Patrick had been totally uninterested in putting a smooth front on anything.
Clearly everyone knew about Lisa and Patrick—just as clearly, it was supposed to be ignored.
Molly played the game very well. She made all the right responses, slipping easily into the role of younger friend. So easily’ that she suspected that was how it used to be with the three of them.
Lisa and Patrick, tolerant of the exuberant teenager who followed them around. She could almost see it, almost remember it.
Why hadn’t he married Lisa? Belatedly, she remembered Lisa’s elderly husband. Mrs. Morse said he’d died recently, yet Lisa hardly seemed the grieving widow. It was too bad the old man hadn’t died ten months ago and saved everyone a great deal of trouble. Patrick could have married Lisa instead of settling for his wealthy fifth cousin twice removed or whatever she was.
She stared down at the scrap of cloth in her hand. Those orange streaks looked oddly familiar, yet she couldn’t trace them. They were neither rust nor blood stains, and she wondered why the police hadn’t taken it for evidence. Had she hidden it from them? If so, why?
So many questions. She was still hungry, and she was exhausted.
Patrick had left the table abruptly, Lisa vanished soon after, and Molly could only imagine where they were and what they were doing.
She didn’t want to.
She lay back on her bed, tucking the handkerchief beneath her pillow.
She wasn’t ready to have anyone see it. She wasn’t certain what it signified, but right now it was the only clue, the only advantage she had.
She wasn’t about to let anyone else get a look at it until she was good and ready.
Chapter Five
Amnesia. What a crock! Who did Molly think she was, expecting them to believe such a cock-and-bull story? Maybe in romance novels, maybe in TV movies, but not in real life.
It was just a little too damned convenient. As long as she pretended not to remember anything, she was buying herself time.
But she couldn’t keep it up forever. Sure, her eyes looked wide and guileless as she looked at each of them in turn, but she could be acting. She’d gotten damned good at it.
If she wasn’t faking, then things were even more dangerous. If that too convenient amnesia was the real McCoy, it could disappear as quickly as it came. leaving her with a clear memory of what had happened to her just a few short weeks ago. And what had happened to the man known as George Andrews.
That couldn’t be allowed to happen. She was going to have to die.
Sooner or later.
And sooner would be a much more acceptable alternative.
MOLLY WOKE UP ill darkness, disoriented, panicked. It took her a moment to remember where she was. She sat up in bed, switching on the light, trying to still the fear that washed over her. She was just feeling stir crazy—she hadn’t wanted to go outside for fear she’d run into Patrick and Lisa. An hour of their company had been about all she could handle. She knew she wouldn’t be allowed to take the car anywhere until she’d proven her trustworthiness to that self-righteous, adulterous pig of a husband, even though the car might very well belong to her. Willy had disappeared as soon as he got up, and she didn’t even have his doubtful company to distract her. There was a stack of mysteries in the bookcase, but to her disgust once more her memory failed her. She may not have known her own face, name, or even how she drank her coffee, but all she had to do was read the opening paragraph to remember whodunit.
She still hadn’t met the other occupant of the old stone farmhouse.
Cousin Erinintrude White, known to her as Aunt Ermy, said Mrs. Morse, was off on one of her incessant rounds of visits. Molly con lid tell from the housekeeper’s look of disdain that Erinintrude White was not looked upon with affection in this household. Indeed, most of Mrs. Morse’s approval seemed reserved for Patrick, despite his lapse in taste when it came to Mrs.
Clearly everyone knew about Lisa and Patrick—just as clearly, it was supposed to be ignored.
Molly played the game very well. She made all the right responses, slipping easily into the role of younger friend. So easily’ that she suspected that was how it used to be with the three of them.
Lisa and Patrick, tolerant of the exuberant teenager who followed them around. She could almost see it, almost remember it.
Why hadn’t he married Lisa? Belatedly, she remembered Lisa’s elderly husband. Mrs. Morse said he’d died recently, yet Lisa hardly seemed the grieving widow. It was too bad the old man hadn’t died ten months ago and saved everyone a great deal of trouble. Patrick could have married Lisa instead of settling for his wealthy fifth cousin twice removed or whatever she was.
She stared down at the scrap of cloth in her hand. Those orange streaks looked oddly familiar, yet she couldn’t trace them. They were neither rust nor blood stains, and she wondered why the police hadn’t taken it for evidence. Had she hidden it from them? If so, why?
So many questions. She was still hungry, and she was exhausted.
Patrick had left the table abruptly, Lisa vanished soon after, and Molly could only imagine where they were and what they were doing.
She didn’t want to.
She lay back on her bed, tucking the handkerchief beneath her pillow.
She wasn’t ready to have anyone see it. She wasn’t certain what it signified, but right now it was the only clue, the only advantage she had.
She wasn’t about to let anyone else get a look at it until she was good and ready.
Chapter Five
Amnesia. What a crock! Who did Molly think she was, expecting them to believe such a cock-and-bull story? Maybe in romance novels, maybe in TV movies, but not in real life.
It was just a little too damned convenient. As long as she pretended not to remember anything, she was buying herself time.
But she couldn’t keep it up forever. Sure, her eyes looked wide and guileless as she looked at each of them in turn, but she could be acting. She’d gotten damned good at it.
If she wasn’t faking, then things were even more dangerous. If that too convenient amnesia was the real McCoy, it could disappear as quickly as it came. leaving her with a clear memory of what had happened to her just a few short weeks ago. And what had happened to the man known as George Andrews.
That couldn’t be allowed to happen. She was going to have to die.
Sooner or later.
And sooner would be a much more acceptable alternative.
MOLLY WOKE UP ill darkness, disoriented, panicked. It took her a moment to remember where she was. She sat up in bed, switching on the light, trying to still the fear that washed over her. She was just feeling stir crazy—she hadn’t wanted to go outside for fear she’d run into Patrick and Lisa. An hour of their company had been about all she could handle. She knew she wouldn’t be allowed to take the car anywhere until she’d proven her trustworthiness to that self-righteous, adulterous pig of a husband, even though the car might very well belong to her. Willy had disappeared as soon as he got up, and she didn’t even have his doubtful company to distract her. There was a stack of mysteries in the bookcase, but to her disgust once more her memory failed her. She may not have known her own face, name, or even how she drank her coffee, but all she had to do was read the opening paragraph to remember whodunit.
She still hadn’t met the other occupant of the old stone farmhouse.
Cousin Erinintrude White, known to her as Aunt Ermy, said Mrs. Morse, was off on one of her incessant rounds of visits. Molly con lid tell from the housekeeper’s look of disdain that Erinintrude White was not looked upon with affection in this household. Indeed, most of Mrs. Morse’s approval seemed reserved for Patrick, despite his lapse in taste when it came to Mrs.
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