Dying To Remember

He considered the story for a moment. No wonder the case had been closed. “If someone had tried to kill you and make it look like a suicide, he would have had to get out of the house fast since your sister showed up right as you were shot.”

“My room is at the end of the hall near the garage. It’s possible.”

Maybe. He remembered the layout of the house, though, and it wouldn’t have taken her sister more than a minute to unlock the door and run down the hall to Ella’s room.

“Who would want to kill you, Ella?”

“I have no idea,” she responded.

“What you’re thinking happened, though...it’s not a random act. There’d have to be motive. Personal motive.”

He thought for a moment. After his sister Brooklyn’s death, Ella had gone into a deep depression. It was no secret, as her mother had reached out to friends and the church for prayers and help.

“Could it be someone from the past? Someone who knew you had struggled with depression?” he asked.

“I really don’t know, Roman,” she said, frustration deepening the lines along her forehead.

“Okay.” Roman softened his tone. “But if you don’t remember the incident, how do you know someone else did this?”

“Because I know I didn’t,” she said simply.

Roman saw conviction in her eyes. Knew she believed what she was saying. But he didn’t know what to make of it all.

“You don’t believe me.” Her words were as cold as the air outside, but she couldn’t hide the hurt that flashed in her eyes.

“I do believe you.” At least, he believed she was in trouble. If someone was after Ella, then Roman needed to help her. If not...if she was suffering some kind of mental illness, he still needed to help her. “Tell me more about who’s following you.”

She stood abruptly and Roman did, too. Her nose had pinkened, her eyes shining with unshed tears again. “Sorry. Just... I need to use the restroom.” She glanced around in question.

“It’s down the hall from the elevator, back the way we came.”

She nodded. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Roman sat, drummed his fingers on his desk. Uneasy. That’s how he felt. Ella was acting all wrong. He watched the clock as a full minute ticked by. Then he heard the distinct ding of the elevator.

He jumped up and ran out of his office to the reception area beyond, checking the surveillance monitors. He caught a glimpse of Ella’s coat as the elevator doors slid shut behind her.

Planting his palms on the desk, he watched the downstairs lobby on the monitor. The elevator opened and Ella ran for the exit as if she was being chased. Roman frowned as he watched her hurry along slippery stairs to the sidewalk and the waiting cab at the curb. He didn’t know what Ella was running from, but he wasn’t about to let her run alone. He’d done that years ago and he’d never forgiven himself.

* * *

Ella’s hands trembled in her lap. It had happened again. The sudden bout of confusion. One moment she was sitting across from Roman having a conversation and the next she was overcome by confusion, her mind racing with questions. Why was she with Roman? What were they even talking about?

Like she’d done at Graceway each day, she’d excused herself to the bathroom. There, she would calm the rising panic, try to ascertain reality, and then get back to whatever she’d been doing.

But on the way to the restroom tonight, panic had risen like a pot boiling over. She knew it was happening but couldn’t head it off. She wasn’t thinking about Roman or the silver car or why exactly she was running. She just ran.

Ella peered through the back window. It was too dark to differentiate car colors. If she was being followed, she’d never know it. Her mind raced in time with her heart, her head throbbing from exertion.

She pulled Roman’s business card from her purse, texting him a lame excuse and promising to call in the morning. Then she shut down the phone. He’d try to call her, and she couldn’t handle that just yet.

What if she was going crazy?

She’d read about things like this. One day you’re perfectly normal and the next you’re caught up in some sort of mysterious psychosis.

But, no. The confusion had been getting better, just like the doctors said it would. As soon as the taxi had pulled away from Shield, Ella had been struck with total clarity on what she’d just run from: Roman and her plea for him to help her. In the past weeks, it had often taken her a couple of hours to regain clarity over what she’d been doing before the lapse.

The taxi slowed around the corner and pulled up in front of her mom’s tired 1940s home. She’d had the Cape-Cod-style house repainted in recent years, a deep grayish blue she’d said was peaceful. Tonight, it looked dull and foreboding. Even the gentle glow of the streetlamps and porch light didn’t brighten up the home. Guilt reared up as Ella paid the driver and stepped out into the frigid night. Mom’s garden beds along the porch were untidy and the big maple needed a trim before a storm came and knocked it onto the house.

She fished out her keys and unlocked the front door, casting a quick glance behind her as the taxi pulled away. The street was dark and empty, no lurking silver Camry anywhere in sight. Still, fear clawed at the edge of her mind. Paranoia, she reminded herself. She stepped inside quickly, shut the door and locked up.

She set her purse on the console table near the front door, then unzipped her boots and hung her coat and hat in the tidy foyer closet. Turning on lights as she walked toward the living room, she leaned over the couch and patted Isaac’s soft head.

“Hey, bud,” she said to her mom’s dog, sidling past the couch to grab the television remote. Isaac looked up from the living room couch, but didn’t actually move a single limb in greeting. His peaceful quiet put Ella at ease, warmth rushing over her as the comforting sounds from the television filled the room. She hated the silence in the house, but as long as Isaac was content on the couch, she could be sure she was alone. He was a funny old guy, about the size of a basketball and almost as round. He was also perpetually silent, unless he met a stranger. She flipped on the news and set the remote on the coffee table. Her gaze passed over the book an acquaintance at church had brought her and she rolled her eyes.

The Prodigal Son Returns wasn’t Ella’s choice reading material. She figured there was a hint somewhere in the gift—a quiet reminder that Ella had been gone too long when her mom had needed her most. Shoving the guilt aside, she moved into the kitchen.

She plunked her keys down on the gray-blue Corian countertop and opened the small cabinet next to the fridge. It was packed with a hodgepodge of cooking spices, along with a stockpile of her mom’s medications. Ella grabbed a bottle of aspirin, her gaze catching on the sleep meds she’d quit cold turkey as soon as she’d been released from the hospital. She’d been taking the pills regularly for years, and she was convinced their effectiveness was one of the reasons she hadn’t woken to the intruder the night she’d been shot. She pressed the cabinet shut, frustrated. She wouldn’t get much sleep tonight. Again. But she’d rather be sleep-deprived than dead. She opened the fridge and peered inside.

She was down to the last bottle of iced tea. She’d have to hit the store tomorrow. Her hand closed around the bottle just as a swish of movement whispered behind her.

Ella gasped as an arm snaked around her middle, dragging her back from the fridge, her feet falling out from under her. She screamed, the iced tea crashing to the floor, her hands prying at the strong arm subduing her.

A sharp sting lanced her upper arm and this time her scream was soundless as she desperately tried to twist away. She registered everything in slow motion, it seemed. A syringe in her periphery, held by a black-gloved hand. Isaac whining at her feet, his tiny claws clicking on the tiled floor as he followed the scene. Futilely, she tugged at the arm dragging her across the kitchen. But her limbs felt loose, her strength ebbing.

Her heart was beating erratically, her hands tingling and numbing, dropping away involuntarily from the arm that was holding her. She tried again to scream, but nothing happened. The house was spinning. Or was she? Nausea roiled in her gut. Panic swirled in her mind. She needed to escape.

But first, she needed to sleep.

TWO

Roman slowed as he turned into his old neighborhood. Eastport was an eclectic waterfront community with low crime. Cars lined the curbs of narrow streets where kids often played outside until after dark, though likely not tonight with this brutal cold.

Just minutes after Ella had run off, she’d texted him a vague apology, promising to call in the morning.

He didn’t know what to think about Ella’s story, but he knew one thing: she needed help. It was too late for her to rescind. Roman was going to help her whether she wanted him to or not. And he didn’t plan to wait until she called in the morning.

After quickly locking up the building, he’d headed straight across the city, stopping only to fill his gas tank. He hoped he was right to assume Ella was staying at her mom’s. He’d grown up only two blocks from the Camdens, but hadn’t visited the area since his parents had moved a few years back.

Still, he easily recognized the home and parked at the curb. Stepping out into the night, he walked up the cracked driveway toward the house.

Gray-white puffs of air seeped out from underneath the garage door, a car idling inside.

Was Ella planning to head out somewhere? He stood still in the driveway for a moment, his breath swirling in the biting winter air as he waited to see whether the garage door would slide open or the car would turn off. When neither happened, he walked up the porch steps to the front door.

He knocked, noting the peeling paint and tattered silk-floral welcome sign. Looked like Julia Camden could use a little help with the old place. Maybe Roman could swing by sometime and offer a hand, fix up a few things to welcome Ella’s mom home after she recovered. If she recovered. From what he’d heard, the prognosis wasn’t good.

Roman rang the bell and knocked again, stepping back to scan the house. The shades were drawn in all the windows and, aside from the dim porch light, all was dark. A whisper of unease crept up his neck. He pounded on the door, loudly this time.

“Ella?” he called. “It’s Roman.”

Still nothing. He jiggled the knob. Locked.

Someone was in the garage with the car idling. And less than an hour ago, Ella had been sitting in his office telling him everyone thought she’d tried to commit suicide...

He needed to get into the house. He ran to the garage, grabbed the latch and tried to pull the door up. Locked. He banged on it, the old metal rattling. The car kept idling, the house still and silent.

Roman raced around the side of the house and let himself into the backyard through the gate. Finding the side door to the garage, he tried the handle. It didn’t budge. He yanked his wallet out of his back pocket and pried out a credit card, his hands numb from cold and moving too slowly. Pressing his shoulder against the old wood door, he worked the credit card into the groove while jiggling the knob. The lock mechanism slid free, but a dead bolt held the door in place.

The door was solid and heavy, and would take time to kick in. He’d try the back door to the house first. He darted around the corner and tried the same method there. This time the trick worked. The knob turned, the dead bolt not secured. Roman rushed into the house, flipping on lights as he went.

“Ella?” he called, moving quickly through the kitchen. His shoe crunched something on the floor, but he didn’t see anything. He ran down the hall toward the garage, throwing the door open and flipping on the light.

He saw her immediately, slumped low in the front seat of a navy BMW.

No!

He ran to the driver’s side, yanking the door latch—knowing it would be locked. “Ella!” he yelled, banging on the window. She was unresponsive, reclined in the driver’s seat with the car still running.

They think I did it.

Did what?

Shot myself.

Roman rushed over to the toolbox and rifled around for a hammer. Grabbing it, he ran to the back-passenger door and cracked the window in one strike. Reaching through broken glass, he unlocked the car.

How long had she been in there? Even after locking up Shield and stopping for gas, he couldn’t have lost more than fifteen minutes. He chanted a prayer that he wasn’t too late. That, instead, he’d arrived just in time. But when he pulled the door open and reached in for Ella, she was lifeless, her eyes closed, her skin pale.

Just like he’d found his sister in her dorm room more than six years ago, murdered. But, no. Brooklyn had been cold to the touch, her skin bluish. Ella was still warm, though she didn’t appear to be breathing. And lying in her open palm was a syringe.

Ella, a drug user? Roman couldn’t rectify the thought in his mind, but if she’d overdosed on something, she didn’t have much time. He reached over her and shut off the car, pocketing the keys before pulling Ella easily into his arms and rushing her into the house and away from the carbon monoxide.

In the living room, he set Ella on the couch and yanked out his cell phone, dialing 9-1-1.

“Nine-one-one. Where is your emergency?”

Roman placed a hand near Ella’s mouth, felt warm air. Still breathing, but too slow. He quickly rattled off the address. “I need an ambulance.”

He continued to answer the woman’s scripted questions even as he scanned Ella’s form on the couch, looking for any other signs of injury. Nothing. His gaze caught on the right side of her head. Her hair parted unnaturally there, revealing a red scar that would take a long time to heal.

Roman sank to his knees, his hands coming up to hold hers. Had she done this to herself? He found it hard to believe, especially after what she’d told him earlier. But it had been years since he’d seen her. People changed. His heart tore at the memory of the girl he used to know. She’d been a dreamer, always looking ahead to her next goal. Always brushing off failure when it came. But then Brooklyn died, Ella’s best friend since childhood and roommate in college.

At first, they had shared their grief. But one night, with one string of poorly chosen words, their relationship had shattered. He’d said things he hadn’t meant. He’d been careless with his words. He’d hurt Ella, practically blaming her for his sister’s death. Roman had always been ashamed, truth be told.

Ella had gone into a deep depression and the move to Colorado had seemed like her chance to break free from the darkness. What had happened to her since they’d last seen each other? Had she sunk into an even deeper depression? Started abusing drugs she would readily have available to her as a veterinarian? He turned each arm over, looking for track marks, but her skin was smooth and pale, marked only by a light spattering of freckles.

Had someone been following her as she’d suspected? Someone who wanted to make her murder look like a suicide? That seemed like a stretch. But if Ella was merely suicidal, why come to Roman for help?

The ambulance sounded in the distance and Roman unlocked the front door, leaving it open a crack. Then he remembered the syringe in the car. The doctors may need it to find out what Ella had injected herself with.

He hurried back to the garage and plucked the empty syringe from the car, then returned to the living room. A heavy sadness settled on his shoulders at the realization that the Ella he used to know might be gone forever. He crouched down again, placing a hand along her cheek. He’d missed her for years and now that she was back, she wasn’t really back at all.

“You’re going to be okay,” he whispered. The words were both a self-assurance and a prayer. Ambulance lights blinked into the living room through the sheer curtains and voices sounded in the yard.

Someone rapped loudly at the cracked door.

“In here!” Roman called out, and the door pushed open, two uniformed medics rushing into the room.

“Found her locked in her car in the garage, engine running,” Roman explained. He pointed to the syringe he’d set on the end table. “The syringe was in her hand.”

The pair approached Ella quickly, one securing the syringe in a Ziploc bag while the other opened a black supply case and began an assessment. The team was efficient, and in minutes they were loading Ella onto a stretcher.

“You following us or riding with her?” one of the medics asked as they started for the front door.

“I’ll be right there,” Roman said. He hurried through the kitchen and locked the back door before circling back to the living room. Spotting Ella’s purse, he grabbed it and then locked the front door on his way out, pocketing the keys.

The paramedics had just finished getting Ella situated as Roman jogged up to the ambulance. He climbed in and sat alongside Ella as the siren blared and the vehicle pulled out swiftly. Slipping a hand over Ella’s, Roman did the only thing he could do. He prayed.

He’d learned long ago that life was beyond his control. When his sister was killed, he’d seen the worst of humanity. He’d faced a choice then. A choice to turn away from God or to draw even closer.

Drawing closer had been the only thing that had made sense, and it was the only way he’d eventually been able to process his sister’s murder to try to bring something good from it. Shield Protection couldn’t ever bring Brooklyn back, but it could help keep others from meeting the same fate.

His eyes opened and settled on Ella’s pale face. He prayed she’d survive tonight and that God would restore her both physically and emotionally. And he made the decision right then that he would come alongside her—something he wished he’d done years ago.

Instead grief had torn them apart and what they’d had together was long gone. But Roman could still be the friend she needed until she was healthy again.

* * *

Darkness surrounded her. Where was she? Ella took a few cautious steps, arms out in front of her. She couldn’t even see her hands. No light.

Her footsteps echoed.

Or was that someone else?

She froze, holding her breath, straining to hear over the pounding of her heart.

And then, from nowhere, someone grabbed her arm.

She jerked away and opened her mouth to scream. But sound wouldn’t come out. Why couldn’t she run?

The hand grabbed at her arm again and she yanked away, a violent headache rearing up.

“Easy,” a calm voice said. She knew that voice. She stilled.

A warm hand came to her arm, settled on it.

“Ella?”

Roman. Where was he?

“Can you open your eyes, Ella?”

Her eyes were open. Couldn’t he see that? She squeezed them shut, then opened them again, her lids heavy under brash fluorescent lights.

She tried to push herself up. “Where—?”

“Shh,” Roman said, his hand steady on her arm. “You’re at the hospital. The nurse just needs to draw some more blood.”

The hospital? Not again. Fear pierced her heart and she looked around the room.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice a broken whisper she barely recognized. She glanced down at her arm where an IV had been taped into place. The nurse began filling a vial with blood.

Roman didn’t answer immediately. “Roman?”

“I came by your mom’s house to check on you after you...after our meeting.”

Their meeting. Right. Her skin felt hot. She’d run out on him. She’d gotten confused again. “I’m sorry, I—”

A memory flashed, a gasp escaping her lips. “Did they find him?”

Roman’s expression didn’t change. “Who?”

“The man who did this,” she said, her voice growing stronger. “He was in the house. I was in the kitchen.” The memories rushed back. “I’d opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of iced tea, and someone was there. He attacked me. He had on black gloves and...” She reached for the memory. “He injected me with something!”

She looked down at her left arm, rotating it slightly in search of the injection site, but she didn’t see any evidence of what had happened. “He dragged me down the hall. I couldn’t move. I felt paralyzed.” After that, she came up blank.

A slight furrow along Roman’s brow showed that he’d heard. Other than that, he didn’t respond.

“All done,” the nurse said quietly, gathering the tubes and the rest of her supplies. “I’ll let the doctor know she’s awake,” she added, letting herself out of the room.

Fear bubbled up in the wake of Roman’s silence. “They didn’t find him,” Ella surmised.

Roman pulled over a chair and sat. He looked tired, his dark hair ruffled, the buttons on his white shirt undone at the top.

“Maybe we should start from the beginning, Ell,” Roman finally said.

Ella’s heart skipped a beat at the old nickname, so warm in his voice a dozen memories melted out of it.

“That’s all I remember from the time I got back to my mom’s tonight.”

“No, I mean—start from when you returned to Maryland. You came because of your mother’s accident, right? Did anything seem off when you arrived?”

“I...don’t know.”

“You don’t remember?”

She shook her head, frustrated and considering how much to reveal to Roman. Since she was asking for his help, she figured she’d be best off with full disclosure. “Since the shooting, I’ve had trouble with my memory,” she admitted. “And my instincts.”

“In what way?” Roman asked.

“It’s hard to explain, but I can’t trust my own mind sometimes,” Ella said. “I get bouts of confusion, short-term memory loss, gaps in clarity. That’s why I took a taxi to see you. I haven’t been cleared to drive. The neurologist called it post-traumatic amnesia. That’s what happened at your office. We were talking and then I suddenly had no idea why I was there, why I was standing face-to-face with you after all these years.”

“Sounds like a scary thing to go through.”

“It’s unsettling.”

“Is it permanent?”

“My doctor says it should get better with time. He can’t predict how long the recovery will take, or whether I’ll ever fully recover.”

“I’m sorry, Ell.”

“Don’t be,” she said. “I just needed you to know.”

“Okay, let’s explore a different question,” Roman said. “If someone wanted you dead, why try to make it look like a suicide?”

She’d considered the question for weeks. “To keep the focus on me and far away from my killer?” she suggested. “If it’s someone I used to know, like you mentioned, maybe he’s hoping my suicide wouldn’t be questioned.”

“Maybe,” Roman said, his dark gaze holding hers and stirring up a longing for what they used to share.

Did he believe her? She couldn’t tell, but she had a feeling he wanted to.

A doctor entered the room, white coat pristine, stethoscope hanging around her neck. She smiled pleasantly and held out a hand to Ella in greeting.

“I’m Dr. Patel,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” Ella responded, waiting for what she knew was to come. “Well enough to go home,” she added.

Dr. Patel nodded, casting a patronizing look down at her. “We’ll monitor you overnight,” she said carefully. “I’ve ordered a psychiatric evaluation for first thing in the morning before we can clear you to go home.”

“I need the police, not a psychiatrist,” Ella responded.

“The police?” Dr. Patel asked.

“I didn’t try to kill myself,” Ella insisted, pushing herself to a sitting position. “Someone attacked me.”

The doctor’s mouth flattened into an expression of forced patience. “I’ll arrange for an officer to meet you here,” she said calmly. “But you understand, Ella, we can’t just send you home without taking precautions after this second suicide attempt in as many months?”