Page 11 of Things We Hide from the Light
I’d never had a plant before. No plants. No pets. Nothing that couldn’t survive days or weeks without me.
I hoped I wouldn’t kill it before I wrapped up my business here. On a sigh, I picked up the folder Waylay had grabbed and opened it.
Duncan Hugo’s face stared back at me.
“You can’t hide forever,” I told the picture.
I heard Nash’s door open and close next door softly.
THREE
DEAD IN A DITCH
Nash
The sun rose above the tree line, turning frosted tips of grass to glittering diamonds as I swung my SUV off the side of the road. I ignored the rat-a-tat of my heart, the sweaty palms, the tightness in my chest.
Most of Knockemout would still be in their beds. In general, we were more a town of late-night drinkers than early risers. Which meant the odds of running into someone out here at this time were low.
I didn’t need the whole town talking about how Chief Morgan got himself shot and then lost his damn mind trying to find his damn memory.
Knox and Lucian would get involved, sticking their civilian noses in where they didn’t belong. Naomi would cast sympathetic glances my way while she and her parents smothered me with food and fresh laundry. Liza J would pretend nothing had happened, which, as a Morgan, was the only reaction I was remotely comfortable with. Eventually I’dbe pressured to take a leave of absence. And then what the hell would I have?
At least with the job, I had a reason to go through the motions. I had a reason to get out of bed—or off the couch—every morning.
And if I was getting off the couch and putting on the uniform every day, I might as well do something useful.
I put the vehicle in park and turned off the engine. Squeezing the keys in my fist, I opened the door and stepped out onto the gravel shoulder.
It was a crisp, bright morning. Not heavy with humidity and black as pitch like that night. That part at least I remembered.
Anxiety was a ball of dread lodged in my gut.
I took a steadying breath. Inhale for four. Hold for seven. Exhale for eight.
I was worried. Worried that I would never remember. Worried that I would. I didn’t know which would be worse.
Across the road was the endless tangle of weeds and overgrowth of a forgotten foreclosure.
I focused on the rough metal of my keys as they dug into my skin, the crunch of gravel under my boots. I walked slowly toward the car that wasn’t there. The car I couldn’t remember.
The band around my chest tightened painfully. My forward progress halted. Maybe my brain didn’t remember, but something in me did.
“Just keep breathin’, asshole,” I reminded myself.
Four. Seven. Eight.
Four. Seven. Eight.
My feet finally did my bidding and moved forward again.
I’d approached the car, a dark four-door sedan, from behind. Not that I recalled doing it. I’d watched the dashcam footage of the incident about a thousand times, waiting for it to jog amemory. But each time it felt like I was watching someone else walk toward their own near-death experience.
Nine steps from my door to the sedan’s rear fender.
I’d touched my thumb to the taillight. After years of service, it had begun to feel like an innocuous ritual, until my print was what identified that car after it had been found.
Cold sweat ran freely down my back.
