The Mysteries of Angel Butte

“Maybe,” he said, “it’s time you came home.”

Silence again. “Do you know them? My parents?”

“I’ve seen your mother. Never talked to her. Your father I have occasional dealings with. They seem like decent people, Nell. I’m pretty sure not a day goes by that you’re not on their minds.”

She was panting now. “I need to think about it.”

“Okay,” he said, making his voice gentle. “That’s good, Nell. There’s no hurry. I won’t pressure you. I promised.” He couldn’t have even said where he was; he had never been focused so intently on the tiniest whisper of sound coming through a phone receiver. All he could see was her face. Not the one in the photo, but the woman in the parking lot. His chest felt bruised. “Maybe I can call you tomorrow. We can talk. Not about this. Just to get to know each other. If you have to trust me, you should know me.”

The small sound she made might have been a laugh, or a sob. “Yes. Thank you. I’d like that. I work until five....”

“In the evening, then. I’ll call.”

“You’ve been...very kind. Thank you, Captain.”

“Colin.”

“Colin. Goodbye.”

He said goodbye, too, then sat where he was, trying to understand why he felt so much.

Damn it, he had to think like the cop he was. He wasn’t twenty-two anymore with a hero complex.

On the face of it, her story was unlikely. He’d never believed in the kind of amnesia that gave someone an excuse for having walked away from a failed life. Short-term memory loss, sure. After trauma, people often lost the previous day, say, although usually only temporarily.

In her case, if she were telling the truth, she sounded as if she’d wanted to forget. The head injury had helped her along. Given her subconscious justification to ditch memories that were too painful to hang on to.

He didn’t know if that made sense, but it was the best he could do. He was confident she wasn’t a con artist who’d learned that the Dubeaus were well-to-do and thought she’d get something out of them. Nell Smith was Maddie, no question. It wasn’t just her features that made him so sure; it was what was in her eyes. Big and brown and beautiful, those eyes had been hiding so much. They still were.

There in the quiet of his own kitchen, Colin made a harsh sound. The only explanation for his own credulity was that there was simply something about her. There always had been.

And that would have to do until he figured out the rest.

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