“You just--”

“Had a blackout. I get it. I’ve been having them for years.”

“You weren’t pregnant.”

The barked out worry of his reply gives me pause and I stroke his cleanly-shaven jaw.  “Dr. Murphy knows about the flashbacks.”

“And she obviously doesn’t know about you passing out and hitting your head like you did in Denver, or she would have done more to stop them.” His tone is pure disapproval. “I’ll be calling her today.”

In my worry about ending this nightmare before the baby arrives, I didn’t ask enough questions when I was with Dr. Murphy. I stroke my thumb over his neatly trimmed goatee. “She’s planning to meet with us for an in-depth consultation on Monday. Let her have her weekend.”

He scowls. “I’m not letting her send me out of the room this time.”

“Agreed. Now can I go back to my chair?”

Looking less than pleased, he allows me to stand, but he isn’t about to let go of me completely until I’m settled back at the table on my own. Tellar is still standing and all three men stare at me like they expect me to black out again any second. And if not for the baby, I’d almost wish they were right. I want to remember more, faster.

I flatten my hands on the sleek wood of the table and begin revealing what I think is one of my most important flashbacks to date. “When I was in Egypt at one of the last dig sites I was at with my family, I saw the man who was having an affair with my mother.” The rest of the admission is painful. “He was with my father.”

Liam rolls his chair around to face me and Tellar moves to sit back down. Apparently, I’ve gotten their attention. “Who is he?” all three men ask at once.

“I don’t have a name.” I try to visualize the man’s face but can’t. He’d turned around. I’d seen him. Hadn’t I? “All I saw clearly was the back of his head and his profile, or that’s all I remember right now. It was the middle of the night, so it was dark, and all of the workers on the sight were tucked away in tents and sleeping. I’d left mine to go to the bathroom. They were by a supply tent.”

“Just your father and this man?” Derek prods.

“Yes, and…” I wet my suddenly parched lips. “I’m not sure why I hid, but I hid. I tried to make out what was being said, but it was no different than the night this man was with my mother in Jasmine Heights. I couldn’t hear much.”

“Anything you heard could be helpful,” Liam encourages, “even if you think it’s not.”

“The man handed my father an envelope and when my father looked inside he was angry enough that he raised his voice and I heard him say...he told the man that “it”, whatever was in the envelope, wasn’t the amount promised.”

I expect questions and comments and all I get is blank looks that frazzle my nerves. “No,” I say, to the accusations in the air they don’t even have to speak.

Liam covers my hand, his expression as grim as his tone. “You know what it sounds like. You have to.”

My defenses flare. “It’s not some sort of payoff for illegal activity. We had investors and donations. It had to be that, or maybe it wasn’t money at all. My point is simply that my mother was having an affair with someone my father was doing business with.” My throat tightens. “That somehow makes it worse.”

Tellar interjects, “I started out working for a PI who specialized in cheating--” he seems to catch himself, “domestic disputes. It’s common that the affair happens with someone close to the couple. I’d bet my two front teeth that this guy is at the root of all of this.”

It was never about the money. I’d overheard my mother say that to someone. Who? And if someone claims it’s not about the money, then money is involved.

Liam sets my sandwich more fully in front of me. “Let’s eat and then we’ll all dig into the files with the connection in mind.”

I shake my head. “I don’t want to eat. I want to look through the files now.”

Liam sighs and motions to Derek. “The pictures. Show her the pictures.”

My brow furrows. “Pictures?”

Derek reaches down into the box he’d brought with him, retrieves a black three-ring binder, and sets it in front of me. “It’s every picture we could pull of anyone who ever crossed your path. Maybe you will find your man in there.”

I stare at the binder that holds the past I’ve tried to force into a dark corner in my mind these past six years, steeling myself for what I will see, still wholly unprepared when I flip it open. It’s like a physical blow when I see my mother staring back at me, her lovely blue eyes bright, her long blonde hair like silk around her pretty face. But the blow is nothing compared to her screams for help echoing in my mind.

I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the burning sensation that does nothing to help me or my mother. Liam rolls his chair closer, his hand on my leg, his food as forgotten as mine. “Tell me about her,” he says softly.

I have to swallow twice before I whisper, “I can’t. Not now.” I swallow again. I think I might be sick.

“If you aren’t up to this--”

“I am.” I look at him, straightening my spine. “I have to be.” I flip another page. Liam squeezes my leg and I cover his hand with mine, welcoming the strength he is to me.

Two hours later, I haven’t found the image of the man, and I’ve looked at every photo twice. I flip back to the beginning to start again and Liam shuts the notebook. “Don’t do that to yourself again. Clearly, he’s not in there, but a whole lot of pain is.”

Again, he’s right. I think I’ll tell Dr. Murphy I’ve diagnosed myself on Monday. It’s not Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It’s a broken heart. “You have to eat, baby,” Liam continues. “You haven’t touched your sandwich.”

“I might have something here,” Derek interjects, keying something into his computer and then glancing up at us. “Being the real estate guy that I am, I know that cities with Jasmine Heights’ modest population of twenty thousand that are booming, as it is, tend to have a primary investor who’s making it happen. Turns out I was right. Not only does one man own most of the primary real estate, but he is a substantial investor in, get this,” he pauses for effect, “the hospital that shows no record of you ever being there.”

Of course it doesn’t. To the world outside this room, I’m dead. “Who?” I ask and I don’t sound urgent. The truth is, looking at those photos was like taking a knife and slicing me open. I’m bleeding inside and barely holding it together.

“His name is Sheridan Scott,” Derek supplies. “Sound familiar?”

“No. But that doesn’t always mean it won’t later after I’ve had time to think.”

Derek turns his computer to face Liam and I. “What about now?”

“No,” I say, disappointment filling me as I stare at the image of a good looking sixty-something-year-old man in a suit, his dark hair peppered with gray. “He’s way too old. My mother was in her forties. I guess the man to be her age or younger. Tall, and dark, and good looking.”

Liam moves his computer to sit in front of me and pulls up another photo for me to study. I frown. “Why are you showing me Alex?”

“You’ve seen his photo?”

“I googled him way back in Denver when you told me about him.”

His shoulders visibly relax. “I just wanted--”

“To build trust.” I give the other men my back and cup his cheeks, not caring about the audience. “You have it.” I press my lips to his, drinking in the connection to the one person in this world I can trust, and the idea eases the hurt created in me by the photos just enough to make it bearable. He, like our child, gives me the light in the darkness to fight this battle. I have to keep fighting.

Saturday morning is bittersweet. It begins with me in the shower with Liam and we almost forget the idea is to use soap and shampoo. Afterward, still craving that casual feeling of hanging around the house we’d had the day before, I convince Liam to dress in a navy Yankees sweatsuit I find in his drawer and I choose a pale pink one of my own, minus the sports logo. We head to the kitchen together to meet up with Tellar and Derek to do more research, but for a few more moments, I am still all about Liam, the father of my child, and I’m amazed how, no matter what he wears, he owns the space around him. And yes, me, too.