Another dead end.
But. Old sins cast long shadows, as they say. Maybe there are other members of the family who don’t want the secret to come out.
So I call Elizabeth Harkness from the parking lot, pulling my hood up against the rain. I know she won’t be too eager to talk about the past again, so I soften her up by asking about Victoria’s book. She doesn’t know anything about it. I ask about Victoria’s laptop. She hadn’t been able to break the password. I ask about other Harknesses in the area and there’s a predictable silence. Then:
“If any of those people are still around they’d better keep out of my way.”
“Listen, Ms. Harkness, is there any chance that one of them might bear some sort of grudge against Victoria?”
Another pregnant pause. When she answers, her words are laced with bitterness and gall. “What do any of them have to be angry about? We’re the ones whose lives they ruined. If anyone has the right to a grudge, it’s me.”
And of course from her point of view, she’s right.
But. I still get her to tell me some names.
For all the good they do me. At the end of the day, I’ve still got nothing.
Maybe the thought of being a woman, unprotected and alone, has dug into my subconcious. Because that night I dream I’m Zoe. I’m back in the squat, lying on the floor next to Blue and Kirstin. He’s a runner for the Black Dogs. She’s a girl from the cathouse on third. They’re both passed out. I hear voices. I get up and go into the hallway. The world seems to tilt, and I hold on to the wall. The voices come closer. They don’t see me. Men in suits. Men in DPD uniforms, walking and talking with Sonny and his lieutenants. I see money change hands. They walk right through me as though I don’t exist. The men go back to where Blue and Kirstin are sleeping, and then I hear the screams.
I come awake, turtled in the center of the cot, shivering and sweating both. The window shades clack against the sash. Rain splats on the glass. Where am I? This isn’t the Baxter Building. The air smells fresh and moist. The night is quiet, no traffic or sirens or shots.
Breathe.
My name is…
I can’t remember my name. Panic closes my throat. I gulp air, clutching the blanket around me.
My name is Zoe Crenshaw.
No. That isn’t right. Breathe. Eyes wide open. Get up. Find a light switch. Look around at the empty room, camp cot, suitcase.
The darkness recedes. I know this place. This empty house belongs to me. Me, Audrey.
My name is Audrey Lake. I live in Astoria, Oregon. I used to live in Denver, Colorado. I used to be a detective with the Denver Police Department. My father’s name is Barney. My mother’s name is Anita. My brother’s name is — was — Dean.
My name is Audrey Lake. I am a police officer like my father. My mother is an architect. My brother is dead.
My name is Audrey Lake.
I repeat it to myself, over and over, until I fall asleep with the light still on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
WHEN I WAKE up the next morning, I feel like a scarecrow left up through the winter. Last night’s episode has unnerved me. I thought the disassociation of identity would get better over time, not worse. The sun is leaking around the window shades and I raise them to reveal a glittering morning, clouds pile up over the bar but the river is blue and lovely, gleaming like a sapphire set in diamonds.
I know it’s Sunday, but I need help. Before I can change my mind, I dress in sweats and a fleece and walk next door. When I knock, Phoebe answers. I can see her surprise, but also her appraisal, eyes flicking over my uncombed hair and rumpled clothes.
“Audrey. Is everything all right?”
I take a deep breath. “Phoebe. I need to consult you. Professionally. Now, if possible.”
She nods. Points to the outside stairs which skirt the house and lead to another door, the door of her office. I go down, and meet her there. The furniture is the same: desk, chairs, lounger. Unexpectedly, Delilah has joined us, and she gives my hand a friendly lick before settling down in the corner.
I sit in the armchair. Phoebe sits behind the desk. We fill out forms. Name, address, medical history.
“Are you taking any prescriptions?” she asks.
I hesitate, and tell her about the Zyprexa. “I threw it away.”
Her eyebrows go up. “I presume you are aware it is an anti-psychotic medication.”
“I don’t like drugs. I don’t like what they do to people.”
She nods, pursing her lips. Finishes the form, and shuts down the computer. “All right, Audrey. What brings you here, now, to my office?”
I tell her almost all of it. About my stint of undercover work, where I’d posed for months as Zoe Crenshaw, a drug addict living in a squat in East Denver, a condemned eight story structure called the Baxter Building. I’d been warned about the difficulty in integrating a deep undercover identity. In my case, I’d assumed it too well. When the operation was over, when the police had stormed the building and arrested the small fry but allowed the big dogs to slip through their fingers, I’d been taken to the hospital. Practically catatonic, suffering from stab wounds, I’d woken up screaming about the police being in league with the criminals, how no one
