Kate squeezed Mindy’s hand. “Sure. I’m not really thinking clearly tonight.” Rising, she took the untouched mug of tea to the sink. “I need to turn in. Thanks for everything today. I don’t know how I would have gotten through it all without you.”

Mindy rose from her seat and rested both hands on Kate’s shoulders. “Will you be okay tonight? Reed’s already asleep upstairs, but I could take him over to my house if you need some time alone.”

Kate looked to the kitchen stairs that led up to the second floor where her four-year-old son was sound asleep, then shook her head. She hadn’t told him the news yet. She didn’t want him hearing it from the neighbors. “No, but thanks. I need to be with him if he wakes. We’ll be fine.”

“I’m always here for you, Kate. Remember that. If you need anything, I’m just across the street.”

“Thanks.” Kate forced a smile she didn’t feel.

With a quick hug, Mindy made her way to the front of the house. When the heavy mahogany door clicked shut, Kate turned and surveyed the empty house. She was alone. Totally alone. No car would be pulling into the drive in the middle of the night. Jake wouldn’t come bounding through the door, apologizing for missing yet another dinner. She wouldn’t see his face or feel his arms around her again. It didn’t matter if he’d been a lousy husband. He’d been her husband. And now he was gone. From now on, it would just be her and Reed.

Shaky lips blew out a long sigh. She tamped down the grief that wanted to pour over her again. Even though it was close to midnight, she knew there was no way she’d be able to drift into a slumber, peaceful or otherwise.

Making her way into Jake’s office, she rubbed the chill from her arms, then sank into the chair behind his desk, letting the butter-soft leather cushion her aching body. With trembling fingers, her hand feathered the dark wood in front of her.

Her gaze washed over the room. A tall bookshelf graced one long wall. Medical books packed the shelves from floor to ceiling. A computer blinked on the short arm of the L-shaped desk. A picture of Reed smiling in the summer sun faced her.

Jake’s room, Jake’s things. She’d rarely come in here because it was his private space. An odd sense of unease settled over her as she sat in his chair.

She flipped on the Tiffany lamp sitting next to the phone and fanned through the stack of mail on the corner of his desk. The mundane task took her mind off details she had yet to address, calmed her frayed nerves.

Bills, a renewal for a medical journal, a letter claiming they’d won ten-million dollars in a sweepstakes. She tossed junk mail into the garbage can at her knee, sifted Jake’s professional mail into one stack, their personal mail into another.

She reached for the letter opener in the pencil holder and found it missing. Pulling open a drawer, she pawed through the contents, then another when she couldn’t find it.

In the back of the third drawer, she found it, along with another unopened letter. Kate shook her head, a melancholy sensation deepening her sadness. Reed had probably put these here. He was always getting into stuff he shouldn’t. Jake always got so upset when Reed moved his things.

But no one would have to worry about that anymore. With renewed sadness she ripped open the letter and glanced at the bill in her hand. Her brow creased when she saw her name. She reached for the envelope she’d just torn. Jake’s medical office was listed as the address on the outside, but it was clearly a bill for her time in the hospital after her car accident. A revolving balance showed an amount of ten thousand dollars still owed.

Jake had told her their insurance had covered everything. Looking closer, she realized it wasn’t a hospital bill at all, but an invoice from a nursing home.

Nursing home? That wasn’t right. She’d been in the hospital for a little more than a week. Four days in a coma in ICU, another three until they moved her to a regular room, then five on the med/surge floor recovering from her injuries.

She looked at the bill again.

San Francisco.

No, that wasn’t right either. The accident had happened outside Dallas. She’d been driving home from a geology conference in Ft. Worth. Her journal had been covering the event. She’d never even been to San Francisco.

The dates of service were wrong as well. They spanned more than two years.

Her hands shook as she set the invoice on the desk. A chill settled over her.

Medical records. Jake was meticulous about his files.

She swiveled toward the file cabinet and flipped through the files, looking for one with her name.

Nothing.

She yanked open the second drawer. Taxes, appraisal information on the house, medical journals he belonged to. The man even had a file with all his grades from college. He was OCD to the max.

But where were her files?

Impatience settled over her, a dismal feeling she didn’t want to acknowledge. She yanked open the third drawer, breathing out a sigh of relief when she saw medical folders for Jake, Reed, and herself.

Yes, it would be here. Someone had screwed up, billed the wrong person.

She drew her folder open on the desk, flipped through the stack of forms. A claim for stitches in her toe when she’d stepped on a piece of glass last month. A dental claim when she had to have a tooth repaired last spring. Medical updates from Dr. Reynolds, the neurosurgeon she’d been seeing since the accident. Forms and evaluations spanned the last year and a half of her life, then stopped.

No records on her pregnancy, none on Reed’s birth. Nothing from her stay at Baylor University Medical Center where she’d been treated after the accident.

They had to be in different folders. Something separate, marked “delivery” and “accident”. She closed the drawer, reached for the bottom one. It wouldn’t budge.

She pulled again, only to realize it was locked.

She fumbled through the drawers of his desk, searching for a key. An odd sense of urgency pushed her forward. She tried the few keys she found but none fit the lock. Swallowing the growing lump in her throat, she pawed through his shelves.

Still no key.

The blood rushed to her head, intensifying that dull ache around her scar.

She scrambled up to the bedroom they’d once shared and yanked open his dresser drawers, fumbling through socks and underwear and old T-shirts.

It had to be somewhere. He wouldn’t have locked the drawer and thrown away the key. Her fingers skimmed cotton and finally settled on cold metal.

Pressure settled on her chest as she pulled the key ring from the back of the drawer. Two keys glittered in the low light, one bigger than the other. On wobbly legs, she made her way back down to the office, kneeling on the floor in front of the file cabinet.

Don’t open it. Forget about the key. Forget about the drawer. Forget about that stupid bill. Nothing good can come from this. You’ve already been through enough today.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. Before she could change her mind, she turned the key in the lock. The drawer gave with a pop.

Inside, a long metal box rested on the bottom of the drawer. She set it carefully on the desk, then sat in his chair and rubbed damp palms along her slacks. The second key slid into the lockbox with ease.

Drawing in a deep breath, she opened the lid. Medical forms, evaluations, bills filled the box. She extracted each paper, scanned the dates and contents. All referenced the nursing home in San Francisco. All mentioned dates two to five years in the past.

According to the papers, she’d been in a coma for almost three years, not four days. Reed had been born by C-section when she’d been in that coma.

Her eyes slid shut. It couldn’t be. She’d had a long labor—over twenty-four hours. Jake had held her hand through the pain. She’d been wheeled into surgery when the labor had stopped progressing. Jake had been with her as her son was cut from her. He’d told her all about it. He’d relayed the story of Reed’s birth so many times, she could see it in her mind.

Tears pooled in her eyes. She looked at the papers again as her brain warred with what she’d been told and the facts in front of her.

There were no pictures. No pictures of her pregnancy. None anywhere in the house. Jake had told her it was because she’d hated being pregnant, that she didn’t want to remember what she’d looked like.

But there were none of her smiling in a hospital gown, either. None of her nursing her baby. She’d believed him when he’d said he’d forgotten the camera the day Reed was born.

She ran to the family room, yanked picture albums off the shelves, flipped through each page. Jake holding a newborn Reed. Jake giving him a bath. Jake feeding him his first solids. Oh, God. Jake smiling with him on his first birthday. In every picture, it was Jake. Not a single one of her and Reed until after his second birthday.

Panic washed over her. She’d always assumed she’d been the one taking the photos. She’d never even questioned it. Rubbing a hand over the pain in her chest, she tried to rationalize the moment. Couldn’t.

He was a doctor. He was her husband. She’d believed him. It had never even occurred to her not to. Why? Why would he lie?

No, no, no. This can’t be real.

On legs that threatened to give out, she made her way back into his office. Her eyes focused on an evaluation from a neurosurgeon she didn’t recognize.


Damage to the lateral cortex of the anterior temporal lobe as a result of

severe trauma. Prognosis: memory loss, possibly permanent and irreversible.