Death of a Beauty Queen

Dixon frowned at her. “I’m trying to get to the truth about what happened the night you were attacked. How did you get away? Why have you never come forward? Never contacted your family to let them know you’re alive? Is it because you’re afraid of your family?”

Rose gaped at him and her fingertips whitened against the back of the chair. Her other hand brushed at the scar that ran along her hairline and down her cheek. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

As he watched her, a seed of doubt took root inside him. What if she was being honest? What if she really didn’t know what he was talking about?

What if she really didn’t remember?

He didn’t believe in amnesia. There were instances where people who had been through a traumatic event might not remember the specifics, but full-blown amnesia—forgetting everything about one’s life? Nope, he didn’t buy it.

But Rosemary looked completely dumbfounded. Her wide eyes were filled with terror. Could anyone fake that kind of fear?

“Okay, then,” he said, more gently than he’d spoken to her yet. “Tell me about Rose Bohème. Who are you? Where were you born? Where did you go to school? And how did you get that scar?”

Rose jerked her hand away from the side of her head and lifted her chin indignantly. “You have no right …” But her voice faded.

“Rosemary, what happened to you?” he said gently.

Her lips thinned and her eyes glittered with tears. “Please, go away. Please, leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that. You are Rosemary Delancey, aren’t you? Twelve years ago you were attacked in your apartment. Tell me what happened that night.”

She blinked, and the tears that had been clinging to her lashes streamed down her cheeks. She shook her head. “I can’t. I don’t know. I don’t—”

“How did you get away from your attacker?”

“Get away?” More tears fell. She swiped at them with trembling hands.

Dixon turned away and paced back and forth. He wasn’t by nature a bully, although he could be as tough as he needed to be with reluctant suspects. But he didn’t know how much longer he could keep hammering away at this seemingly fragile, terrified woman. He felt like a bully.

He stopped at the window and stared out at the quiet street. If she was acting, her performance was Oscar-worthy. He turned and stared at her for a moment. “Why don’t you tell me what you remember?” he asked gently.

She wiped tears away again. She looked at the couch and perched on the cushion’s edge, then stood again and wrapped her arms about herself. She looked miserable, cornered.

Dixon had a sudden, unfamiliar urge to go to her, take her hands in his and promise her that everything was going to be all right. He’d comforted victims and families many times, but he’d never wanted to. It had always felt awkward and insincere. He knew—all too well—that a pat on the hand and a there, there, was totally useless when someone’s life was in tatters.

“You have to go,” she muttered, standing there with her fists clenched and her eyes blazing like imperial topaz. “Get out of here.”

“Rosemary,” he said. “A terrible thing happened to you, but—”

“Get out!” she shrieked, flailing her lace-covered fists. “Get out now! Or I’ll call the police!”

“Hey.” He put out a hand toward her. When had she gone from terrified to hysterical? “It’s okay. Remember I showed you my badge? I’m a police detective.”

“I’ll do it!” she screamed, her eyes glittering wildly. “I’ll call 911. I’ll tell them you assaulted me!” She turned toward a table on the opposite side of the room, near the piano, and Dixon saw the telephone there. Her purse was sitting next to it. He beat her to it.

“Okay,” he said, holding up his palms. “You’ve had a shock tonight. I’ll leave, for now.”

He stayed between her and the telephone as he glanced inside her purse. “But first, I’m going to give you my cell phone number. Okay?” He eyed her carefully.

Her eyes were still wild and her face was unbearably pale except for the pink splotches, but she didn’t move as he dug in her purse.

“That’s my—” she started, but he silenced her with a gesture.

“All I’m going to do is call my number from your phone. Then you’ll have my number and you can call me if you need me, okay?”

She put her fingers to her left temple and rubbed, squinting at him. “I want you to go!” she said, her voice rising again.

“Okay, okay.” He touch-dialed his number on her keypad, then hit the stop button once his phone began to ring. “There,” he said, pitching his voice low. “Now you have my number and I have yours. Listen to me, Rosema—Rose. Remember my name. It’s Dixon. Dixon Lloyd. I’m not here to hurt you. I want to protect you. I want to help you find your way home.”

Her face changed so abruptly that Dixon was afraid she was going to faint again. The fear and agitation drained away. Her eyes softened and filled with tears. She pressed her hands together, prayerlike, and touched her fingertips to her lips.

“Find my way home?” she whispered.

Chapter Three

Home. The word from the detective’s mouth penetrated like a ray of light into Rose’s clouded heart. For an instant, hope blossomed in her chest.

“Home,” she mouthed, afraid to actually put voice to the word again, lest saying it might destroy it.

Then she met Dixon Lloyd’s gaze and saw a glint of triumph lighten his dark blue eyes. He was playing on her emotions, trying to catch her off guard.

She straightened and lifted her chin. “I am home. I don’t want your help and—” she drew in a breath that caught in a sob “—and I don’t need your—protection.” She crossed her arms. “I want you to get—out!”

She dug her short fingernails into her arms and glared at him until he lowered his gaze and dropped her cell phone back into her purse. He looked at her again, started to speak, then apparently thought better of it. He walked past her out of the living room.

His footsteps echoed and faded as he descended the stairs. For a couple of seconds, there was silence. Rose stiffened and held her breath, listening, until she heard the front door open and close. She let out a careful sigh, and winced as the throbbing in her head flared again.

He’d nearly caught her off guard with his clever mention of home. But how? Why had the word affected her so?

What she’d told him was true, as far as it went. Maman’s house was her home. It had been for the past twelve years.

But before that …

Rose closed her eyes against the pulse that beat painfully in her temple. She needed to follow Detective Lloyd and make sure he’d left, then lock the door and put the chain on, but she couldn’t face the stairs. The headache was making her feel light-headed. She needed a migraine pill.

She made her way to her bedroom and swallowed a tablet without water. Turning out the light, she lay on the bed in the dark for a few minutes until the pounding in her head ebbed from horrific to nearly bearable.

Finally, shading her eyes with her hand, she forced herself to stand and make her way carefully down the stairs.

When she checked the door, she found that the detective had thrown the latch. She locked the dead bolt and put the chain on, then slowly climbed the stairs again. She made her way into the kitchen. She fumbled in the cabinet for a box of crackers and grabbed a soda from the refrigerator. She took the food into her bedroom, where she forced herself to eat the crackers and drink a few sips of soda. The chilled cola eased her stomach a bit. She lay down and tried to relax, but she wasn’t strong enough to hold the nightmare memories at bay.

Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. The whispers took eerie, ghost-like form and swirled around her like banshees. Blood fell like rain, washing over her vision and bringing with it the sharp, bright glint of light on slashing metal.

She moaned and covered her head with a pillow.

A long time later, the silvery flashes faded along with the whispers, and Maman’s soothing voice slid into her dreams, soothing the pounding in her head and erasing the vision of the slashing, searing knives.

DIXON WALKED AROUND the outside of Rose’s home, assuring himself that all of her lights were out. He glanced at his watch. It was only eight-thirty. He waited a few more minutes, to be sure she hadn’t turned them out in preparation for going out. But the house remained dark and quiet.