Left for Dead by Kevin O'Brien Page B

Charlie made her feel they would survive this. In his arms, she felt safe.
    Sitting there in Dr. Beal’s office, Claire longed to see her husband again. If only she could bury herself in his arms for a few minutes, everything might become clear again. She wouldn’t have to block out certain memories, because Charlie would protect her.
    “Claire, remember the other day, when you told me about your dream?” Dr. Beal asked. “Remember, Claire, you said you were with a man and a boy on the beach?”
    Nodding, Claire gave her a wary sidelong look. She gripped the sides of the wheelchair.
    “You said the man in your dream was Charlie, and the boy was Brian. The boy was eleven years old.” Dr. Beal sighed. “But Brian was only six when you lost Julia. So—that was a long time ago, wasn’t it?”
    Claire nodded again. “I guess so.” She sighed, and rubbed her forehead. “Listen, can’t you just call my husband? Why can’t I see him? I’m sure if you brought Charlie in here, I’d start remembering things right away. Are they even trying to locate him?”
    Dr. Beal shifted in the beige leather chair, then cleared her throat. “Claire, you haven’t lived at the Cascadia address in Seattle for almost five years.”
    Numbly, she stared at the psychiatrist.
    Claire remembered moving day. She remembered standing alone in the empty nursery. Charlie had long ago turned it into an art studio for her. It had taken several coats of paint to cover up the cartoon jungle she’d created on the nursery walls.
    She didn’t notice until moving day—when the room was empty and the sun poured through the windows—that despite all those layers of paint, the smiling elephants, tigers and monkeys were still slightly visible on the walls. They were like ghosts, and she was alone with them.
    Charlie wasn’t around.
    Her premonition after Julia’s death must have come true. Something else had happened, something horrible.
    Tears stung Claire’s eyes. She glanced at the detective on the sofa, who still wouldn’t look at her. Claire turned to Dr. Beal. “My husband, Charlie,” she whispered. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
    Dr. Beal didn’t say anything. She just smiled—that same pitying smile.

Chapter 6
    The young East Indian orderly pushing Claire in her wheelchair was named Yuvraj, at least, his nametag said as much. Claire had asked Sherita how to pronounce his name, and she’d replied: “Damned if I know. He’s been here two years, and I’ve always called him ‘honey.’ Nice guy though.”
    Yuvraj seemed to read Claire’s mood, and said nothing as he steered her down the hospital corridor. In every room they passed, Claire noticed patients with family members—some with entire clans gathered around their beds; others with just one person at their side. Claire saw their rooms full of flowers, beds with Get Well helium balloons tied to the side rails, framed photos of loved ones and Get Well cards on nightstands.
    Meanwhile, Yuvraj was pushing her toward her stark, empty room: not a single flower, card, or side-table photo. Not a soul.
    She had a guard outside her room, and dozens of reporters who were dying for a chance to talk with her. But they only knew her as Jane Doe, the lone survivor of Rembrandt’s killing spree.
    Word had spread around the hospital about her, and these excursions from her room always made Claire a bit nervous. Sometimes, while Yuvraj or one of the other orderlies was wheeling her down the hallways, she’d notice doctors, nurses, and other patients staring at her. Did they know who she was? Every once in a while, she’d catch a stranger looking at her, and she’d wonder, Is that Rembrandt? Would she recognize him if she saw him again?
    Dr. Beal had given her a copy of a photograph, which someone had passed along to the police. It was a snapshot from the family album of Mr. and Mrs. Harlan Shaw. While Yuvraj navigated down the corridor, Claire studied the picture.
    The woman in the photo was