Page 78 of You Know Why

“This is very confusing.”

She puts her phone into her back pocket. “Brook, listen. There’s a lot that’s happened while you were out. Serious stuff, okay?”

“Tell me.”

“The night after your accident, after Trey’s parents were killed in Georgia? Someone tried to kill you at the hospital. There was a man there—Eden actually ran into him, leaving your room. They think he hurt you. The FBI is investigating. The media has been relentless. That’s the other reason we have security watching our every move. So I think we need to be focusing on finding out why Trey left instead of worrying about anything else.”

“I would agree.” A male voice comes from the doorway. A tall dark-skinned man with a well-trimmed goatee looms. He knocks on the doorframe, pro forma. There is a woman with him, gray hair, kind eyes. She feels familiar, and dangerous. Her hand is wrapped in an ACE bandage, like she sprained her wrist.

“I’m Agent Sheehan, FBI. This is Detective Lee, from the Malogen, Georgia, Police Department.”

They show their badges. All very official.

The woman has fierce attention to detail—her eyes are roving all over the room, and me.

“Have we met?” I ask her.

“Yes. Briefly. The night of your accident. When we heard you were awake, Mrs. Locke, we came as quickly as possible. Thought maybe we could talk about your husband.”

“We can talk, but I don’t know what good it will do. I’m having memory issues.”

The FBI agent raises one eyebrow. “Really. Memory issues.”

Something in his tone settles in my skin, and I am seized with a sudden urge to protect myself and my family at all costs.

“Yes. I have a traumatic brain injury. My memories are damaged. I honestly don’t know what’s happening with Trey. My sister can confirm this.”

“It’s true,” Margot says automatically. “It’s been very upsetting, for us both.”

“Huh. Well, that’s a shame. All right. Let’s try something else.” Agent Sheehan shows me a picture of a young man. It’s a mug shot. He has dark hair and amber eyes, and my heart does a little jitter. Be careful. I shake my head.

“Sorry.”

The cops exchange a glance. “This is your husband, Mrs. Locke. Are you telling us you don’t recognize him?”

Margot is watching me with concern.

“Is it?” I ask her. “That’s Trey?”

“This is Andrew Locke,” Agent Sheehan says.

I look closer. “I mean, he feels familiar, so I’m going to have to take your word for it. He looks . . . different.”

Detective Lee is still eyeing me. “You really don’t remember me at all?”

“I can’t say one way or the other, to be honest. You see, everything is there, but not all of it, if that makes sense. Like the memories are hovering nearby, I just can’t access them. It’s all unclear. I’m really sorry.” I look at the woman. “What’s your connection again?”

“I investigated Chloe Locke’s murder. In Malogen. Your husband was my primary suspect.”

Malogen. That was the town in Chloe’s obituary. And here we are, back to Georgia, again. Everything ties to Atlanta and its suburbs, someplace I haven’t given more than a passing thought to in years. Atlanta is where the local designers like to go to find their treasures. Clothes. Furniture. I’ve been with Margot once or twice, watching her gleefully grab throw pillows and drapes for clients. It is not a hotbed of intrigue. At least, it never has been before. Now, it’s a marker. Atlanta, where my husband left me. Atlanta, a place he panicked about flying into, even though it was only for an hour. Atlanta, where my life was stolen from me.

I hate the place.

And I hate the way the FBI dude is looking at me, like I’m some sort of appetizer. His expectant air is choking me. I need to tread carefully here.

“I’ll take your word for it. I don’t remember anything about the accident or the days leading up to it. It’s almost all a big blank.”

Margot places herself between us, blocking their access to my bed.