Memories of Megan. Rita Herron

the whisper of a familiar scent filling the room. His cologne. The one she had given him for Christmas last year.

      The one he’d hated.

      Megan struggled to reach for his hand but her arm was too heavy. Frustration welled inside her. She focused her energy on lifting her hand, but just as she did, he took a step backward. His frame stood silhouetted in the moonlight, the dark look of concern on his face so somber, a whimper bubbled in her throat.

      What was wrong?

      It was Tom, wasn’t it?

      He opened his mouth as if to speak, his eyebrows pinched the way they did when he was trying to concentrate. But when he opened his mouth, no sound came out. She tried to reach for him again, but he slipped farther away, almost floating now, the distance sucking him in some kind of surreal vacuum… What was he trying to tell her?

      “Don’t go,” she whispered. “Please, don’t leave me.”

      His lips moved again, slowly as if it were painful, and she traced the movements, studying the words. “Be careful, Megan. Don’t trust anyone.”

      Megan jerked upright, her heart pounding. Throwing back the covers, she searched the darkness, a gasp escaping her when she saw the curtain fluttering from the opened window.

      Someone had been in her bedroom.

      The window had been closed when she’d gone to bed.

      HE HUNKERED LOW IN THE CAR, hiding in the shadows of the giant live oak, his only light the cigarette glow in the dim interior of the car. His gaze latched onto Megan Wells’s house while he pressed his cell phone to one ear.

      “How did the funeral go?”

      He snorted. “It was a funeral. How the hell do you think it went?”

      His partner chuckled. “Do you think she suspects anything?”

      “No, leastways she’s not asking any questions.” He took a drag from the cigarette, savored the nicotine taste, then blew a smoke ring into the air and watched it swirl in front of him. With a gloved hand, he wiped the fog from the tinted window. A light flickered on in Megan’s bedroom. She was awake now. Probably sitting up in bed, that blond hair tousled around her cheeks, her nightgown clinging to her supple body.

      “Good, keep it that way.”

      He jerked his thoughts back on track. Back to the scene at the graveyard. “But—”

      “But what?”

      “That guy Hunter, he talked to her for a few minutes after the service.”

      A long tense silence followed. “What did they talk about?”

      “Nothing really. Just chitchat, but he kept watching her, sort of creepy, if you know what I mean.”

      “Like a man wanting a lay, probably. She is good-looking.”

      Worry knotted his stomach. Megan Wells was a sharp nurse, intuitive, sensitive to her patients’ needs. Smart. Maybe too smart. He shrugged off the worry. “Yeah, I guess that was it.” He remembered the way Megan Wells’s long blond hair had looked spread across her pillow. Imagined the silky blond strands wound around the black leather of his glove. Damn right she was good-looking.

      Unfortunately her good looks wouldn’t matter if she started asking questions.

      Chapter Three

      Megan’s heart pounded as she switched on the light and grabbed the cordless phone. She had to search the apartment.

      Sliding from the bed, she reached for the umbrella on the desk, planning to use it as a weapon if necessary. Praying she wouldn’t need it, she inched through the room, pausing every few feet to listen for an intruder, but silence hung in the air, deathly calm and frightening.

      Her fingers tightened around the umbrella base as she rushed to close the window. On guarded feet, she tiptoed to the doorway and peered into the hallway. Nothing but shadowy blank walls. She took a tentative step, then crept down the hall and checked the small den. Darkness bathed the area, cloaking it in heavy shadows, the leaves of the ficus plant in the corner spearing the wall like thready fingers ready to grab her.

      The floor lamp looked ominous, the sofa, the closet, every small crevice a possible hiding place. Taking a deep breath, she flicked on the light, and braced herself. Thankfully her apartment was laid out as one open room, so she could see both the kitchen and den at once. Her gaze searched the parameters. Nothing. She sucked in a deep breath and tiptoed around the corner, then checked underneath the breakfast counter. Again nothing.

      Thank God. Adrenaline surged through her as she ran to the door and checked the locks, the windows, the closet. But everything remained intact. No spooky demons or monsters hiding inside or beneath anything.

      Her breathing still unsteady, she crept back to the bedroom and stared at the room. The deep maroon walls looked almost bloodlike, the shadows of the tree limbs ominous. She had once thought the room a cozy sanctuary for her and Tom.

      Now it seemed frightening. She glanced outside for the dark sedan, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. The car was gone. Still, someone had been inside her house.

      Should she call the police? And tell them what? That she thought someone had been in the house because her window was open?

      Or had she just imagined that someone had been there? Had she been dreaming of Tom? But what about the faint scent of a man’s cologne lingering in the room? Was she imagining that, too?

      Stumbling back to bed, she reminded herself how safe she had felt when she and Tom had moved in.

      Now she felt anything but safe.

      MONDAY MORNING, COLE stepped inside the research center on Catcall Island, feeling lost. His leg throbbed and he leaned on the cane in disgust. He needed a good run, some vigorous exercise to release his tension, but running was definitely out of the question. And the exercises he did to strengthen his leg were painful, slow and frustrating as hell.

      “Good morning, Dr. Hunter. I’m Connie, your secretary.”

      He offered a strained smile. Had he met her?

      “I worked for Dr. Wells.”

      “I…I’m sorry about your boss.”

      She gestured toward Wells’s office, which adjoined hers, although each had separate entrances to the hall as well. “I’m afraid Dr. Wells didn’t get a chance to tell me much about you, but welcome to the center.”

      “Thanks.” Unfortunately he couldn’t tell her much, either.

      “If you need anything, just let me know.” She backed toward her desk where he noticed the computer. “Dr. Parnell mentioned that you won’t be seeing patients for a while.”

      “That’s right. I need time to get acquainted with things.” He pushed open the door to Wells’s office. His new office. “But thanks for the offer.”

      “The delivery man brought in your boxes already.”

      Great. Only he had no idea what was in them.

      He stepped inside, scanning the space. The office seemed familiar, yet foreign at the same time. Propping the cane beside the desk, he stretched out his leg and began to rifle though the desk. The next few hours, he searched his memory for anything to jog his mind as he unpacked the stacks of research books and material he had been told belonged to him. Books and notes on schizophrenia, bipolar disorders, hypnosis, manic depression and every mental disorder known to man filled the boxes. He thumbed through each one, frowning at some of the technical jargon. Was he supposedly a specialist on one particular disorder? And if so, why didn’t any of the material ring a bell in his foggy brain?

      Hopefully they would, he told himself, he just had to be patient. Be patient and move through the days, settling in and familiarizing himself with the routine, the research center,