Lost by Michael Robotham Page A

and plaster with X-ray vision.
    “You think your memory is going to come back?” he asks.
    “I'l keep you posted.”
    “Do that.”
    After he's gone Ali lowers her head onto the table in a mixture of relief and despair. She's scared, but not in a cowardly way. She doesn't understand what's happening.
    I take the bag and drop it beside the front door.
    “What are you doing?” she asks.
    “We can't leave it here.”
    “But it almost got you kil ed,” she says without flinching.
    Right now I can't think of a better plan. I have to keep going. My only way out is to gather the pieces.
    “What if you don't remember?” she whispers.
    I don't answer. When I contemplate failure every scenario finishes with the same unpalatable truth. I put men in prison. I don't go there.

    9
    My clothes are in a suitcase in the trunk of Ali's car along with the shopping bag ful of the unopened mail. The diamonds are there, too. I have never had two mil ion pounds. I've never had a Ferrari either or a wife who could tie knots in cherry stems with her tongue. Maybe I should be more impressed.
    The Professor is right, I have to fol ow the trail—the invoices, phone cal s and diary appointments. I have to retrace my steps until I find the ransom letters and the proof of life. I wouldn't have delivered a single stone without them.
    Sarah Jordan lives around the corner from Dolphin Mansions. Her mother answers the door and remembers me. Behind her Mr. Jordan is double-parked on the sofa with the Racing Post on his stomach and the TV blaring.
    “Sarah won't be long,” she says. “She's just gone to pick up a few things from the supermarket. Is everything al right?”
    “Fine.”
    “But you talked to Sarah a few weeks ago.”
    “It's just a fol ow-up.”
    The supermarket is only around the corner. I leave Ali at the house and go looking for Sarah, happy to stretch my legs. The brightly lit aisles are stacked with cartons and half-empty boxes creating an obstacle course for shopping carts.
    On my second circuit, I see a young girl in a long coat lurking at the far end of the aisle. She glances in both directions and then stuffs chocolate bars into her pockets. Her right arm is pressed against her side, holding something else beneath her coat.
    I recognize Sarah. She's tal er, of course, having lost her puppy fat. Light brown bangs fal across her forehead and her fine straight nose is dusted with freckles.
    I glance up at the surveil ance camera bolted to the ceiling. It is pointing down the aisle away from her. Sarah knows the blind spots.
    Wrapping the coat around her, she walks toward the checkout and puts a box of breakfast cereal and a bag of marshmal ows on the conveyor belt. Then she picks up a magazine and flicks through the pages, looking disinterested as the cashier deals with the customer ahead of her.
    A young mother and toddler join the queue. Sarah looks up and notices me staring at her. Immediately she looks away and counts the loose change in her hand.
    The store security guard, a Sikh wearing a bright blue turban, has been watching her through the window, hiding behind the posters for “red spot” specials. He marches through the automatic doors with one hand on his hip as though reaching for a nonexistent gun. The light behind him creates a halo around his turbaned head: the Sikh Terminator.
    Sarah doesn't realize until he grabs hold of her arm and bends it behind her back. Two magazines tumble from beneath her coat. She twists from side to side and screams.
    Everything stops—the cashier chewing her pink bubble gum, a shelf stacker on a stepladder, the butcher slicing ham . . .
    A frozen chicken korma is burning my fingers. I can't remember picking it out of the freezer. I push past the queue and hand it to the cashier. “Sarah, I told you to wait for me.” The security guard hesitates.
    “I'm sorry about this. We didn't have a basket.” I reach into Sarah's pockets and take out the chocolate bars, placing them on the