Forget Me Not: A Novel (Crossroads Crisis Center) by Vicki Hinze Page A

into the building.”
    “He?” Ben asked for verification. “So, the passenger who threw the bomb was a man?”
    “Definitely.”
    “What about the driver?”
    “I don’t know.” She paused to watch Clyde Parker come through the door, carrying two bags of burgers, then added, “I didn’t see the driver.”
    “I saw him.”
    Ben turned to Clyde. “Where were you?”
    “On the sidewalk, walking back from Burger Barn. The car passed right by me.” Clyde lifted the fragrant bags of burgers that smelled a whole lot better than the burn and chemicals from the extinguisher. “I figured Susan had to be starving. She hasn’t eaten a thing today and it’s nearly noon.”
    “What did the driver look like?”
    “Not too big, dressed kind of like Harvey does in those golf shirts. Late twenties, maybe a little older.” Clyde shrugged. “When you get to be my age, it’s harder to tell. Most everybody looks like kids. The driver had dark hair too. Did I mention that? I’d guess he’s fussy about his appearance. Clean-cut and everything.”
    “The guy I saw—the passenger—was older.” Mel sniffed. “About like you, Mr. Brandt.”
    No offense was intended, and Ben tried not to take any. A decade and a half made a lot of difference to someone barely twenty.
    Oblivious, Mel went on, swiping an ash smudge from her black slacks. “Red hair. More redneck. Kind of cute, but in a goofy way.”
    Vague but apparently close enough, gauging by Peggy’s expression. “The descriptions match the woman’s?” Ben asked, referencing her alleged abductors.
    Peggy nodded and then relayed the descriptions that the woman had given her and she’d reported to the police.
    Mel confirmed them, and then Clyde added his opinion. “Sounds like the same guys to me, Ben.”
    He frowned. So the men who allegedly abducted her knew she was alive and here—and they had come back to finish the job? It made sense, particularly if they’d left her for dead in the woods. They wouldn’t want her to identify them. “What kind of car was it, Mel?”
    “I’m not into cars.” She shot him an apologetic look. “About all I can tell you is that it was red and looked expensive.”
    Expensive to Mel could be anything with a windshield and without rust to a Lamborghini.
    “Very cool, though.” She dipped her chin. “That’s why I noticed the redneck in the first place. He didn’t fit, you know? In a pickup truck? Yeah. But in a sweet thing like that sporty dream machine? No way. Yet,” she slid her gaze to Clyde, “from what you say, the driver fit. It must have been his car.”
    “I suppose you could say he fit. He drove it like demons were on his heels—nearly sideswiped your SUV, Ben—but he didn’t strike me as out of place in the car.” Clyde scratched the back of his neck. “If it’s his, though, I’d guess it’s new.”
    “Why is that?”
    “The guy shifts like a novice.”
    Sporty. Dream machine
. “Mel, you said it was red.” When she nodded, a sinking feeling punched him. “You’re sure about that?”
    “Definitely.”
    Ben looked to Clyde for confirmation.
    “I’m sure. It was red.”
    Red. Sleek. A sporty, cool dream machine
. Tense, Ben walked over to the woman. The color was back in her face, and she’d taken off the strap. The extinguisher was on the floor near her feet. “You okay?”
    “I’m fine.” She sounded fragile and frail but determined to put on a strong front.
    “Good.” Ben glanced at Lisa, who signaled that the woman really was okay, which freed Ben to ask the question nagging at him. “When you were abducted, what kind of car were you driving?”
    “My Jeep,” she said, then paused. “No, wait. That’s wrong. It wouldn’t start.” She hesitated a second, flinching as if recalling her abduction. “It was a Jag.”
    Ben planted his feet to keep from staggering back a step. “You were driving a Jag?”
    “It wasn’t mine.” Frustration lined her face. “In my mind, I see this