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6
At first her words made no sense. Then they did, and Savich felt them like a punch to the gut. She didn’t know who he was? He’d seen memory loss after head trauma, most cops had, but this was different. This wasn’t a stranger, this was Sherlock. Not only didn’t she remember the accident, she didn’t remember him. It nearly broke him, but he knew he had to keep it together, had to keep calm. It was only temporary. It had to be only temporary. He managed a smile. “I’m your husband, Sherlock. Dillon Savich.”
She frowned, never taking her eyes from his face. “Sherlock? My name is Sherlock?”
“Yes. Lacey Sherlock Savich.”
“You’re my husband?”
“Yes, I am.”
Everyone called her Sherlock? Not Lacey? How strange. Sherlock, now she’d have to get used to her odd name. She stared up at him and he saw a flash of fear, then a hint of a smile. She whispered, “If I were Stacy instead of Lacey, the alliteration would rock the world.”
For an instant he saw his Sherlock, saw her smile, heard her humor. She was in there. “Yes, you’d be a triple S.”
“Where did I get a name like Sherlock?”
Don’t let her see how freaking scared you are.“Your father, Corman Sherlock, is a federal judge in San Francisco. I understand defense lawyers try to avoid cases in front of Judge Sherlock. Your mom is Evelyn. Since the first of the year, she practically runs Davies Hall—that’s where they have classical music, symphonies. They’re both very worried about you.” Was he telling her too much? If he squeezed her hand to reassure her, would he frighten her? After all, she didn’t know him. He was handsome? He drew a breath. “We have a wonderful little boy, Sean. He’s nearly five years old, and a pistol. Gabriella is his nanny, really one of the family.”
Sherlock heard the words, understood them, and she knew they should make her feel something, remember something, but they didn’t. The life those words painted belonged to someone else. She suddenly saw a large room with workstations, men and women talking, she heard typing on keyboards, laughing, someone calling out a series of numbers, and then a door slammed in her brain again. A memory, but then it was gone, simply gone. The world began spinning, she was in a car and it was spinning round and round, and then there was nothing, only blankness.
She gasped. His arms were around her, this stranger’s arms, yet somehow familiar and strong. He smelled good. His breath was warm and sweet against her cheek, his voice reassuring. “It’s all right. Don’t worry. Everything will straighten out.” He kissed her forehead, only a light touch, but it froze her.
He felt it, knew he was scaring her. Well, he was a stranger to her. He eased her back down and lightly stroked her hands.
She forced herself to calm, focused on his face above hers. This man was her husband? He looked tough with the black beard scruff, like he could derail a train with a punch. His dark eyes were nearly black.
“I bet women are all over you. Do I have to beat them off with a stick? Maybe punch a few of them?”
He had to grin. “I guess you’ve protected me a couple of times.”
Humor. She recognized he was trying to keep it light, keep her fear at bay. She studied his face. It was hard to get the words out. “We’re really married?”
“Yes. Nearly six years. You became pregnant very soon after we married.” He paused. “Whenever I forgot and said the word ‘pregnant’ in front of you, you had to run to the bathroom and hurl. And something I’ll never forget, whenever I slipped up, you punched me.”
She pictured herself hugging a toilet, wasn’t sure if it was a flash of memory or a simple visual from his words. “Please show me a photo of Sean.”
Savich pulled out his cell, showed her a short video of Sean playing basketball with Marty Perry, his best friend for years and years, he’d say. A small boy and girl were kid-shrieking, trash-talking each other like they’d seen on TV, and then she heard a woman’s voice calling out, her own voice, “Come on now, guys, I’ve got my special lemonade ready for you.” The camera panned toward her and she saw a young woman wearing shorts and a cut-off top, her curly red hair in a fat ponytail, flip-flops on her feet and pink toenails. The kids were running madly toward her and she hugged them both and turned to walk up the steps into a house, a kid on each side of her, talking nonstop.
She swallowed, aware he was looking at her, waiting. For her to suddenly remember everything?
“The little boy, that’s Sean?”
“Yes. He loves computer games, Captain Carr and his sidekick Orkett this week. Of course, he loves basketball, would do anything to meet Steph Curry, though he claims he’s going to be tougher and shoot more threes. He’s always running around with our Scottie, Astro. Sean’s smart, a kindhearted kid, and he likes to tell people Marty’s going to be his future wife. Well, one of them.”
Oddly, that sounded okay, sounded natural. “That woman, it’s me?”
“Yes. You make lemonade from our own Meyer lemon tree. You’re as kindhearted as Sean and you’re beautiful, as you saw. And smarter than you have a right to be.”
She remembered the large room. “Do I work?”
“You do more than work. You and I are both FBI special agents. We’re at the Hoover Building, in my unit, the CAU—the Criminal Apprehension Unit. I’ll tell you all about it later. I think that’s enough for now. Time for you to let your brain relax. Don’t worry too much, everything will come back. A little time, that’s all you’ll need.”
She was a cop? A federal cop? Did that mean she was tough, like he was? The large room with all the working men and women—that was where she worked? Probably so. The person she was before the accident knew all those people, but the person she was now had no clue. He didn’t want her to be too worried? Like that was possible.
“She—I—have red hair. Really curly?”
He lightly touched a curl hugging her cheek. “Yes, and lots of it, beautiful stuff. And summer-blue eyes. You’re a knockout, Sherlock. You saw that yourself on the video.”
“Are my toenails still pink?”
“You changed to coral last week, to end out the summer, you told me, to prepare your toes for the final leap to fall red.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and closed her eyes. She wanted to cry. She whispered again, “I’m sorry.”
