Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 127249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
I turn around and face Kent. “The psychiatrist is better equipped to answer that question than me.”
He’s quiet as he digests the statement.
We’re thinking the same thing. Tatiana’s memory loss means she won’t remember where the necklace is because she hid it after the death of her parents.
Right now, I don’t give a fuck about the necklace. All I want is for her to recover. The thoughtful expression on Kent’s face tells me he’s very much concerned about finding the necklace, which seems more improbable than ever.
“There are other ways,” I say. “We’ll just have to dig harder.”
He shrugs. “If she remembers anything, I want to know.” He dips his head, holding my gaze through hooded eyes. “She got away on my shift.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll find the men who attacked us. I’ll let you do the honors when we finish them.”
He gives a tight nod. “She ran, Dante. I don’t know what happened to her, but whatever that was, it must’ve went down after she escaped. I’ll never betray you. You know me.”
I do. Yet I can’t help the doubt that makes me question his honesty.
My promise is charged with a double-sided meaning. “You’ll be the first to know if I learn anything.”
And if I find out he was lying to me, he’ll regret the day he was born.
Chapter
Thirteen
Tatiana
* * *
I’m sitting next to Dante on the sofa in the consultation room with my hand clasped in his. After the doctor scraped out the gravel, fresh scabs formed on my knees and the heels of my palms. The stitches in my temple came out yesterday. All that’s left is to find out why a part of my memory is gone.
Dr. Chad stands behind her desk, bent over her computer with her hand poised on the mouse. We’ve declined the herbal tea her secretary has offered us. I can’t speak for Dante, but I’m too nervous to drink anything. My stomach is drawn into a tight ball as we wait for the doctor to share my test results with us. The only sound in the room is the sporadic clicking of her mouse and the hum of the printer as it spits out pages.
The space where she receives her patients has clearly been designed to emit calm and serenity. The neutral colors are warm and inviting. The modern taupe-colored sofa is both elegant and comfortable. Artful nature photographs with soft hues of green adorn the walls. Potted plants add to the biophilic style of the interior design.
Dressed in a red fitted skirt suit and black heels, the doctor stands out against the earthy tones of the backdrop. I suddenly feel very under-dressed in my casual blue sundress that I paired with ballerina flats.
Dr. Chad gathers a thick stack of papers from the printer and slips them into a glossy folder with the logo of her private practice printed on the front. Presumably, those are my test results that will—hopefully—explain what’s wrong with me. I watch her face for any clues, but her expression gives nothing away.
A tall, slender woman, she moves with natural grace. She reminds me of a model on a catwalk as she sashays over and hands me the folder before draping herself with easy confidence and innate elegance into the chair facing us. Stretching her arms along the armrests, she crosses her long legs.
Her shiny gray hair is cut in a short, funky bob. Light make-up accentuates her attractive features.
Regarding us with observant blue eyes from snazzy, red-framed spectacles, she says, “Those are your test results.”
For some reason, I find the doctor and the setting intimidating. Everything from her stylish person to the immaculate interior decoration is simply too perfect. I would’ve felt more at ease if a few of the scatter cushions were out of place. Instead of relaxing me, the flawless environment makes me nervous.
As if sensing my discomfort, Dante squeezes my hand.
The doctor smiles amiably. Her manner is always calm. Sometimes, I find that reassuring. At other times, such as now, it’s unnerving. A calm demeanor is often a smokescreen for delivering bad news.
She folds her hands in her lap. She has unblemished hands with slender fingers and manicured nails. She never fiddles or gestures with her hands. They’re as quiet as her composed manner when she says, “Mrs. Morici, the good news is that your test results don’t indicate physical head trauma.”
Dante clenches my hand so hard it hurts. “Then how do you explain the fact that she can’t remember?”
“Your wife’s amnesia is of a psychological nature.” Addressing me, she continues. “You’re suffering from selective amnesia.”
“What exactly is that?” Dante asks in a tight voice.
“That’s the terminology we use when a person loses a part or specific parts of their memory.”
Dante watches her with a stony expression. “Is there an explanation for why this happens?”