Linda O. Johnston - Marriage - Classified

She stiffened, then realized he might just be protecting her…again. She glanced around. Though quite a few people still milled around the cemetery, no one was close enough to hear what she said. Why didn’t Jordan let her speak?

“Jordan,” she began again, “I think my memory might—”

Once more he didn’t let her finish. “We’ll talk later,” he whispered. Out loud, he said, “There’s a little reception in memory of your father now, right inside the church. We won’t stay long. You need some rest.” He started to move her along the paved path, toward a few groups of people and away from the graves.

She let him, though she now wanted to shout at Jordan, too. She appreciated that he was trying to keep her safe. But there was such a thing as being overprotective.

The churchyard was old, full of overhanging trees and large family grave markers. Under other circumstances, Sara would have found it charming.

Now, though, its quaintness only added to her depression. Her family was buried here. Everyone—except for Jordan and her.

And someone had tried to kill her.

Inside a hall within the church, carafes of coffee had been set on tables laden with sliced fruit, donuts and cookies that looked homemade. “I’ll get you something to eat,” Jordan told her.

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.” In fact, the thought of trying to get any of that sugar down made her stomach roll.

But Jordan caressed her face gently with the side of his hand. The gesture touched her. “You need to keep up your strength, Sara.” He took her over to where June and Ramon stood. “Sara’s feeling a little peaked,” he said. “Keep an eye on her, will you, while I gather some refreshments?”

“Is all of this getting to you?” June’s tone was sympathetic. “I’m so sorry, but it’s no wonder, with everything that’s happened.” She looked less pixieish when her eyes reflected sorrow.

“You’re a brave lady,” Ramon said. His expression was admiring. “Tell me what I can do to help, all right?”

But Sara had nothing to say. There were several things she could think of that would help her, but none that Ramon, kind as his offer was, could hand to her.

The first was her memory. The second was the capture of her father’s killer. Her brother’s, too. They were probably one and the same.

She glanced at Jordan. Holding a foam plate half filled with food, he was conversing with a couple of uniform cops she didn’t recognize.

She turned toward June and Ramon, and found them engrossed in a conversation with one another. They spoke in hushed whispers. June gazed at Sara, then looked guiltily away.

They were talking about her. Didn’t they think she was bearing up sufficiently under all the strain? Or did they believe she had made up the amnesia?

She didn’t care. Even though she had experienced one small but significant snatch of memory in the last few minutes, she really couldn’t remember much. And she didn’t particularly like the way she was handling the stress, either.

Right now she felt as if the entire funeral, all the guests, were closing in on her. Creating a clutching anxiety deep inside that she needed to flee.

She surreptitiously glanced again toward her temporary keepers, June and Ramon. Neither was looking at her. Jordan, too, still had his attention focused elsewhere.

Sara took the opportunity to slip out of the church.

It was still light outside. There were plenty of people around. Sara needed to be alone.

She wasn’t stupid, though. Someone had killed her father and had attacked her. She needed to stay in a crowded place where no one would dare accost her. She didn’t go far from the church, choosing to stand in an area that appeared to be one of the cemetery’s oldest—judging by how weathered the tall stone markers that nearly surrounded her appeared. The main driveway to the church was behind her; several people were still milling around the parked cars, including media types with cameras, and uniformed cops.

She stood for several minutes enjoying the solitude, despite her sense of incompleteness. She racked her brain, trying to remember more about Stu’s funeral—the first significant memory she’d had.

Why had he been killed?

After a while, she felt a few raindrops. She looked up at the darkening sky and sighed. Coming outside had not been such a great idea, after all. She could go back in, find Jordan and ask him to take her home.

She took a few steps toward the church—but someone grabbed her. Something was shoved into her mouth, and she was wrestled sideways and to the ground, facedown, her arms beneath her.

She tried to scream for help, but the gag prevented her from doing more than make a frightened, incoherent noise. What was wrong with all those police? Hadn’t anyone seen what happened?

Jordan. Where was he? He’d wanted to protect her. He would save her.

Her assailant kept a knee in the small of her back, pinning her down. He—she?—was strong. Or was it that Sara, scared and still recuperating from her last attack, was weak?

Would she be killed this time?

The right side of her face pressed into earth that was still hard, for the rain was hardly a drizzle. Sara swallowed a whimper. She wouldn’t give her attacker the satisfaction of seeing how scared she was.

Where was Jordan?

“Now, Sara Shepard,” said a voice that was low and raspy and clearly disguised, “you will answer my very simple questions with a nod or a shake of your head. If you do well, I will let you go and you will be fine. If not, you will be executed prematurely, like your father.”

Sara felt herself stiffen but tried to stay absolutely still—except that she could not prevent her breaths from coming too fast. Something…something niggled at the back of her mind. She had been in this position before. Why? It hadn’t frightened her—then.

“Do you understand?” asked the voice. She heard a few drops of rain softly strike the person’s clothing. “Nod or shake your head.”

Sara made herself give an abrupt nod. She suddenly felt terribly alone. Jordan wasn’t coming. He would save her if he knew, but he was inside the church, talking and eating and laughing. He would feel awful when he found her body. But she was on her own.

“Good. Now, tell me—did you see who killed your father?”

That was a question she couldn’t actually answer with a yes or no. She didn’t know. But what she was certain of was that she didn’t remember.

She took the safest course and shook her head in the negative.

“You’re lying, Sara Shepard.” The knee in her back dug in harder, making her gasp in pain. Through her agony, she thought she heard a small sound, like keys jingling—or was it merely the unfamiliar rasp of her own terrified breathing?

Something else teased at the corners of her mind, then disappeared.

“Or should I say Sara Shepard Dawes?” the voice asked with a sarcastic laugh.

She nodded vehemently to that, although it probably was not a question her attacker expected her to answer. But the thought once more of Jordan in the church gave her sudden courage. He would have noticed her absence by now and come looking for her.

Wouldn’t he?

The voice stormed, “Have you really lost your memory?”

Again she nodded with no hesitation, for it was the truth.

That knee in her back. This position on the ground—She had taken self-defense courses! Of course she had. Even as a police dispatcher, she had been required to learn the rudiments.

The response came back to her now. Whether it was what she had been taught, or her own take on it, she didn’t really know.

“Are you lying, Sara?”

She shook her head carefully, as if too abrupt a movement now would cause her to forget the little bit she had, with so much difficulty, brought back to mind.