His hand was yanked away from his ear. He spun, surprised, but Laney had a grip on the phone, managed to tug it free. Immediately she snapped it shut. He stared at her. “What the hell?”

“Let’s just think for a minute, okay?”

“Think about what? Sophie’s dead. He killed her. Tortured her. We have to call the police.”

“And tell them what? That we broke into her house and found her dead? How’s that going to look? They already believe you’re a killer.”

“Yeah, but I’m not, remember? And why would either of us hurt Sophie or her boyfriend?”

Laney shook her head, slipped his phone into her pocket. “No police, baby. We can’t.”

“Why not?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Just raised her hands and ran them through her hair. “It won’t solve anything.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You said he threatened Robert, right?”

“Yeah, but . . .” Daniel spread his hands. “Look, it’s different than before. He killed Sophie. And her boyfriend. The police will go after him now. And if we tell them everything, there’s no reason for him to hurt Robert.”

“What if he doesn’t need a reason?”

“So we’ll have Robert come with us. He’ll be safe while we—”

“Listen to me.” She stepped forward, took his hands in hers. Her gaze was steady, those hypnotic blue eyes locked on his. “We can’t go to the police.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that. I know why you want to call them, I do, and I wish we could, but we can’t.”

“Why—”

“I know how confusing this must all be. I can’t imagine how scared you are. I’m scared, and I do remember my life. But we can’t go to the police.”

He opened his mouth to argue. Yes, things looked bad, but who would really believe they would murder Sophie?

On the other hand, what did going to the police accomplish? There still wasn’t much to point them to Bennett. The man was careful, would surely have worn gloves, collected his spent bullet casings. Besides, even if by some miracle the police did catch him, it would lead only to a trial and—maybe—jail. What kind of end was that? A cage wasn’t enough. He wanted Bennett dead. Dead for all the things he’d done to Laney before they even met, and for every obscenity he’d wreaked on their lives since, and most especially for Sophie. Daniel was a writer, and he believed in the justice of a story, and the only ending that fit was Bennett’s death.

But before he could say a word, before he could argue with Laney or agree with her, a terrible thought flashed across his mind. What if she didn’t want him to go to the police, not because of what Bennett would do, but for some other reason?

What if there was more going on here than he knew?

“Please, baby. I love you. And I need you.” His wife stared up with eyes wide and soft. Her hands were warm against his. He could smell a hint of citrus, her shampoo, and it smelled wonderful. “Can you trust me?”

I don’t know.

God help me.

I don’t know.

T

he plane shook the world.

This close to LAX, every 747 on a westbound approach was a streak of white he could almost touch. Each started with a subsonic tingle in Daniel’s deep belly, then a rumble that became a roar, and out the window the plane would to come to ground like a long aluminum duck, landing lights bright, the blur of superheated air through the engines making the moon wobble.

Eleven o’clock in another shitty motel, one of those long-stay places for C-list businessmen. The “kitchen” was a microwave atop a mini-fridge. The flowered bedspread wilted. A stink of cigarettes rose from the sofa. Out the window was a parking lot hemmed in by the 405. A steady stream of head- and taillights rolled in each direction, people with places to go, safe warm homes waiting for them. On the other side was a billboard for a movie, Die Today, with a glowering actor pointing a gun at him.

He was Sophie’s client. Daniel raised the disposable plastic cup, took another swallow of bourbon.

“It’s not your fault,” Laney said from behind him, as if she could read his mind.

He didn’t respond. She had taken his silence as guilt over Sophie, and of course, she was right—blood on your hands, Daniel; blood on your soul—but the truth was more complicated. His head was a tangle of contradictory thoughts, of half-formed plans and animal urges. Of white-hot hate for a man he barely knew. Of fear of the police, and of Bennett, and of whatever fresh horror tomorrow might bring.

But worst of all, the terrible question. Could he trust her?

If he couldn’t, he was lost. She was the home he had brought himself back to. She was the keeper of their mutual story, the only person in the world who truly knew what they had been to each other. Until his memory came back—if it did—the only truth was the one she told.

Besides, what reason did he have to think he couldn’t? Just the fact that she didn’t want to go to the police. Even if he didn’t fully agree with her thinking, it was a big leap to deceit. To read too deep into her hesitation was like walking into a party just as people started laughing, and assuming the laughter was aimed at him. There was no evidence.

It’s more than that, you asshole. She so haunted you that before you knew your name, you knew to look for her. She hates violence, but when she thought you were in danger she grabbed a gun and chased a murderer. Her feet are always cold and your chin snugs perfectly into the curve of her shoulder and she moves her lips when she’s reading a script and, in short, you love her.

So stop it. Stop letting exhaustion and fear make you paranoid. You are who you choose to be.

Tired. He was so tired. He took another sip of bourbon.

“Won’t you talk to me?”

He turned, leaned against the window. Laney sat on the edge of the bed, hands between her knees. Her face was pale and drawn.

“I’m sorry. It’s not you. I’m just thinking.” He shook his head. “I still can’t remember her. You’d think that would have made it hurt less.”

“Why? You loved her. Like I said, there are things we do that we can’t change. Love is one of them.”

“Is it?” Yes, he realized. It was. What had he said earlier? Memories are stories we tell ourselves to explain how we got where we are. “I guess you’re right. I just . . . I owe it to her to remember her, and I don’t.”

Laney was silent for a moment. Then she leaned back on her elbows. “Do you remember Bernie?”