“Yes, but just recently.”

“The night-”

“No. But recent.”

“And you’re afraid to ask him if he came by, if he called for you. I can see that. You don’t want to sound needy. You don’t want to sound injured or damaged.”

“It isn’t that.”

“Then it’s…?” Katherine viewed her compassionately.

“Complicated,” she said. “I explained that.”

“He’s married? Something like that?”

“No. I mean, yes, but no… not like that.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m good.”

“To the contrary, you wouldn’t be here if you were good. I could suggest we meet again soon. That you contact your friend and see if anything he tells you helps at all. I can prescribe a sleep medication if you-”

“No, thank you.”

“As you wish.”

Fiona glanced at her wristwatch.

“I have plenty of time,” Katherine said. “But I’m a student of body language and I can tell when a patient wants out.”

“It shows?”

“You could have gotten most of this off the Internet, maybe did, for all I know. That leads me to believe you came here wanting more than the Wikipedia version of memory loss. You’ve suggested there could very well be an emotional component, and yet are reluctant to discuss what that may involve. You were pushed or hit, and you have memory of a man calling your name, and I must say you display some of the indications of an abused or battered woman, including your steadfast refusal that this friend of yours could ever do such a thing to you. That’s textbook, Fiona.”

“I know that.”

“Because?”

“Because I know that,” she said.

“From experience,” Katherine said. “Correct me if I’m wrong.”

Fiona stared angrily. “You’re wrong,” she said.

“Okay, I’m wrong.”

“It’s complicated.”

“That doesn’t forgive anything. Nor does it usually explain it.”

“No, I don’t imagine so. You probably get that a lot.”

“My work is to untangle the complicated. To simplify. To help you to simplify, actually. Your brain can tie a knot across your memory, Fiona. We work together to untie that knot and the memory may very well return much quicker.”

“And if I don’t want the memory?”

“Will you block it forever? No. I would doubt that.”

“No, I didn’t think so.”

“Do you want my help?”

“I thought I did. Now, I’m not so sure.”

“You have to want it.”

Fiona set her jaw.

“Fear is so elusive,” Katherine said. “It’s a bit of a magician. It can make itself appear much larger than it actually is. It’s our unwillingness to look at it, to confront it, that allows this inflated presence. Most of the time, when we face our fears we let the air out and realize there wasn’t much to it after all.”

“And when it’s justified?” Fiona asked.

“Well, then it’s more… complicated.”

“Exactly,” Fiona said.

“But talking about it is where to start. Keeping these things inside, given your current situation, isn’t going to help anything. I’ll be honest with you: your memory is going to come back-that’s my prediction based on a good deal of experience. Talking to me may or may not precipitate that return. But your sharing your fears with me, your discussion of the emotional context will greatly improve how you handle the memories when they do return-this I can promise. You don’t need to do this alone.”

“But I do,” she said.

“I’m here,” Katherine said. “Day or night, I’m here.”

Fiona bit her lower lip because she felt it quivering, felt her eyes well. She stood from the chair, offering her back to Katherine, and tried to keep calm as she walked out of the room.

17

“You okay?” Boldt asked from the Jeep’s passenger seat.

Beatrice half-slept in the backseat, rolling a lazy eye as the men spoke.

“Yeah. Sorry. I petitioned the court about acquiring a DNA sample and was turned down. It’s a child abuse case.”

“The toughest there are.”

“Right. So I’m a little out of sorts.”

“Understandably. Any way around it?”

“Maybe. Might be. I have an article of clothing-a pair of panties. But ultimately I need the embryo’s DNA and that’s apparently not going to happen.”

“And another scumbag remains out there.”

“Something like that.”

“You can always lie to the bastard and hope he comes apart, though such guys rarely do. And never discount the value of a fine piece of entrapment. Any felony will do.”

Both men laughed into the windshield.

“The offer still stands for you to sit in on the Boatwright interview.”

“We’re good,” Walt said.

“You don’t have to drive me around. I can rent a car.”

“It’s my pleasure. I thought I might canvass the neighbors or his employees about any knowledge of Gale or visits to the house. I’d like to start eliminating potential suspects. That is, with your permission.”

“Don’t need my permission,” Boldt said. “Other way around. I’m the guest here, and I appreciate your helping me out.”

“I wouldn’t mind talking to Matthews,” Walt said, “if you think that’s possible.”

“Easily arranged.”

“I can pay her if necessary. Bring her over here, if you think that’s possible.”

“No need for that,” Boldt said. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to help out. If you nail down a suspect and the suspect is a tough nut you might want to bring her over. She’s extremely good at reading people and leveraging weaknesses in personalities. But that’s for down the road.”

Walt could see Boldt went somewhere else, staring out the side window. At first he thought the landscape had grabbed him, overcome him the way it could. But the longer the silence went on, the more Walt suspected something else was going on, that he’d triggered something without having any idea about what he’d done.

“Hell of a place you live, Sheriff,” Boldt finally said at the end of a long sigh.

No man in his seventies looked like Marty Boatwright without the help of plastic surgery. His watery eyes and the chicken skin on the backs of his hands gave him away. He greeted both men, meeting the Jeep in the driveway, then escorted Boldt inside. As Walt parked the Cherokee, he imagined Boldt would likely take that to the bank-guys like Marty Boatwright didn’t greet anyone in their driveway; the impending interview had rattled the man and had put him on the defensive before it began.

The 11,000-square-foot log home sat on three acres carved out of a hill, giving Boatwright an unobstructed view of the Warm Springs side of the Sun Valley ski area. The property was terraced into two cascading drops, both supported by four-foot stone walls, with a narrow creek falling down waterfalls and collecting into a half-acre pond at the bottom, just this side of the helicopter pad that had drawn the scorn of his neighbors.

On the bib of lawn that supported a large flagstone terrace and dining patio, a garden worker struggled with an invasive tube root in the first of three successive flower beds. A wheelbarrow topped with fresh soil sat alongside a tarp and a variety of garden tools.

“How’s it going?” Walt said, immediately sensing the man’s unease. Not an atypical reaction. He tried to soften the moment. “I have the same problem in my backyard,” Walt said. “Can’t stop the things.”

“I transplanted one indigenous aspen seven years ago, and there’s not a day I don’t curse the decision. If I’d gone with one from a nursery… They don’t send out tap roots like them natives. The indigenous… their suckers come up everywhere, and most of the time I let them be, but not when they invade my flower beds.”

“You’re replanting.”

“I am.” The man seemed more relaxed.

“In July.” Walt tried to sound interested instead of accusatory.

“Mr. Boatwright wanted it done.”

“Bad timing.”

“Tell me about it. Too hot in the days to get anything decent started. The lilies were doing fine in my opinion. I’ll fill it with annuals and worry about it next spring.”