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It was her who selected his picture from a stack the DA had showed her. That one decision had been the start of the witch hunt against his brother.
Catching a flash of movement to his right, he sat up straight in his truck when he realized Saige was about to disappear behind the door to her apartment building.
Alex quickly opened his door and jumped down. “Saige,” he shouted, trying to grab her attention.
She paused and when her eyes landed on him, she frowned as though she tried to remember where she’d seen him before. “You’re the guy from the restaurant?”
He nodded as he walked closer, which seemed to set her on alert as her eyes darted between him, the entrance to the building behind her, and the coffee shop across the street.
“Have coffee with me.” He wanted her to feel safe so that she’d talk to him, although she’d probably run when she realized who he was.
Or would she?
“I don’t have coffee with strangers.” She edged toward the building where the doorman had appeared, wary of their exchange.
He wasn’t a stranger.
He figured that he didn’t have much left to lose. “Saige, please. My name is Alex. Alexander Peterson. My brother is Quinten Peterson.”
She froze at his words, all color drained from her face as her hand reached up and covered her mouth, muffling the gasp. “You look different than your photographs,” she stated, tilting her head slightly.
He nodded in agreement, and continued, “I’m not going to hurt you, but I really need to talk to you.” He edged closer. “Please, Saige. My brother didn’t hurt you, or those girls. Please just talk to me.” He glanced toward the coffee shop. “Let me buy you coffee. It’s busy so you won’t be alone with me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Saige stood frozen in place as the minutes slid by and Alex began to wonder if she was in shock, then she slowly nodded. “Will you answer my questions?”
He wondered what was going through her head and what questions she could possibly have. His gut reaction was to tell her no, because of what she’d done to his family…to his brother…to his own life. He would have to compromise though because he had questions of his own. “I’ll answer them if I can,” he alluded.
She waved to the doorman to let him know she was fine before she slowly moved toward the coffee shop. Alex watched her walk past him and turned to follow. Once inside, the waitress led them to a table by the window.
He didn’t like the fact that the shop was so busy, but he was desperate and would take anything he could get at this point.
A young waitress strolled up to their table, took their orders and she was gone as fast as she appeared.
Saige rubbed her brow and frowned, her eyes searched his face. Tilting her head to the side, she asked, “Have we met before today?”
He stared at her wondering what to say because she genuinely seemed confused.
“You really don’t remember me, do you?” He searched her face, looking for the truth in her expression.
“No.” Tears sat thickly on her lashes, but they didn’t fall as she blinked them away. “I think I should...my head has started to ache.” She kept rubbing at her forehead. “When did we meet?”
He wouldn’t mention her time with Quinten, but he could give her something. “We first met the summer before you were taken.”
The waitress returned with two steaming cups of coffee and set them down before leaving them alone.
“I don’t remember.” Saige gritted her teeth and wrapped her hands around the cup. “I don’t remember the summer before at all.” She swiped at a lone tear as it trickled down her pale face. “I wish I did. My memory has a large black hole in it, and it drives me crazy. Surely, if anything, I should have only blocked out the five days I was...I was tortured. Instead I have two and a half years missing.”
“What?” He was stunned by her words.
No way!
“Are you sure?” he questioned, leaning forward.
Her hands shook as she raised her mug, sloshing droplets of coffee onto the table. She gave up and placed the cup back down. “Am I sure? Of course I’m sure.” She waved her hands around. “Don’t you think I want to remember? I’ve no desire to remember what he did to me, but I sure as hell want to remember the rest.” The anger she felt was evident in every sharp movement of her hands and body as she became agitated.
“I was found at the end of November. I know that simply because people told me that, but I don’t remember it. All of my memories end at the Easter party my stepmother had arranged for her friends. It was boring, but I was there and remember it. My next memory starts two and a half years later when I woke up in that horrible, private hospital. My father finally came and took me home. I want and need to remember, but every time I’ve tried over the years, I get one hell of a headache. Sometimes it’s a migraine that makes me physically sick.”
He sat back and let her words sink in because she certainly believed what she told him.
