Me, Myself and Why? by MaryJanice Davidson Page A

think the others did, too.
    “And then—and then I was in here, calling 911 on my cell phone.”
    I blinked. Surely not another woman who lost time. Of course, trauma could certainly account for her not remembering the actual attack.
    “So you called for help . . .”
    “And I waited.” Her big eyes were shiny, almost glassy. Shock, of course. She was either in it or getting there. “And then—then I could hear the police. And then you were knocking on the door.”
    Nuts. A memory gap of at least forty-five minutes. Well, maybe there’d be something on her clothes, under her nails. Caught in her hair. In her purse. On her iPod. Anything. Puzzle pieces, puzzle pieces . . .
    “Well, Ms. Carr, I’m going to ride along with you to the hospital. We’ll have a guard on your door 24/7.” I hated how overused those numbers were, except when it was the literal truth. Ms. Carr wouldn’t be blowing her nose unobserved for the next several days. “We’ll get you checked out, make sure you—you’re okay. Do you want me to call somebody?”
    “No.”
    Definitely distant. Pulling away from reality. Boy, could I relate.
    “Ms. Carr?”
    “Mmm?”
    “We’ll get him.”
    She blinked at me slowly, like an owl. “Promise?”
    “Oh, yes.”
    Her lips trembled and she was finally able to force out, “Thank God. Thank God for that.”
    God? Prob’ly not. BOFFO, though. They’d do the trick.
    We would, I mean.

Chapter Twenty-nine
    The next morning I lurched out of bed (I woke up alone, thank goodness) and staggered to the bathroom. What with processing the scene, escorting Tracy Carr to the hospital, going back to the office and filing paperwork, I’d been home for only about—
    I peeked at my watch and groaned. Three hours. Ugh. I badly wanted more sleep. Or at least a long, hot bath. Unfortunately, it was the second Tuesday of the month.
    Oh—right. I forgot you didn’t know. Cathie and I have been having breakfast at the Eagan Perkins once a month for the last ten years. With her traveling schedule and my career, if we didn’t have a set place and time, whole months could go by without us hooking up. Thus, the second Tuesday of the month was inviolate unless it was something important, like arresting a killer or needing stitches, or really really bad menstrual cramps.
    So imagine my surprise when I walked into the restaurant to find Patrick—and only Patrick—at our table.
    “Eh?” I said.
    “Articulate even at such an obscene hour,” the baker said, closing his magazine ( People’s Most Fascinating People ) with a brisk snap. “Marvelous.”
    My, my. He certainly was a handsome one. I could see him from only the waist up, but he was wearing what I suspected was a designer suit. It didn’t have that boxy look that bespoke retail.
    And that grin! Those eyes!
    Get a grip, Cadence. Right, okeydoke. “Where’s Cathie?”
    “Ah. The eternal question. Where is Cathie?”
    I slid into the booth and resisted the urge to peek under the table to check out the rest of his suit.
    “My darling little sister got a phone call yesterday evening—another one of her paintings sold, and the gallery owner wanted her downtown pronto to discuss another show.”
    “Golly! That’s great.” Cathie was, among other things, a ridiculously talented artist. She made Picasso look like a kindergarten finger painter. Me personally, I always got a headache when I looked at her work too long, but it definitely appealed to certain groups. (Case in point, Adrienne.) I probably just wasn’t deep enough to really get her work; I’ll be the first to admit, me not know nothing ’bout art.
    My favorite was a huge canvas, eight feet by six, liberally splashed with vibrant purple and blue, smeared with indigo, and splattered with red dots. She called it The Face of Love , whatever the heck that meant. To me it looked like a big old brightly colored mess. Which is why I caught bad guys and Cathie painted things like The Face of