“No, but when we get the intel, you’ll be crucial to helping us come up with the next steps.” Sebastian reached for the door and opened it.
Lachlan hesitated, his eyes drawn to three doors across the hall—the suite where Britt was staying. He wanted to reassure her that he wouldn’t let anyone hurt her ever again. But that would have to wait until after his discussion with Fallon.
“You must be Lachlan.” Fallon stood, extending a hand toward him. She was pretty in a way that appeared purposefully downplayed, like she was determined to have colleagues see her for her intelligence before gawking at her physical beauty. High cheekbones, full lips, and eyes that sparkled with warmth and warning assessed him.
“I am,” he said, shaking her hand.
“I never got a chance to thank you for helping to save Jemma. Her former team appreciates it more than we can express. We miss her,” Fallon said.
“DEA’s loss is the PIIB’s gain, I suppose,” Lachlan said, reflecting on the daring, middle-of-the-night rescue of Rocco’s girlfriend from a drug cartel enforcer. From what he recalled, Jemma had been forced out of her role at the organization shortly after her rescue, but found a new coveted spot with the island feds.
Fallon sat down next to Everett, then waved a hand for him and Sebastian to do the same. “Everett and I were just catching up on old times. I haven’t shared any details of my assessment of the woman called Britt with him yet.”
Lachlan tensed, wondering what Fallon had learned. What secrets the woman had unearthed that could shake his world to its core? “Well, don’t keep us in suspense.”
“I’m known for being very direct, but before I tell you my findings, you need to understand my approach,” Fallon said. “I’m not the typical clinical psychologist. While I have all the same training, my skills and expertise are honed and refined to work with a more complex clientele.”
Sebastian leaned forward. “Like potential DEA undercover agents and deadly criminals.”
“Among others,” Fallon said. Her smile revealed dimples at the corners of her mouth, softening her formidable presence. “My expertise includes cases of control and identity manipulation that lead to dissociative disorders and memory trauma. My discussions with Britt were designed for two purposes—determine whether her assumed medical condition is real, and if so, identify the likely cause.”
“Wait, you think she could be pretending to have lost her memory? Lying to us?” Lachlan shook his head. “No way.”
“I agree with you. I don’t believe she’s lying about her memory loss, but I did take her through a rigorous evaluation to come to my conclusion,” Fallon explained. “In the process, I uncovered things you should be aware of.”
“Things like what?” Lachlan asked.
“I had tests performed to determine if the cause of the amnesia was neurological or psychological,” Fallon said.
“Like head trauma experienced from being in a car bomb,” Lachlan said, feeling sick to his stomach. “If her brain was damaged, she might not regain her memories.”
“Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves,” Fallon warned. “But in theory, that’s correct. However, Britt showed no signs of that kind of trauma.”
“So she showed signs of a different trauma?” Sebastian raised an eyebrow.
“Yes. The kind of physical trauma that would have required extensive surgery performed over several months and taken twice as long to heal. I suspect she was hospitalized for two years or longer. Possibly kept in a medically induced coma for much of that time,” Fallon said.
“That timeline fits,” Sebastian said. “Britt said she was held captive for a little over a year, but we know the car bomb happened three years ago. This explains that gap.”
“Alejandro has the financial resources and the connections at the Rakestraw Blake Center to pull it off,” Everett said.
“How hurt was she?” Blood roared in Lachlan’s ears as he remembered Britt’s nightmare. The memories of being burned from the car bomb that haunted her dreams. “What kind of surgery?”
She hesitated as she looked at Everett, then said, “Plastic surgery. The scars are subtle, almost imperceptible. Most medical professionals would easily miss them, but I’ve seen them before.”
Everett frowned, then said, “It’s not uncommon for leaders of drug cartels to fake their deaths and then re-emerge with entirely new faces. Is that what you saw?”
“Yes,” Fallon responded, leveling her gaze on Lachlan.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Lachlan demanded.
“The plastic surgery performed on Britt could have been to repair severe injuries from the car bomb,” Fallon said, then paused. “Or it could have been to change one woman’s face to look like another’s.”
Chapter 23
“So you’re telling me,” Lachlan said, his voice low, “Alejandro gave some random woman plastic surgery to look like Britt? How the fuck would he benefit from that?”
He waited with bated breath for Fallon’s answer.
