Maggie Shayne - Kill Me Again

“It won’t do any good to think about that,” Olivia said. “It didn’t happen that way. He’s okay, and he knows what he did was wrong. That’s what matters. Besides, he saved the man’s life. Bryan said so.”

“That’s no excuse.” Carrie lowered her head, sighed. “Karl says you have a two-car garage with only one car in it. So will you do it? Take his SUV and keep it at your place for two weeks?”

Olivia shrugged. “Sure, why not? I have room.”

“Are you sure? It’s huge. A Ford Ex-something.”

“It’s fine. My garage is pretty big and nicely free of clutter. My SUV’s a Ford, too. Escape Hybrid. How much bigger can it be?”

“Great. It’s in the parking lot nearest the E.R. Red with black—the paint job jumps right out at you. Hard to miss.”

“I’ll take it home now and leave mine here overnight. I can get it tomorrow morning.”

“Better leave your keys here, then. If it looks like it’s in danger of being towed, I’ll move it for you, and I’ll leave those instructions for the night shift, as well.”

“Thanks. It’s white, by the way.”

“Well, of course it is.”

Olivia paused in the middle of handing her own keys to Carrie, about to ask just what that comment was supposed to mean, before thinking better of it. She was boring. Okay, everyone knew it. That was exactly how she wanted to be.

Carrie hung the keys on a peg beside the nurses’ desk. “So what do you think about him?” she asked. “Do you think he’s that writer?”

Bringing his face to mind, Olivia said, “I don’t see how he could be anyone else.” She looked at Carrie, bit her lip, then blurted out the question on her mind. “Is it just me, or is he gorgeous?”

“Oh, he’s gorgeous, all right,” Carrie told her.

“I thought so. Just didn’t trust myself.”

“Why not? You’re that big a fan?”

“I’ve admired him so much for so long that…I don’t know, I was afraid my brain might have interpreted him as gorgeous no matter what he looked like. Though I’ll admit, I half expected a balding bookworm with Coke-bottle glasses and a pretentious goatee, or maybe a guru in white robes with a shaved head and a vow of celibacy or something.”

“I guess I need to read some of his books,” Carrie said. “But I think I’m happy for you. You got something far better than a guru or a goatee.”

Olivia glanced up at her friend. “I didn’t get anything.”

“Come on. He’s got amnesia. You’re his lifeline. And he thinks you’re hot. I can tell.”

“He thinks you’re hot, unless he’s blind,” Olivia said. And he has it all over Karl Mallory, she added silently.

“Yeah, well, he didn’t look at me the way he looked at you, I’ll tell you that much.”

“We’re cold, divvying up the poor guy like a leftover steak.” Olivia made a face. “That’s not like me. I don’t usually even like men.”

“You’ll learn to like this one, I’ll bet—if he stays in town long enough,” Carrie said.

Olivia elbowed her lightly in the ribs and smiled, but the smile died quickly. “Carrie, how is he? Really?”

“I think he’s fine. His head hurts. And head injuries can be sneaky. But so far, I don’t see any sign there’s going to be a problem.”

“But you want to keep him overnight anyway.”

“If his brain swells, he’ll be in trouble. It’s best he stays right here, just overnight. If there’s no swelling, he can go home tomorrow. Which is just as well, since we don’t even know where home is today.”

“I guess so.”

“So are you heading home now yourself?”

“Not yet. I told him I’d come back to say good-night before I left. Thought I’d run over to the vending machines and get him some junk food first.”

Carrie stared at her for a moment, her head tipped to one side.

“What?”

“I don’t know, you’re…kind of perkier than usual, aren’t you?”

“I am not.” Olivia waved a hand dismissively and went to the vending machines, then headed back to Aaron’s room with some chips, some cookies and a couple of cans of root beer.

He lifted his head when she came in, and his eyes warmed a little. She dumped her booty onto his tray table and said, “I figured this would get you through the night.”

The smile in his eyes reached his lips then. “How do you know I even like junk food?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Gotta be better than hospital food,” she said. “Besides, how do you know you don’t?”

“Oh, I think I do. My mouth is watering at the sight of it.”

“So your mouth doesn’t have amnesia?”

“Apparently not.” He tore open a bag of chips, ate one and held the bag out to her.

She took a chip and munched. Then she licked the salt from her lips and fingertips, and said, “You seem like a nice guy, Aaron. And you write beautiful, touching stories for a living. I just can’t imagine anyone having any reason to want you dead. Can you?”

He averted his eyes, and the motion felt like an obvious sign of deception, but Olivia told herself that was just her overcautious mind reading into things. She knew she often saw suspicious motives in ordinary behavior. It came from being in hiding for so long, she supposed. Using a name that wasn’t her own. Living a life that felt as frail and temporary as the puffy seeds of a dandelion. One stiff breeze and it could all blow away.

“I just wish I could remember more about my past,” he said. “I must have really pissed someone off.”

“More about your past? Then you’ve remembered some of it already?” she asked, eager to hear more.

“No, not really.”

It was a lie. It not only felt like a lie, but it also looked and sounded like one, too. He had remembered something.

Okay, now she was being ridiculous, she told herself. What reason would he have to lie to her? He didn’t even know her.

She shook her head slowly. “Most victims of violent crimes don’t jump straight to the conclusion that it was somehow their own fault. Or if they do, they shouldn’t. It could be something else. Mistaken identity, a jealous competitor—”

“Yeah. I hear the East Coast writers and the West Coast writers have a real grudge fest going on.”

“I’m not sure I would joke about this, Aaron. Someone really did try to kill you, after all, and that means there has to be a reason.”

He frowned as he studied her. “You seem to be pretty familiar with my…career. Have I been accused of anything in the press? Any violent episodes touted in the tabloids or something like that?”

She lowered her head and told herself to try to state the facts without sounding like a gushing fan. “I think if you knew who you really are right now, you wouldn’t ask those sorts of things.”

“And you know who I really am, is that what you’re saying?” he asked.

She let her eyes sweep over him, head on the pillow, toes sticking out from beneath the white covers. “I don’t know if I do or not. I know the man I think you are, based on the stories you tell. I’d like to think that man is for real.”

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me. Who am I?”

She took a breath, choosing her words with care. She wasn’t going to heap praise on him or pretend a relationship that didn’t exist. She didn’t see herself as a sappy fan, and she didn’t want him to see her that way, either. “I like to think any writer puts something of themselves into their stories. Your protagonist, Harvey Trudeau, is the main character in every one of your novels, and it seems to me his personality is probably the best chance we have of unraveling yours. I could be entirely wrong, but that’s my theory.”

“Understood. So you’re going to tell me about Harvey, and then time will tell whether the same things apply to his humble creator.”