Rebecca Zanetti - Forgotten Sins

“Detective Malloy would like to speak with us.” Her hands clutched the thick comforter with its pattern of homey tulips. She’d purchased the cover from a catalog, waiting impatiently until it arrived before choosing the whimsical table lamps that matched. She normally counted her pennies, but she’d splurged on creating her home.

The king-sized bed had been another indulgence.

Memories of heated nights and fun mornings spent grappling in another bed with Shane filled her mind. He was a big guy and needed a king-sized bed. She fought a blush.

Shane lifted an eyebrow, leaning against the wall she’d painted a soft beige. A shadow lined his sharp jawline, giving him the look of a rebel. “Why does the detective want to speak with us?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.” Blood stained Shane’s ripped shirt, a testament to the violence that stalked him. “Give me a second while I change, and we can go see what this is about.”

His eyes warmed. “Need help?”

Her abdomen heated. “No.”

His shrug made him wince. “Suit yourself.”

“Are you okay?” The unwanted concern reminded her of emotions she thought she’d destroyed.

“Fine. Just a headache.” He pivoted on his bare feet and disappeared from view.

Yeah, there was the Shane she remembered. Blocking her out on the pretext of protecting her delicate nature. Dumbass.

It was time to move on and unravel the hold he had on her. The emotions Shane evoked were raw, dangerous, and so deep. She’d never completely expel him from inside her heart.

He was a soldier and he’d staked his claim.

The sooner he left, the sooner she could return to pretending she’d moved on. Maybe someday she actually would. Her feet hit the cold wooden floor. She’d been searching for a rug for the bedroom for more than a year—someday she’d find the perfect one.

She dressed in comfortable jeans and a blue sweater that brought out the varied hues in her eyes. Not that she was dressing to impress Shane. She just liked that sweater.

Indecision had her biting her lip until, with a shrug, she grabbed a faded men’s T-shirt out of the bottom dresser drawer. On cold nights, or lonely nights, she often slept in one of Shane’s old shirts. He couldn’t very well go to the police station in the ripped one.

She found him at the kitchen table, eating the rest of the cold lasagna. “You’re hungry again?”

He finished chewing. “I like your cooking.”

The T-shirt landed on the table with a quick toss. “I have one of your old shirts. It’s clean.”

He wiped his mouth with a napkin, his gaze on the shirt. “Am I supposed to read something into this?” Deep and dark, his voice lowered to a rumble that sped up her heart.

“No.” Only that she hadn’t gotten over him yet. No matter how hard she tried to lie to herself. “Some of your clothes must’ve been mixed up with mine when I moved.” Nothing would make her admit she also kept a shirt of his she refused to wash, hidden in the back of her closet. Even after two years, his unique male scent still clung to the worn cotton.

“All right.” He whipped off the bloodied shirt and pulled on the clean one. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” One glimpse at his impressive chest and she wanted to lick him head-to-toe. Man, she needed to get herself under control. She grabbed a jacket from the small closet near the door. The emotional walls between them were suffocating her, and she needed to get outside. “We should get going.”

Shane nodded, unfolded himself from the kitchen chair, and opened the door slowly and deliberately. “Okay.”

Concern stilled her movement. “Are you all right?”

“Yep. Just a headache. I’ll drive.”

Josie thought about arguing. But why bother? He’d end up driving, and frankly, driving at night wasn’t her favorite activity. She’d liked that about Shane during their brief marriage. Driving was a pleasure for him, and she could just sit back and relax during the ride. “Whatever.”

She waited until he’d backed them out of the driveway before giving him directions. They drove in silence until he reached town. Josie picked distractedly at a fray on her jeans. “Any memories come back?” Only stubborn will kept her gaze off the capable hands on the steering wheel. She’d loved those hands.

“No.” Shane glanced again at the rearview mirror.

Josie turned to look at the cars behind them. “What are you searching for?”

“The van that followed us earlier today.”

Maybe his concussion was worse than they thought. “I think your imagination took over. You do have a head injury.”

“Perhaps.” He checked behind them again. Frustration and doubt slid across his face, to be masked by a pleasant smile. One that didn’t fool her a bit. “Regardless, I don’t sense any danger now.”

Yep. He still kept secrets now, didn’t he? Josie turned her focus to the night outside the car.

Shane exited the freeway, drove for a mile, and parked the SUV in front of the three-story brick building. Bright lights surrounded the station, banishing the night. Jumping out, he crossed to open her door before she grabbed the handle. Strong hands helped her out of the vehicle, where the autumn breeze cut into her skin.

“Ah, Josie? How about letting me do the talking with the detective?” The door shut with a soft click, and Shane gestured her forward.

“Why?” She was perfectly capable of answering questions from the police. Not only had she done nothing wrong, but she’d grown up in foster care. Dealing with authority and its agenda was nothing new for her.

Shane opened the door. “I have a feeling Malloy is after something. I don’t like that he didn’t tell you any details about his new developments.”

She was surrounded by manipulative people keeping hidden agendas, and that included Shane. Even if the amnesia was real, he wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the truth.

The waiting room of the police station held two leather couches, a myriad of live plants, and several wide orange chairs. Homey and comfortable. A slice of small town in a city that had grown unexpectedly. A forty-something woman with riotous red hair sat behind a broad counter walled off by thick glass, humming contentedly through the night shift. Behind her spread a wall of photos depicting police officers at various award ceremonies. She smiled and spoke through the speaker, her voice emerging tinny. “May I help you?”

Shane stepped forward to answer just as a buzzer rasped and a door opened next to the counter. Malloy held it open with one beefy hand. “Come on in.”

Josie pivoted to walk into a wide, quiet hallway. Shane’s broad hand settled at the small of her back, pressing her along. Possessive and protective—completely in charge. She’d forgotten that feeling of being his.

Several closed doors lined the hall as the three approached a large double door that blocked the hub of the police station from the public. Malloy pushed open a scratched metal door, gesturing them inside a conference room with a thick oak table and leather chairs. Josie slid into the chair Shane pulled out for her, glancing at the pleasant watercolor of a snowy mountain scene adorning the side wall. “Where’s the two-way mirror?” she asked.

Malloy snorted, walking around the table to sit and drop manila folders on the polished wood. “The interrogation rooms are closer to the cells. This is just a meeting room.”

Shane sat next to Josie. “Right. Exactly what are we meeting about, Detective?”

Josie leaned back in her chair and away from the comfort she’d find leaning into Shane.

Malloy rubbed his chin, studying them with shrewd and tired-looking eyes. He’d discarded the rumpled suit coat and old tie, rolling his shirt up to reveal dark hair along his arms. He focused on Shane. “Have any of your memories returned?”

“Not yet, but they will.” Shane ignored Josie’s move away and reached out to place one broad arm across her shoulders. “Have you heard from Pendleton?”

“Not yet, but I will,” the detective parroted Shane’s tone. He eyed Josie. “When you were married, did your husband ever talk about his skill set in the military?”

The arm around her shoulders stiffened, but Shane’s body remained relaxed and his expression unconcerned. Josie stilled. “No. Shane didn’t talk about his past, about his future, or about his job, Detective. I believe we’ve covered this.” Admitting her marriage was a sham settled like a rock in her stomach. She crossed her legs. “Why do you ask?”

Malloy glanced at Shane and flipped open a file, taking out three photographs to place on the table. “I ask because we found three dead bodies down by the river a couple hours ago.”

Josie sucked in air, her gaze glued to the pictures of dead men lying on metal slabs, their bodies covered by flimsy sheets. Just like on television. Shock set off a roaring in her ears. “Who are they?” she croaked out.

Malloy shrugged. “We don’t know yet. But a preliminary examination shows the first two died from broken necks.” His finger tapped on the third picture of a man with mottled bruises and cuts marring his face. “This guy probably died from an intense beating that crushed his skull—we’ll know more after the autopsies tomorrow.” The detective glanced at the damaged knuckles of Shane’s hand resting on the table.

“Any forensics?” Shane’s voice remained pleasant and unconcerned.

“Not yet. But I’m sure we’ll find something.” Malloy raised an eyebrow. “Do either of you recognize these men?”

Josie studied the pictures, a lump forming in her throat. Had Shane killed three men with his bare hands? Was he capable of such an act? Her skin pricked with awareness and a new sense of self-preservation. She didn’t know the man she’d married. “I don’t recognize them.”

Shane’s hand settled at her nape.

She jumped.

Malloy’s eyes narrowed.

Shane rubbed her neck in soothing circles that failed to soothe. “I don’t know them.”

“We found a baseball bat near one of them.” Malloy took out a picture of a metal slugger. “It was in the river, but we’ll find prints on the handle.”

Shane shrugged. “We both know you already printed the bat, and if you’d found any, you’d have said so.”

Josie stiffened. How did he know that?

Malloy surveyed her. “Are you sure you don’t recognize any of these men, Mrs. Dean?”

“Yes.” She kept her voice low to prevent it from quivering. “Why do you ask?”

Malloy reached into a second file for an evidence bag holding a battered piece of paper. “Because we found your picture in the pocket of a dead man.”

Josie reached out with trembling fingers to touch the wrinkled paper. The picture was from her firm’s website and had been printed on cheap computer paper. Her knees trembled and the air in her lungs chilled. “Why would someone have my picture?”

Shane shook his head. “So the mugging wasn’t random.”

“No.” Malloy tapped his pen on the table. “These men were looking for Mrs. Dean.”

“Why?” Josie turned toward Shane. “I don’t understand. Why would these guys be looking for me? And why hurt you?” Reality began spinning away from her along with her sense of safety. Fear tasted like acid in her throat. “How did you meet up with them?” So many questions, and the answers remained locked in Shane’s hard head.

His jaw tightened. He grabbed the paper, studying her smiling face. “I don’t know. But this picture is off the Internet, right?” At her nod, he exhaled. “We’ll discuss the safety in posting your face online later.” He tossed the paper back down. “They needed the picture to identify you. My assumption is they were looking for me, considering someone bashed my head in.” The chair creaked as he sat back. “Of course, we need to get you somewhere safe while we figure this out.”

Had those men been looking for her? What if they’d found her? No way could she have defended herself against all three of them. “The three guys with my picture are dead.” Probably by Shane’s hand.

He eyed the picture. “There could be more men after us.”

“After you.” Or maybe after her. What was she going to do? “Maybe I should take a vacation. By myself.”

He shifted his focus, his gaze wandering her face, a smile flirting with his lips. “You’re stuck with me for now, angel. Deal with that fact.” The smile did nothing to camouflage the determination setting his hard jaw.

Malloy cleared his throat. “I can put you somewhere safe, Mrs. Dean.” His chest puffed out.