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She hoped so. She found herself looking at him again, really looking. He was a big man, tall and fit, muscular, no doubt about that, with his hard face, dark eyes, and thick black hair, a little too long. If she saw him on the street she’d think he was hot, maybe turn around, slip her phone number in his pocket. And this man was her husband. She’d slept with him, had a child with him, fought with him, played with him. In her mind, such as it was at the moment, that meant she could trust him. She looked at his hands—like the rest of him, they were large, competent, but his fingers— “Why do you have scars on your fingers?”
“I’ve whittled since I was a kid, it’s part of the package.”
“Are you good?”
He blinked. “Some people think so.” He wanted to tell her about his grandmother, the painter Sarah Elliott, and his talented sister, Lily, a cartoonist, but he didn’t want to overload her with information.
“How long have we been married?”
She’d already asked him that, another sign of concussion. He said again, “Six years in November. You were pregnant right away with Sean.”
“But I’m an FBI agent, how could I let that happen?”
He laughed. “It’s still a mystery. We woke up one morning and evidently something happened during the night, and then we were parents.” He gave her a sexy grin.
She started to smile at him, but she didn’t know him. She drew back. “You know I didn’t mean it that way. Listen, I heard your side of the conversation on your cell. If this Griffin is in trouble, of course you need to go to this Gaffer’s Ridge, and I’ll come with you.”
He stared at her, swallowed, and shook his head.
She bulleted it out fast, before he could speak: “Dillon, here’s the thing. I don’t want to stay here by myself. You heard Dr. Loomis, she said I could leave. You’re the person I must know best, the person who knows me best and cares about me. I trust you. Staying together with you feels right. I want to get my memory back, and being with you could help me remember.
“You told me I’m a good agent and we work together. So let’s go to this Gaffer’s Ridge and rescue Griffin Hammersmith.”
He was silent, and she gave one last push. “Really, I feel fine, it’s only my ID brain that’s offline.”
He spoke before he thought. “No, absolutely not. You were hurt, Sherlock.” It was odd, but even as he said that, he knew he’d lose this round. She didn’t realize it yet, but Sherlock could be the captain of a debate team. And she was right, they’d be together, he’d tell her more about their life. He could keep an eye on her, protect her. Savich knew he’d worry constantly, but then again, he’d worry constantly no matter where she was.
He walked to her bedside, bent over, and settled on a kiss to her forehead. He felt her stiffen, and absorbed the blow. He kept his voice light and easy, his expression never changing. “All right, we’ll leave tomorrow morning, if Dr. Loomis clears you. I’ll take Sean over to my mom’s, tell him it’s an early birthday present for both him and his grandmother. Would you like to see him before we go?”
She stilled, then slowly shook her head. “I want to, but I don’t think it would be good for him, Dillon. You’ve told me he’s very smart, so he might very well guess something was different about me and ask questions.” She swallowed. “I don’t want to take the chance of scaring him or leaving him with doubts.” It was an adult decision, but still, she hated it. If she saw her small son, would she recognize him? Would everything come rushing back? No, probably not, but maybe by the time they returned, she’d remember everything.
Savich said, “I’ll tell him you’ve got the flu and don’t want to infect him. He’ll stay with his grandmother until you’re not contagious. How does that sound?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know him.”
Savich swallowed. “He’ll buy it, plus the early birthday present for him and his grandmother. Now, it’s a four-hour drive to Gaffer’s Ridge. The Porsche—that’s my car—can shave that down some.”
Sherlock blinked. She saw a red Porsche, clear as could be. She said, “You love that car. It’s blast-out red and it drives cops wild to see it whiz by and not be able to give you a ticket when you have the siren on the roof.” She drew back, whispered, “I saw it, I saw the Porsche, I heard the siren.”
She’d seen his car, of all things. He said, smiling, “Excellent. It’s been quite some time since we’ve had the siren on the Porsche.” It was an old memory, but that didn’t matter. He wanted to ask her what she was thinking—about herself, about him, about the bizarre situation they found themselves in—but he realized it would be for his sake, not hers. And so he smiled at her again and said nothing.
