Secret Agent, Secret Father

He wasn’t asking a question, but her father answered anyway. “It’s a logical assumption.”

“Did Helene have a gun on her?” Jacob asked, his tone flat.

“Yes, but you didn’t shoot her. And she didn’t put that bullet in your shoulder, either. The two of you were very close,” Grace insisted, but she didn’t face him. Not yet. Not when her emotions could be seen in her expression. The doubt, the fear. Everything in her being told her he wouldn’t harm Helene. She had to believe that, for now. “You might not remember who you are, but I know what kind of man you are. And you aren’t a murderer.”

“Well, for all our sakes, I hope you’re right,” Jacob replied grimly.

“I am.” Her chin lifted, defiant; she was under control again. She was betting her life on it. More importantly, their child’s life. “How long do you think his memory loss will last, Dad?”

The doctor had remained quiet. She swung around, challenging. “Dad?”

“I can’t give you a definitive answer, Grace. We’re dealing with the brain. Anything can happen. The concussion, while it’s nothing to dismiss, doesn’t appear serious enough to have caused permanent damage. Of course, I would prefer to order him to undergo some tests and a day or more of observation to be sure.” The words came out rigid, censured. “Without them, I believe we’re dealing with more of a dissociative amnesia. A loss of memory due to a shock rather than an injury to the brain.”

“Traumatic as in Helene’s murder,” Jacob replied. “So this is mental rather than physical.”

“In my opinion, yes,” Charles answered, but he prodded Jacob’s head wound, checking it. “If that’s the case, my guess is that your memory will return in bits and pieces over the course of time.” Her father took off his stethoscope and placed it in his bag.

“What span of time?”

“There is no telling how much will come back or how long it will take.”

“He remembered his gun,” Grace commented. “First thing when he woke up.”

Dr. Renne glanced at Jacob, surprised. “You did?”

“Yes.” He flexed his right hand, spreading his fingers. “I know I’ve been trained to use it. Even if I don’t remember the when and the why.” The confidence reverberated deep within him, hollow echoes from an empty void.

“That explains the other marks you’re sporting. Two bullet scars on your back and a six-inch knife scar on your hip.”

Charles Renne moved from the bed, his bag in hand. “Some traits—like combat training or studied languages—will surface instinctively. But most memories are triggered by emotions, reactions, physical evidence. A scent. A song. Any number of things. Experiencing them might eventually help your recollection, but there are no guarantees.”

“He also remembered my name. Last night, before he passed out, he called me by my name,” Grace inserted.

“If that’s true, why don’t I remember you now?” Jacob asked.

“Something must have happened while you were unconscious. Your brain could’ve just shut down from the emotional shock,” Charles said. “If that’s the case, your mind will decide if and when it’s ready to remember.”

“If?”

“There’s always the chance you might not regain any of your memories,” Charles indicated. “Especially those from last night.”

Jacob considered the doctor’s words. The sense of danger intensified after the mention of Helene Garrett. Could he have killed a woman he considered a friend? There was no doubt he had killed before. The certainty of it resonated through him.

Obviously, some things amnesia couldn’t erase.

“I can make arrangements—”

“No, Dad. No arrangements. If he isn’t wanted for murder, he soon will be.”

“He carries a gun, Grace. One that might be a murder weapon. Do realize the implications of that?”

“Do you mean to your reputation or to my safety?”

“For once in your life, don’t be irresponsible,” Charles retorted impatiently. “So far this morning, we’ve been fortunate. It won’t take long for the police to show up on your doorstep. Then what will you do?” Charles’s gaze dropped to her stomach. “It’s not just you I’m concerned for. You’re not thinking about—”

“We agreed last night that it’s not your decision.”

“I’m required by law to report a gunshot wound,” Charles snapped. “If I don’t, I could lose my practice.”

“Do what you have to do, Dad,” she answered, the truth lying bitter against her tongue. It wasn’t the first time she’d defied him. But a few moments earlier, when his eyes moved from her stomach back to her face, it was the first time she’d ever seen fear etched in his features.

“Damn it, Grace. I don’t want to turn this into the same old argument. The man was shot. Your friend was killed. This is not about the fact that once again I’m choosing my practice over—”

“Over what? Me?” Grace rubbed the back of her neck, trying to loosen the tension. Even she couldn’t ask him to go against his oath. “You’re right, Dad.” She sighed. “I put you in this position with my phone call and I’m sorry.” The words were sad, made so by their unending conflict. “But I’m not going to budge on my decision, either. He stays with me until we figure this out.”

Jacob had been about to agree with the doctor. No matter who he was, hiding behind a woman wasn’t acceptable. But the undercurrent of emotion in the room changed his mind. Something wasn’t being said and Jacob wanted to know what it was. Better to wait and get the information from the daughter.

“I’m safer with Jacob. Trust me, Dad.” When he said nothing, she added, “Please.”

Finally, it was Charles who turned away. “The pain is going to get worse. You’re going to need morphine in a short while, Jacob. Enough to take the edge off. I can give you some but I have to go get the prescription filled.” He closed his bag and turned to his daughter. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

The threat was there, Jacob knew. He had less than an hour to find out what the hell was going on.

Chapter Six (#ulink_c59ebe05-3831-5786-97cc-4f0edae37d09)

“Why didn’t you tell him?”

“Tell him what?” Jacob asked.

“That you won’t take the morphine he’s bringing back.”

She was right, of course. He couldn’t risk being doped up if trouble started. “For a person who doesn’t know me, you understand me pretty well,” he commented dryly.

“One doesn’t discount the other,” she countered. Her gazed drifted over his face. “You’ve lost weight.”

“Really?” Jacob’s mouth twisted derisively. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Yes, well—”

“I didn’t tell him I didn’t want the morphine because I thought you needed some breathing room,” he lied. “But I agree with your father, Grace.”

“A man you just met.”

“Technically, I’ve just met you, too.”

Her body grew rigid. “You remembered Aspen.”

He’d hurt her with his comment. A vulnerability he could take advantage of, if needed. “I stand corrected.”