Page 73 of You Know Why

“This matches the SUV from the airport that Andrew Locke got into?”

“It does. But if he’s with them, he’s not visible. Not to say he’s not lying in the back seat, making sure he’s not recognized.”

“And this is the car that was ditched later that night in the junkyard?”

“We’d need a closer analysis, but black SUV fits. I think we have another set of suspects, Captain.”

“Okay. You get up to Nashville and interview Brooklyn Locke. I’ll run this through the system and see what pops. Great work, Detective.”

She grins at him. “Let’s get an ID on these bastards. Then you can congratulate me.”

Dazed and Confused

Brooklyn

While I’m still trying to wrap my head around this Auntie Eden person, and the crazy things she was saying about Trey (Football? Air Force? First wife?), a young doctor enters my hospital room. He has a limp, leans on a cane, and radiates a gentle intelligence. He stops by the bed, and Margot moves to the other side to give him some room to work.

“Welcome back, Mrs. Locke. I’m Dr. Lui. How are you feeling?”

I’m really unsure how to answer this question. “Weird.”

He has a crooked smile. “I’d be surprised if you weren’t feeling off. You’ve been in and out of consciousness for a few days, and you’ve had quite a brain injury. Concussions this severe can be very dangerous. The good news is, I expect you to recover fully. You’re young and healthy, and if you’re diligent, we should get you out of here in no time.”

He proceeds to examine me, gently, humming under his breath. It is not a tune I recognize, but I feel like I should. And that sums up exactly the sensation in my brain: that I should know the song, the band, the words, the life, but can’t quite get there.

Thumps on my elbow, my knee. My leg jerks. “Squeeze my fingers, yes, that’s good. Follow my finger with your eyes, there, and there. Oh, wonderful.”

“Is it normal not to recognize people?”

He tilts his head. “You know who is here in the room, yes?”

“My sister. But she doesn’t look right.”

“How does she look?”

“Wavy. Like I’m seeing her through wet glass.”

“Interesting.” He does a thorough eye exam, looking so deep and close it’s almost as if he can see into my brain.

“The light hurts.”

“Hmm. There’s no damage to your ocular muscle. Sometimes after a head injury, it takes a minute for your synapses to begin communicating. I think this is temporary. Let’s see how things progress.”

“When can I go home?”

“Soon. Soon. Let’s give you a few days to get your feet under you, and then we’ll reassess. You’ll need to be cleared by PT, OT. They’ll get you up walking this afternoon. You might be unsteady for a bit. We’ll see. Never fear, my dear. I believe you will be well again quite soon. I am very pleased. Every mark hit. Good job. Any more questions?”

Only about a million . . . “Why can’t I remember my children? I mean, I recognize their names, but them as people . . . it’s not there.”

“I’ll wager your most recent memories haven’t quite kicked in yet. That’s not entirely unusual. What do you remember? The accident? The day of the accident? The week leading in?”

I think. It hurts. There are flashes—a kitchen with a white marble island covered in almond flour, the barking of a dog, afternoon light streaming through the tall windows in the flat, the Juliet balcony overlooking the Tour Eiffel . . . but no, that’s wrong. That’s a different life. A before life. One I sense isn’t right.

“I’m not sure. It’s all jumbled together.”

“It’s not unusual for you to blank out a traumatic event like this. With the kind of brain injury you’ve sustained, it could take weeks for everything to click into place. Don’t worry. You’ll recall what you need. Anything else?”

“My timeline is off. There are . . . discrepancies.”