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“Not once did I threaten your life.”
“Perhaps not in those words. But what did you expect I’d think when you told me your father had left you all his money and all his guns?”
Yeah, not my finest moment, but I’d been desperate.
“I’m—”
“Please,” he said. “Don’t bother apologizing or trying to make excuses for your words. We both know it’s bullshit.”
“Hey, I—”
“Let me finish. I care about your wife, Mr. Steel. I believe I can help her, and I believe that’s what you want from me. She’s been through so much trauma that she had to split off from herself to deal with it. She needs therapy. Good therapy, and I can provide that.”
“That’s what I’m paying you for.”
“I want to help her. I do. But if she dissociates, she may require hospitalization.”
“Then you need to make sure she doesn’t dissociate again. Our child needs her intact.”
“I’m afraid I won’t have any control over that. It’s doubtful she’ll dissociate in a session. If it happens, it will be because she either remembers something traumatic, or because something new and traumatic happens. You’ll need to watch for the signs.”
God help me. My sweet Daphne. I exhaled. “What signs?”
“Loss of memory, for one. She may not remember an interaction with you that you recall clearly.”
My mind raced. Had that happened? No, it hadn’t. At least not yet. Good.
“A loss of self-identity.”
“What’s that?”
“You know your wife. She’s a devoted mother. If that changes, she may be dissociating.”
“I can’t imagine she’d turn her back on our child.”
“She wouldn’t. At least Daphne wouldn’t. The other personalities may not have the emotional attachment to the baby, however.”
I cleared my throat. A question hovered on my lips—a question I didn’t want to ask but had to.
“Doctor, is my child safe with Daphne?”
Chapter Two
Daphne
I ran into the library and uncrumpled the wad of paper in my hand.
Dear Brad Steel,
* * *
How important is it to you that your wife never finds out what happened to her? How much are you willing to pay?
* * *
I’ll wait for your call.
* * *
A friend
I gulped.
His wife? I was Brad’s wife. Something had happened to me? Something I didn’t know about?
My heart dropped into my stomach.
My hands shook as I attempted to smooth out the crumpled paper. I couldn’t put it back in the envelope now. Why had I even looked?
What could I do?
Nothing had happened to me. Except…there was still a lot I didn’t remember. A phone number was written on the bottom of the paper.
There was one way to find out what this was about.
I’d call the number.
“Hello?”
“This is Daphne Steel. Brad Steel’s wife.”
A throat cleared. “Mrs. Steel. What can I do for you?”
“You can tell me where the hell you get off trying to extort money from my husband.”
The words left my throat before I could think about them. I wasn’t going to allow this to happen to my husband, to our family.
I became a lioness, fierce and protective.
I was no longer timid Daphne Wade, a colorless flower.
I was Daphne Steel, a full yellow bloom.
And I was angry.
Passionately angry.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I got your message. Let’s come to terms now.”
The deli owner’s daughter listened intently to the voice on the other end of the phone.
She didn’t blink. She didn’t falter.
She’d always been able to separate logic from emotion, ever since she began working in her father’s shop. There was something soothing about slicing deli meats. Thick, thin, or shaved. The rhythm of the industrial slicer.
Pull. Slice. Wrap. Hand to customer and smile. “What else can I get for you today?”
It was just meat. Not a dead animal. Meat. Sustenance. Her family’s livelihood. She loved deli sandwiches, especially the Bronx Bomber. Pastrami and egg salad. The reuben was also great. Corned beef on rye with sauerkraut and swiss cheese.
Yum.
“I see,” she said to the voice. “What proof do you have of any of this?”
The woman’s voice rattled off one fact after another.
Sad. So sad. Daphne had a lot to live with. It was the deli owner’s daughter’s job to make sure she could.
“And you say you know who did this to her?”
“Yes,” the voice said. She listed three names.
Hmm. Two of them sounded vaguely familiar. Maybe all three did. Perhaps they’d come into the shop a few times. The deli owner’s daughter dealt with a lot of different people, and she prided herself on recalling the names of her customers.
“Why weren’t they prosecuted?” she asked the woman on the other end of the phone.
“They weren’t caught.”
“You clearly know who they are. Why haven’t you turned them in?”
“I’d rather use the information for my own gain.”
Pull. Slice. Wrap. Hand to customer and smile. “What else can I get for you today?”
The rhythm that kept the deli owner’s daughter in step. The rhythm she fell into when emotion threatened to overcome her.
“Is there anything else I can get for you?” she asked into the phone.
