The thin man wearing the tan constable uniform at Nia
Beaudine's front door was a liar.
People told Nia she'd been a liar in her old life. Those
memories had been lost along with pieces of her skull and
brain matter. Her new self couldn't understand why people
lied. Truths were hard enough to remember.
Why would this man – any man – want to
pretend he was a constable in this village of only 629?
Most of them odd. A place she should fit right in.
This man...he didn't look odd, but she knew he must be
very odd. Not dangerous, though. For one second she
considered closing the door on him, but every instinct told
her she could trust this man.
Instead, she said, "I think my cat is trying to talk to
me."
Her words seemed to hang in the air like bubbles. She
studied his face, waiting for his reaction. Ready for
anything.
He studied her back. Just watching.
Yesterday Nia had learned the word cryptic while doing a
crossword puzzle in an exercise to expand her word skills.
Her cat was cryptic. A cryptic, talking cat.
The man blinked. Not talkative like her cat. Perhaps
even more cryptic. The silence stretched out between them.
Nina heard the birds chatter and small rustles of leaves.
Probably a squirrel or animal running across the wooded
lawn of the house her mother's aunt had bequeathed to her.
"Why do you think that?" he finally said.
Nia's arms prickled. She was sensitive to sound –
as if to compensate her for losing twenty–five years
of memories – and his resonating baritone made her
skin itch from the inside out.
"Because I understand what she's saying," she said.
He nodded, his expression serious.
Better than she'd expected when the words tumbled out of
her mouth. Any other person would frown, a conviction of
her insanity stamped on their disbelieving face, and step
back, as if fearful that crazy was catching.
She always wanted to tell them it was catching only if
someone was trying to run them over in a car.
And to make sure it worked, that someone would back up
and run them over again.
But instead of giving her the loco look, this man stared
at her steadily. His full lips closed and pressed into
thinness, his eyes steady on her face. Mournful brown eyes
that matched his nut–brown hair.
He made her think of a tree. Solid but not broad. One
that would bend but not break. And his face... Like his
body, his face was long and lean. Deep lines of pain scored
each side of his mouth, though she guessed he wasn't more
than thirty. He couldn't be much older. Not with his skin
clinging tightly to his bones. His nose was
blade–like, half a triangle. His jaw resolute. His
eyebrows and hair thick.
He was a man's man, making up for his few words with an
excess of testosterone.
Pheromones shot straight at her. She could smell them.
They twirled around her like invisible dust motes,
capturing and captivating her, putting a magical spell on
her, bringing to life senses that had been sleeping since
she woke up in the hospital bed, the world fuzzy, her mouth
dry, and no thoughts in her mind.
But her mind hadn't been silent, not with a scream
shrieking through it that no one could hear but her.
Later, she recognized the scream must have been her own
voice. Even later, she realized that must have been the
last sound she made as the car ran over her.
She shivered, the memories upsetting, but not as
upsetting as the way he made her feel.
This was not the kind of help she'd hoped for when she'd
called the constable's number.
Maybe this was the trouble her cat had been warning her
about.
If only Bast had been more specific.
