.

  Was it possible that Trent Wilde had misappropriated MMV’s funds for the purposes of this election? The idea turned Landon’s stomach to acid. He had entrusted the business to Trent for so long that he couldn’t recall the last time he’d studied an annual report. He’d been briefed by Trent at every board and shareholders’ meeting, which he sometimes attended by proxy. MMV had always been a healthy company. But recent years were especially fruitful. They’d set profit records every year since—

  Dear God. Every year since Trent had insisted he could take the presidency. They’d started talking about that during his second senatorial term. Seven years ago.

  If the money was dirty . . .

  Could it be that the car accident was not Shauna’s fault? That she had been targeted for her questions about the funds? That Rudy was just a bystander in all this?

  His children! Why would Trent harm them? He loved them—Landon had never second-guessed that truth.

  No, if something criminal was going on, someone other then Trent must be the instigator. Leon Chalise, for example.

  Landon patted the blankets spread out over Rudy’s outstretched legs and stood. He needed to go find a few reports. Look back through his e-mails to see if Shauna had ever sent him anything that he might read in a different light now. She communicated so little, it wouldn’t take long to review.

  He would study what he could find, then call Trent when he got on the road tomorrow morning. Put all this to rest. Begin an investigation into Leon if they had to. Get a jump start on damage control.

  Turning into the hall outside of Rudy’s room, Landon stepped past the plastic sheeting that protected the rest of the house from his remodeling project. Pam wasn’t exaggerating when she said that Landon hadn’t spared any expense to take care of Rudy. The wall between two bedrooms on this wing had been knocked out, creating one large therapy room, filled with cutting-edge, high-tech contraptions related to Rudy’s rehabilitation therapies. The work was scheduled to be completed before the elections.

  Just in time to leave his son behind.

  Landon sighed and turned down the hall that led to his office. He could get a lot done in the next few hours. He looked at his watch. Eleven fifteen.

  The night was young.

  Shauna needed so much from this one moment. She needed to know where Miguel was, where Wayne had gone with him, what they were doing to him. If Frank even knew. She needed something that would make Frank her ally. She needed so many things, and she looked for them all.

  All she saw was chaos. A jumble of apparently unrelated people and possessions, places, a history in a pile of pieces. The memories were so disorganized that she had trouble focusing on any one of them. She looked for Miguel, for Wayne, for any recognizable face, and when that began to hurt her head she started looking for her accident site, where she knew Frank had been, and then, desperate now, anything from Austin. Anything ever-so-slightly familiar.

  The sound of a ticking bomb clacked loud in her head.

  Was this the mind of a distracted, rootless man? Were no memories of his any more important than another, none more vivid than another so as to stand out? Was he so detached from his own life that he gave his own recall no priority?

  Shauna sensed Frank pulling away from her.

  Wait! Corbin.

  There. She saw Corbin’s face. She grabbed for it. Her arm barely reached it as the candy pile began to drop away from her.

  She touched the memory, gripped it in a fist, and hoped she had something worth anything.

  And she did.

  Oh, she did.

  She watched, and her hope grew, as not one memory, but an entire string of connected images flew away from the pile intact, one long candy rope of sweet success.

  She opened her eyes, breathless and happy.

  Happy? No. This was not happiness, only relief. The size and weight of this memory string was more than she first understood, a burden heavier than any other she’d lifted so far.

  And that was her burden—wasn’t it?—to carry these memories she had stolen? It occurred to her that she hadn’t tossed any of them off, that not one of them had faded from her brain since she started this mind-robbing business.

  This accumulating weight, maybe more than the loss of her own memory, was the real punishment for all she had done.

  Shauna opened her eyes, the memory sequence vivid.

  “You really did kill Corbin Smith,” she said before she could stop herself.

  Frank rolled his eyes. “You keep beating that drum.”

  Of course. Wayne had hired him. The shock of realizing that her fabricated story had in fact been the truth, all but Wayne’s planting of the evidence, stunned her.

  “You took the job because you needed the money, but you were still ticked about not getting paid for m
y accident.”

  Frank pushed Shauna away from him. “You’re nuts. I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  She stood, understanding that Frank might have just slipped through her fingers. “You rented a truck that looked like Wayne’s, drove it to Corbin’s. Snuck in and . . .” This, here, was the grotesque truth: She would have to live with this memory as if it were her very own. She felt lightheaded. She backed toward the door. “You slit his throat with Wayne’s knife. How did you get Wayne’s knife, Frank?”

  Frank laughed, nervous now. He stood and took a step toward Shauna. Her back hit the doorknob, and she reached behind her to grip it.

  “You can’t possibly—”

  “You waited for Wayne and me to arrive the next morning, and you put Corbin’s camera and phone in the back of Wayne’s truck then. You thought the police would find them before we did.”

  “Quit messing with my head!” Frank yelled. “You’re talking like you’re the one who did this. Are you? Are you with Wayne, sticking this to me?”

  “The reason why you can’t remember killing Corbin Smith is because you can’t remember anything about your life last Sunday night, can you?”

  Frank’s face confirmed her words.

  Shauna was shaking and mad now, mad with disappointment over the fact that she’d uncovered nothing to help her find Miguel, nothing to give her an edge against Wayne. She was furious over having brought this horror of an incident into her mind and heart, furious that these last two weeks of confusion had forced her hand.

  She started shouting, less concerned about what he might do to her than needing to fight against the injustice of her situation. “I know exactly what it’s like to have a gap in your mind that’s black and empty, and how desperate you feel to fill it up so that this crazy world makes an ounce of sense! I know exactly what that kind of insanity is, and how pointless is this, this futile effort of mine to pull together some sort of meaning out of other people’s memories. How do you like it, Frank? How do you like knowing that I have pulled a thread and unraveled a full six hours of your existence and left you with nothing of it?”

  Shauna took a step forward and screamed in his face. “How did you get Wayne’s knife?”

  Frank reached out and shoved Shauna into the wall. She twisted, smacking her ear against the Sheetrock. “He dumped it on me after the accident. At the bridge. Didn’t want to risk anyone finding it on him.”

  Shauna finally understood: That was why Frank had planted evidence on Wayne after Corbin’s death. That was why Wayne was so truly surprised over her discovery of the cell phone. He hadn’t counted on Frank weaseling a little retribution into that job.

  Frank placed his fingers around Shauna’s throat, and Shauna regretted her lack of self-control.

  Miguel, I’m sorry.

  She saw a way out, though, an escape a fraction of an inch wide. She leaped for it. The only thing she had going for her at this point was the fact that Frank had actually forgotten this murder. His original false denials, before her kiss, had now become genuine claims.

  If she went about this the right way, he might believe he hadn’t killed anyone.

  She started laughing like a crazy fool and said, “I can’t believe you bought all that. You know that Wayne killed Corbin—he’s really messed with you, hasn’t he?”

  Frank slapped her. Oh that burned! Her breath snagged and took too long to finally fill her lungs. She snapped back from it and raised her eyes to his. She said, “But you see what kind of claims Wayne can make, don’t you?”

  “It’s a lie.”

  “It’s not a lie that Wayne tried to hire you to kill Corbin.”

  Frank released her neck. “He did. Called me. I told him I’d do it, but . . .”

  Shauna waited, driving her fingernails into the palms of her hands. Frank studied her, as if he was momentarily confused. He frowned and pressed his fingertips to his temples, then finally said, “But I didn’t go through with it. Wayne did it himself. I’m sure of it.”

  “Of course he did,” she crooned, hoping her own lies were more believable. “But you know he’s a liar. You told me that yourself, didn’t you? You’re surrounded by liars. Wasn’t that message from you?”

  She interpreted his silence as a yes.

  “The two of you are a bad match, Frank. You bring out the . . . stupidity in each other. Wayne has cooked up such a convincing story about you.”

  He opened his mouth, but Shauna interrupted, “I have a proposal.”

  “I can’t think of any reason to—”

  “That’s because you need to think a little less of yourself, Frank. You are Wayne Spade’s hired hand.” One of them, at least. She massaged her throat. “People who hire others to do their dirty work are usually pretty high on the food chain.”

  “I don’t know what you think I’m involved in.”

  “I’ll testify on your behalf if you help me bring down a bigger fish. I won’t press charges for anything you’ve done to me. I’ll talk my friends at the police department into cutting you some slack for cooperating.”

  “How big is the fish?”

  “How does ‘presidential’ sound?”

  Frank’s eyes widened.

  “And we’ll take care of Wayne in the process. Wrap up all his stories with a nice, tidy ending.”

  “That’s more interesting to me.”

  “You bail on me, you’re on your own.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “What time is it?”

  Frank’s eyes went over her shoulder to a clock on the wall. “Eleven forty-six.”

  “Let’s go to Houston. I’m driving.”

  “First you tell me your plan.”

  “First we get on the road. Then we’ll talk.”

  The fact was, she didn’t have a plan. Not yet. But she had muscle now in the form of Frank. A necessary asset. She’d figure out the rest on the way.

  “What’s in this for you?” Frank asked as he followed her to the door. “Sweet revenge? A piece of Wayne’s big pie?”

  Shauna didn’t answer right away. The question was too personal.

  “Ah,” Frank breathed. “The boyfriend. True love.”

  At first glance, Shauna supposed, that was it. But also something larger.

  “My past,” she said, fishing the keys out of her pocket. “And my future.”

  “You have high expectations. I’d settle for a paycheck.” His stomach growled.

  “And a burrito.”

  36

  Shauna drove across midnight into Thursday morning five miles over the speed limit, understanding that few things could be worse at this moment than getting pulled over by highway patrol. A breakdown might fall into that category. A flat tire. An empty gas tank.

  No point in worrying about those. She had to stick to what she could control.

  “You know how to reach Wayne?” she asked Frank just after midnight. He sat in the passenger seat, having refused to strap the seat belt across his bruised chest.

  “You think he’s taking calls from dead men?”

  “I thought we’d send a text.”

  “Not from my phone.”

  Shauna handed Miguel’s phone across the seat to him. “Use this.”

  “Don’t you know his number?” Frank griped.

  “Never memorized it. And I don’t have the phone it was programmed into. And I’m driving.”

  “What’ll it say?” Frank started punching buttons.

  “‘Where am I supposed to go?’” Frank typed it, sent it.

  They did not speak until the phone vibrated that a reply had come in.

  “‘Touched that you remembered my number, babe,’” Frank read.

  “Wait it out,” Shauna said.

  A minute later the phone vibrated again.

  “‘Where are you?’” Frank read.

  “Tell him 71 and 10.”

  “We’re not that far yet.”

  “Doesn’t matter. If he doesn’t
know where we are, I’ll wager that phone doesn’t have a GPS unit in it.”

  “Heck no. This thing’s a dinosaur. Surprised it can text.”

  “Tell him.”

  Frank typed, then later chuckled. “He says, ‘Go east on 10.’”

  Shauna fumed. “Smart aleck.”

  “I could call him worse if you’re too timid.”

  She stuck her hand out to get Miguel’s phone back, then dropped it in her lap. “We won’t be hearing from him for a while.”

  Frank tipped his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. “MMV has a warehouse in the Houston Ship Channel.”

  Shauna snapped her head right, almost pulled a muscle in her neck. “That would have been nice to know.”

  “No time lost.”

  “Yet. You know where it is?”

  “Never been there.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Then shut up until you have something helpful to say.” She felt badly for behaving more raw around the edges than usual.

  Frank dozed off, smiling.

  What to do when they got to Houston? So much of that depended on Wayne.

  So much of that depended on her.

  She would need to make some assumptions, some plans.

  Assumption number one: Miguel was not dead. She acknowledged that might be wishful thinking rather than an informed guess, and yet she would hold on to it. If she could not assume he lived, nothing else mattered.

  Nothing else. With the thumb of her right hand, Shauna turned his ring on her finger. Once. Twice. Again.

  Assumption number two: Wayne would kill Miguel as soon as she showed up. If she stayed out of Wayne’s reach, could she keep Miguel alive longer? She wasn’t sure about that.

  What did Wayne want her to do? Or, more accurately, what did Wayne want to do to her? She didn’t think he would kill her. That was too risky a move for him in light of all that had happened, all the suspicions that had been raised surrounding the circumstances of her accident.

  Murdering Miguel, on the other hand, would cost Wayne nothing. She continued to turn the ring, then fisted her right hand, impressing the diamond into her palm.