Tessa didn’t say anything.

“Just got me thinking,” D.D. said casually. “There are still a lot of unanswered questions from that night—”

“My daughter’s doing just fine,” Tessa interjected curtly.

“I don’t begrudge that. I don’t.” D.D. shook her head. “But, Tessa, you and I . . . You’re right. We’re meant to be doing things. Hell, we’re meant to be wearing badges. And the kind of people who wear the shield are supposed to uphold the system, honor the law. There are lines that shouldn’t be crossed. And you—”

D.D. broke off. What she suspected, she could never prove, and they both knew it. While Tessa remained silent, because what she had done she was never going to say, and they both knew it.

“I’m not trying to threaten you,” D.D. said at last.

“Then what are you trying to do?”

“Give you a heads-up. Rumor is, lab geeks recovered a print. No statute of limitations on homicide, right? Meaning if new evidence is recovered . . .”

She didn’t have to say the rest. Tessa understood.

D.D. stepped away from the table. “The Purcell case isn’t the BPD’s,” she remarked, as they headed through the restaurant, toward the front doors. “State assigned it to a new guy, Detective Rick Stein. Word on the street is he’s a supercop, the kind of guy who hates open cases and unanswered questions. I’m sure you’ll be hearing from him soon enough.”

“Fair enough,” Tessa said.

“You could come forward, volunteer information now,” the detective suggested.

Tessa merely shot her a look.

“You’re still a lone wolf, Tessa,” D.D. remarked softly, as they pushed through the doors.

“I never got to work with your squad mates,” Tessa answered.

D.D. merely smiled. “Thanks for lunch. I’ll think about it.”

They went their separate ways.

Chapter 10

THOMAS HAS RETURNED. He had left, telling me I needed to rest, though we could both tell he was the one who was exhausted. Now he’s back and I’m pleasantly surprised that I both remember his name and feel almost happy to see him. He has brought me a change of clothes. Black yoga pants, an oversize cable-knit sweater the color of cinnamon. The clothes don’t appear instantly recognizable to me. And yet, when I hold them to my nose and inhale . . .

A flash of memory. I am curled up on a chocolate-brown leather sofa. A book is in my hands, a cup of tea on the glass coffee table near my feet. While across from me, Thomas sits in a matching chair, deeply engrossed in the morning crossword puzzle.

I’m suddenly hungry for oatmeal, but I don’t know if that makes any sense.

Dr. Celik appears in the doorway, carrying a brown paper bag. She glances at me absently, then focuses her attention on Thomas. They resume their low-voiced huddle across the room. Like intimates, I think again. I wonder if I’m the jealous type. Or if Thomas has ever strayed. Did I know? Did I care?

I don’t know if I’m a good wife. Apparently, I’m a high-maintenance one. And, given the bruise on Thomas’s jaw, one capable of lashing out. But am I sweet, nurturing, tender? Or bossy, domineering, a real shrew?

Mixed-up memory or not, it feels like I should know that much about myself. Basic personality traits, dynamics of a marriage, emotional snapshots of a life.

Maybe I’m simply too tired, because I can’t bring anything to mind. The feeling of sinking underwater, isn’t that what the doctor had described to Thomas? Because that’s how I feel. As if I’m partially submerged, just floating along, the world drifting farther and farther away.

Dr. Celik’s voice rises sharply. I don’t have to be a rocket scientist to understand she doesn’t want me to go. Most likely I require observation, further tests, and a bunch more poking and prodding by the nurses who show up hourly to read my stats and otherwise terrorize me.

Under water or not, I haven’t lost my resolve. I can’t stay here. The machines are too loud, the lights too bright, the sound of footsteps too echoey down the linoleum hall. A hospital is no place to recover from a concussion. It’s way too everything for a woman who requires significant R & R.

More debate, another sharp exchange.

“You understand you are signing her out AMA—against medical advice? That it’s my expert opinion your wife should remain in the hospital at least another twenty-four hours. That she remains at risk for cerebral swelling, not to mention a brain bleed. As in, you take her home, and she could die there.”

Will I recognize my house? I try to picture it. A gray-painted Colonial with black shutters comes immediately to mind. Maybe a vision from a magazine or maybe my actual home; I’ll find out soon enough. I try to imagine a cat or dog but come up empty. Apparently, my husband and I are content with our own company. We work together; Thomas told me that. He designs props, set pieces, and I help finish them. Live together, work together, sleep together.

We must love each other very much, or it’s no wonder I bruised his jaw.

Then . . . another memory: myself, sitting in a brightly lit sunroom. Green tendrils of hanging plants softening the oversize bank of windows. Tile floor, eclectic colors on the wall. Myself, sitting in the middle, painting. And smiling. I can actually feel it on my face. I am happy.

Thomas’s voice, booming from the doorway behind me: Hey, honey, wanna grab lunch?

My smile growing. Happier.

“Nicky.”

My mind zooms back to the present. Stark hospital room. Me, lying on the bed, my husband now standing beside me. “Doctor Celik is willing to let you go,” he tells me, which immediately strikes me as odd, because that’s not how their exchange had sounded to me at all. “But you have to promise to rest, and we’ll need to return in a few days for a follow-up.”

I nod. It hurts my head, but not terribly. Then I promptly crinkle my nose. Thomas is now carrying the paper sack once held by the doctor. I smell blood, earthy and strong. But also . . . scotch. The good stuff. I don’t know whether to roll away in disgust or lean forward in longing.

“Your clothes,” Thomas says, holding up the bag, marked with the symbol for biohazard.

It takes me a moment; then I get it. From last night, he means. From the accident.

I can’t help myself. “We can take them? I thought, the police . . . You said there would be questions.”

“Your blood alcohol reading measured .06,” my husband tells me. “Legal limit in New Hampshire is .08. At this time, they have no grounds to charge you, let alone seize personal property.”

I nod. I wonder if I should be impressed my husband knows legal statutes so well. Or worried.

“But the items are bloody . . . destroyed.” I’m still confused. Why does he have my shredded clothes? Why does he care?

He doesn’t answer the question, but gestures to the fresh garments he’d stacked at the foot of my hospital bed.

“Think you can get dressed?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m going to run down to the pharmacy to fill your prescriptions; then I’ll be back. Give me twenty minutes.”

“What time is it?”

“Five thirty.”

“It’s dark outside.”

“Yes.”

“Vero’s not afraid of the dark,” I inform him.

Thomas sighs and leaves the room.

*   *   *

OUR HOUSE IS a two-story Colonial. I can’t tell the color given that it’s night. But after driving forty minutes along quaint back roads and winding side streets, Thomas pulls into a driveway, kills the engine. Both of us sit there for a moment. Not talking. Just alone in the dark.

Then Thomas pops open his door, comes around and assists me.

My ribs still ache. My chest, if I try to inhale too deep. But I find if I keep my movements simple, my pacing slow, I can manage well enough. There are four steps up to a covered front patio. A lone porch light illuminates the door, which appears to be painted the color of wine. Or is it blood? Didn’t we laugh about that once?