frame on the nightstand. Josh looked over and saw that, indeed, Caitlin was wearing the same shirt, which was indeed cut low, revealing the tops of her shapely breasts. Thankfully, Bix wasn’t in the photo with her this time, though the way she was grinning, the way her eyes seemed to be sparkling as she looked right into the lens, Josh had to wonder if Bix had been the one behind the camera.
God, this is hard , Josh thought. He wanted it to be over. He wanted to forget all about this guy, and he wanted Caitlin to do the same. He wanted her to learn enough to move on with her life, but nothing that would change the way she felt about him and the life they once shared together.
“I don’t remember any of this,” she said.
They had now completed the tour of the entire apartment, which hadn’t taken long—just the living room, eat-in kitchen, two bathrooms, a spare room—which Bix had announced belonged to Pedro, a seven-year-old boy Caitlin and he had adopted last month, before admitting that he was only joking—and finally, the bedroom. Caitlin said she couldn’t recall any of it. Yet Bix had shown them Caitlin’s things—her pajamas, makeup, the books she was reading, which, from their titles, didn’t seem to be the kinds of things Bix would read. He’d shown them notes she had jotted on various pads of paper—a grocery list in a kitchen drawer, a message by the telephone in the living room . . . even a note pinned to the door of the fridge with a magnet in the shape of a pineapple, which read simply, Love you lots . That one was a kick in the gut for Josh.
Each of the notes was written in handwriting Josh recognized at once as Caitlin’s. Finally, there were the photos, the existence of which Josh couldn’t deny, despite his overwhelming desire to not only deny their existence but to shred them all and wipe the memory of them forever from his mind. He’d have paid good money for just a small touch of Caitlin’s amnesia just then. If it hadn’t been for the pictures and maybe the handwriting, Josh might have thought that Bix had cooked up some sort of scam, that he was the one who had somehow slipped Caitlin the hypothetical industrial-strength roofie. But the photos did exist, as did the notes Caitlin clearly had written in her own hand, including the one saying that she loved Bix “lots.” Josh couldn’t deny those things, so he could no longer deny that Caitlin had lived here with Bix . . . and that she had perhaps loved him to some degree.
Caitlin’s eyes met his, and he knew that she had come to the same conclusion. She turned toward Bix and said, “I think we need your help. You know things we probably can’t learn anywhere else.”
Bix said nothing.
“You can’t imagine how hard it is not to remember anything from the past seven months,” Caitlin added. “I just want to know what I was doing, what I did. I want . . . no, I need to remember .”
Josh truly wondered what Bix would say. Would he just tell them to leave? He’d had the plug pulled on his life with Caitlin. Who could blame him, now that he had answered so many of her questions, if he just wanted them gone? And as much as they needed to know whatever he knew, a big part of Josh hoped he would tell them both to go to hell. Josh watched Bix’s eyes move slowly around the room, then come to rest on the picture of Caitlin, the one by the bed, in which she was alone, smiling at the lens. He looked back at her and said, “What can I do?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THEY DECIDED THAT IT MIGHT jog Caitlin’s memory to visit specific places around the city, places with which Caitlin was familiar . . . well, with which she had been familiar when she was Katie. At almost six in the evening, it was close to dinnertime, so they drove from Bix’s neighborhood into the city proper, their general destination being an area known locally, though not officially, as the West End, where a higher concentration of restaurants could be found
God, this is hard , Josh thought. He wanted it to be over. He wanted to forget all about this guy, and he wanted Caitlin to do the same. He wanted her to learn enough to move on with her life, but nothing that would change the way she felt about him and the life they once shared together.
“I don’t remember any of this,” she said.
They had now completed the tour of the entire apartment, which hadn’t taken long—just the living room, eat-in kitchen, two bathrooms, a spare room—which Bix had announced belonged to Pedro, a seven-year-old boy Caitlin and he had adopted last month, before admitting that he was only joking—and finally, the bedroom. Caitlin said she couldn’t recall any of it. Yet Bix had shown them Caitlin’s things—her pajamas, makeup, the books she was reading, which, from their titles, didn’t seem to be the kinds of things Bix would read. He’d shown them notes she had jotted on various pads of paper—a grocery list in a kitchen drawer, a message by the telephone in the living room . . . even a note pinned to the door of the fridge with a magnet in the shape of a pineapple, which read simply, Love you lots . That one was a kick in the gut for Josh.
Each of the notes was written in handwriting Josh recognized at once as Caitlin’s. Finally, there were the photos, the existence of which Josh couldn’t deny, despite his overwhelming desire to not only deny their existence but to shred them all and wipe the memory of them forever from his mind. He’d have paid good money for just a small touch of Caitlin’s amnesia just then. If it hadn’t been for the pictures and maybe the handwriting, Josh might have thought that Bix had cooked up some sort of scam, that he was the one who had somehow slipped Caitlin the hypothetical industrial-strength roofie. But the photos did exist, as did the notes Caitlin clearly had written in her own hand, including the one saying that she loved Bix “lots.” Josh couldn’t deny those things, so he could no longer deny that Caitlin had lived here with Bix . . . and that she had perhaps loved him to some degree.
Caitlin’s eyes met his, and he knew that she had come to the same conclusion. She turned toward Bix and said, “I think we need your help. You know things we probably can’t learn anywhere else.”
Bix said nothing.
“You can’t imagine how hard it is not to remember anything from the past seven months,” Caitlin added. “I just want to know what I was doing, what I did. I want . . . no, I need to remember .”
Josh truly wondered what Bix would say. Would he just tell them to leave? He’d had the plug pulled on his life with Caitlin. Who could blame him, now that he had answered so many of her questions, if he just wanted them gone? And as much as they needed to know whatever he knew, a big part of Josh hoped he would tell them both to go to hell. Josh watched Bix’s eyes move slowly around the room, then come to rest on the picture of Caitlin, the one by the bed, in which she was alone, smiling at the lens. He looked back at her and said, “What can I do?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THEY DECIDED THAT IT MIGHT jog Caitlin’s memory to visit specific places around the city, places with which Caitlin was familiar . . . well, with which she had been familiar when she was Katie. At almost six in the evening, it was close to dinnertime, so they drove from Bix’s neighborhood into the city proper, their general destination being an area known locally, though not officially, as the West End, where a higher concentration of restaurants could be found
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