providing the self-assurance to be able to achieve anything. It fills the heart with hope and possibilities, opening the eyes to the joys of life that can become obscured by the trials and tragedies in life’s journey.
And so, what was to be a fifteen-minute frozen snack to discuss tort reform and judicial process turned into a sixteen-year relationship, with two kids, mountains of bills and stress, but a deep satisfaction and reward from a life filled with love.
Jack looked back down at the article one final time: District Attorney Jack Keeler and his wife, Mia, were killed just after midnight, their car plunging off the Rider’s Bridge. Their bodies have yet to be recovered from the Byram River, the recovery effort proving to be futile in the raging, storm-swelled waters. Unconfirmed reports of bullet casings at the scene have bolstered rumors of foul play and that the accident is being treated as murder.
He pushed his grief aside and allowed his logical mind to begin to take over. He was the one who could always see the forest for the trees, who could sift through the evidence and glean the truth where others saw nothing but disjointed facts.
The sensational nature of newspapers, any headline to sell a copy, always angered Jack. How could the newspaper declare him dead when a coroner had not, when his body had yet to be recovered (which, point in fact, wasn’t about to happen)?
And if he was standing there, then maybe…
Mia was tougher than any woman he had ever known. If there was even a shred of possibility…
As he stood there in the kitchen, a glimmer of hope began growing in his mind, but it grew only so much as it hit an obstacle. It was as if the memory of the night before was hidden behind a wall that he couldn’t get around, couldn’t climb, couldn’t penetrate. His frustration grew to be overwhelming as he realized that he had lost some part of his mind.
CHAPTER 3
Frank Archer stood in the Keelers’ kitchen, his hand on Jack’s shoulder, his eyes equally confused and relieved, looking as if he were staring at a ghost.
The two had sat in silence for more than three minutes, both coming to terms with the situation. Jack had explained everything he knew. He showed his injuries, the wound in his shoulder, the cuts on his face and neck; he showed his mud-encrusted, wet pants. Finally, he unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt and slowly rolled it up to reveal the dark tattoo that wrapped his forearm.
Frank looked at it a moment, his eyes darting between the macabre piece of artwork and Jack’s troubled eyes. Jack slowly rolled down his sleeve, waiting for his friend to speak.
“How can you not remember last night?” Frank finally asked. “You were dreading it for weeks. You were so pissed about giving up your tickets for the Yankees game-which was rained out, by the way-having to celebrate the life of the man who had yet to offer you a simple sign of respect. Don’t you remember making him his present? Ten nights you spent working on that thing, creating it from scratch, all those pieces. You’re a better man than I. I wouldn’t even have bought him a card.”
“I’ve got nothing,” Jack said. “Not an image, a thought. It’s like someone threw a white can of paint on my mind. Yesterday just isn’t there.”
“Think. What time did you and Mia leave the party? Did you leave together? You didn’t just drive off that bridge, did you? And the gunshot wound?” Frank pointed at Jack’s shoulder. “It didn’t just appear. Is someone after you? Which is a distinct possibility. Most criminals hold the man who throws them in jail responsible for the troubles in their lives. You put your fair share away.”
No matter how hard Jack thought on it, his mind was blank.
“Think back,” Frank said. “What is the last memory you had before this morning? You remember me, not that I’m the forgettable type.”
Jack’s mind was on overload, as if it had short-circuited. He couldn’t hold a coherent thought as he tried to reflect back to the last memory before that morning. It was like lifting an impossible weight, his brain straining with the effort.
Last Friday, a week ago, appeared within a fog in his mind. In his office. Images started to come into focus. Reviewing pending cases with his assistant, Joy. But none of the cases was of any significance. He had arrived at work later than usual. Skipped lunch, early dinner with Mia and the girls… and then it completely fogged over.
“Ok,” Jack finally said as he looked up. “Last Friday.”
“Good.” Frank smiled. “It’s a start.”
But his mind was already back on Mia and the hollow feeling of being alone in the world, of grief, how he would tell his daughters that their mother was dead. He couldn’t bear to look in their eyes. He wouldn’t know how to answer “Daddy, I don’t understand. Why isn’t she coming back?”
“Hey,” Frank snapped. “I see your face. Your mind is spinning tales of supposition. Stay focused. Think. Something’s got to spark your memory. A song, a piece of clothing.”
Jack ran his hands down his face. Everything made him think of Mia. The kitchen table they sat at, which she’d bought from a friend and was so proud of after he had sanded it down and polished it in his shop. The kitchen she designed, the wallpaper, the framed pictures of her and the kids on the windowsill. Everything in his life made him think of Mia. She was part of the fabric of his being.
He walked through the house, hoping that something would just pop out and fill in the holes in his memory. Past the living room, glancing at the piano, which sparked a vision of his girls whining about Thursday lessons with Mrs. Henry. Past the dining room, which only pulled up memories of Mia’s home-cooked Thanksgiving dinner for twenty-eight. The front hall: nothing. Feeling a fool, he headed back to the kitchen, and as he passed the powder room, it hit him. Her perfume, Chanel, hung in the air, its faint scent still lingering from
… the night before. It was what she always wore, part of her essence since college, the smell of Mia. It was what filled his mind as he drifted off to sleep, what he smelled on her pillow, on her clothes, on her neck when he held her.
He froze where he stood, motionless by the powder-room door, trying to coax the memory of the night before from the dark hollow of his brain, but it kept slipping away, drifting off just out of reach.
Frank poked his head out of the kitchen, seeing Jack standing there, lost in thought, and remained silent.
And then Jack saw her in his mind’s eye, standing there in all of her beauty, looking at the mirror as she brushed her long dark hair one last time, yelling at him to get dressed, that they were going to be late… again.
It was as if a wellspring opened, flooding with images, thoughts, and sounds. Like from a separate life, distinct and apart from his own. It all came in, all of the joy and sounds of the party, of the never-ending rain, of the catered food. A movie unwinding before him.
He nearly collapsed, grabbing the wall for stability, sliding down against it, coming to rest on the floor as he started to shake. His emotions were building up inside him, and last night’s moments of joy and anticipation shattered as rage and anger and fury filled him. He felt the pounding of the rain on his face, his body soaked and bloodied. And he finally boiled over as if awakened from one life to be thrust into another, where the shadows were darker, where pain was everywhere and life hung in the balance.
He finally looked up at Frank, tears welling up… for his memory of the night before had returned.
He knew what had happened.
CHAPTER 4
