Kathleen Creighton - Memory of Murder

What was it, he wondered, that made one particular person’s face so arresting to another? That made one face stick in his mind? Made him want to go on looking at it, never tire of watching it? He had no answers.

At one point he happened to glance over at Brenna, and found her watching him -watching him watch Lindsey-and there was something in her eyes…in her smile…that said, Yes, I know. I understand how you feel.

The cold squeezing sensation he felt in his belly was fear .

I can’t do this, he thought. Fall in love with her? Can’t happen. Can’t let it happen. No way.

“Look at the time,” he said abruptly, sitting up and glancing pointedly at his watch. “Lindsey-long drive ahead of us. We’ve kept you people long enough-didn’t realize it was getting so late.” He was on his feet, and instantly so were Holt, Brenna and Lindsey. Lindsey looked red-eyed and exhausted.

“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Holt reminded him. “We can sleep in-well, one of us can,” he added ruefully when his wife gave a huff of laughter and poked him with her elbow. “I guess with a toddler in the house, there’s no such thing as a lazy morning. But, hey, you two should think about getting a hotel room, staying in town overnight. Drive back tomorrow. You know the freeways are going to be a nightmare with the rain. Wish we had a place to put you, but-”

He and Lindsey both assured him they would be fine, as he’d said, tomorrow was Sunday, they had plenty of time. Eventually, they were able to take their leave, amid clasped hands and hugs and exchanges of addresses and phone numbers, including cell phones, and promises to keep each other up-to-date and in close touch. Alan had Holt’s DNA on a swab in a sealed evidence bag safely tucked away in his pocket.

In spite of the rain and the lateness of the hour-nearly midnight-being Saturday night, Hollywood was still clogged with traffic. Alan turned west on Sunset, figuring to make his way to the 405 freeway and thus avoid the nightmare through downtown L.A. However, the San Diego Freeway was also moving at a crawl, which was no big surprise to Alan. He’d become familiar over the years with Southern California drivers’ customary response to wet roads, which was to proceed at normal speed in complete disregard of the fact that a little moisture on top of several months’ buildup of oily scum would turn roadways into skating rinks.

After crawling along for half an hour or so, he looked at Lindsey and said, “What do you think?”

She looked back at him and said, “It’s up to you, you’re the driver.”

So, he took the next exit and headed toward Santa Monica. Not being familiar with that town, he headed straight for the beach, figuring that would be the most likely place to find hotels with vacancies on a rainy November night. He chose the first big franchise hotel he saw-a Holiday Inn, right on the beach-and left Lindsey in the car while he went in to ask about vacancies. He was lucky; two adjoining rooms were available on the fifth floor on the side of the hotel that overlooked the ocean. He put the rooms on his personal credit card, then went back outside to the car. The rain was still coming down hard, a rush of sound that muffled but didn’t drown the occasional boom of a wave thumping down on the shore at high tide. He slipped behind the wheel and slammed the door, cutting off the noise of storm and sea.

“Got us a couple of rooms,” he said, and Lindsey nodded.

The silence seemed to wait for something more, and Alan knew there were things that probably needed to be said but didn’t know what they were or how to say them. So, after a moment he started up the car and drove into the parking garage. As they waited for the elevator, he asked her if she was hungry. She shook her head. The elevator arrived and they rode up to the fifth floor in silence.

“Guess it’s this way,” he said, and took her elbow to steer her to the right as they got off the elevator. They walked side by side down the silent hallway, not looking at each other, looking at the numbers on the doors they passed.

“Here we are,” he said, stopping at the first of the two rooms. He fished the plastic room keys out of his pocket, selected one. “You take this one-I’ll be in the next one down.” He unlocked the door, pushed it open, stepped inside. A light had been left burning over the desk. He looked around, out of habit, mostly. Satisfied the place was secure, he handed Lindsey her key. “Looks okay. Well…have a good night-see you in the morning.”

He paused, and she nodded. He turned and headed for the door, knowing he should ask her if she needed anything. If she was going to be okay. He didn’t, probably because he was afraid of what her answer would be. And because he didn’t trust his own response. Coward. The voice inside his head was so strident, for a moment he actually hesitated, wondering if it could have been spoken out loud, not just in his own mind. He glanced back at her, but she was standing exactly as he’d left her, pupils so dilated in the dim light that her eyes looked like black holes in a white mask. He went out and shut the door firmly behind him.

In his own room, he repeated the automatic check, then crossed to the closed curtains and opened them onto the vast darkness outside. He took off his jacket and draped it on the back of the chair in front of the desk, reached for his holster before he remembered he wasn’t wearing it. He emptied his pockets onto the desktop-wallet, car keys, evidence bag with Kincaid’s DNA sample, some small change and the hotel key. He pulled his shirt off and was heading for the bathroom when the knock came.

His heart jolted, but not as hard as it should have, and he realized he’d been waiting for the knock. Expecting it. Hoping for it?

Tossing his shirt onto the bed, he strode to the door, glanced briefly through the peephole, then opened it. “Lindsey?” he said.

She didn’t look the way he’d expected her to-although what that was, he couldn’t have said. She looked…angry, he thought.

“I hurt, ” she said. Her steady gaze seemed accusing.

“I know,” he said gently.

“No-you don’t. I don’t think you do. I mean, it really hurts-here, and here, and here. Physically.” She touched her face, her throat, her chest. “It hurts so bad, I wish I could take aspirin or something for it, but I know it wouldn’t help.” She took a breath, a shallow one, as if even that hurt. He stood back and made way for her to come in, but she stayed where she was, glaring at him. “I can’t stop thinking about them.”

“Who?” he asked, although he knew.

“ Them -all of them. My mother, my father, those two people in the wedding picture, Holt, Jimmy, my dad. I keep seeing their faces…they’re in my head. And every time I see them, I hurt.”

“Empathy sucks,” he said, nodding.

“I can’t seem to stop it. I just…want…to make it… stop .”

“That’s a dangerous frame of mind to be in.”

She nodded, and a frown made lines between her brows. “I know. I guess that’s why people drink. Or take drugs. Or kill themselves.”

“That’s why my mother did.” He hadn’t known he was going to say that.

Her gaze didn’t waver, and he wasn’t sure she’d heard him. He decided he hoped she hadn’t. “I wouldn’t. But I thought of something else, and it seems to help.”

“What’s that?”

She snatched another breath, as if they were suddenly in critically short supply. “I thought of you. And the pain got a lot better. So, I thought I’d find out if seeing you in person would help even more.”

“And does it?” he asked somberly, a quiver of tender laughter deep within his chest.