Текст книги "The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes"

Автор книги: Marcus Sakey

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

“So why did we come this way?”

He stopped, laced his fingers over his head. “Bennett wasn’t in the spotlight anymore.”

Laney narrowed her eyes. “He went for our cars.”

“That’s what a smart bad guy would do.”

She stepped forward, put her hands on his cheek. “That’s my brilliant writer husband.” Then she kissed him, and everything else—the horns in the distance, the police sirens drawing closer, the crack of gunfire, the sun in the sky, and the ground below—went away.

A long moment later, when he could breathe again, he said, “I’m so glad you’re not dead.”

“Me too. You, I mean. I thought Bennett– When I couldn’t find you, I thought maybe he had.”

Daniel shook his head. “No. I wasn’t in L.A.”

“Huh? Where were you?”

“That’s . . . a long story.” He was about to explain when a thought struck him. “Oh, shit.” He dug for his disposable cell phone. “Sophie.”

Laney’s eyes widened. “You think—”

“I’ve got to warn her.” He powered up the phone. “Shit.”

“What?”

“Her number. I don’t have it.”

“You don’t have—” She gave him a strange look. “You’ve been friends for fifteen years.”

“It’s complicated. I’ll explain later.” It was on his laptop, but that was in the BMW. Four-one-one, maybe? But Sophie was a high-powered entertainment lawyer. Her home number would be unlisted. Well, maybe they could call a cab, race over there, hope to beat him. Or better yet, call the police—

“310-274-6611,” Laney said, reading the number off her own cell phone.

Daniel looked up. Felt a lightness run through him. Such a little thing, her having the answer to a question, but somehow it was almost as good as finding out she was alive. He wasn’t alone anymore. He had a partner.

Sophie answered on the third ring. “Yes?”

“It’s me, you have to—”

“Are you okay? I don’t have anything new from Jen yet—”

“Sophie, listen to me. You have to get out of there.”

“What?”

“You have to get out of your house. He’s on his way over.”

“Who is?”

“Bennett. The guy who broke in before. He’s coming to your house right now.”

“What?”

“There’s no time. You have to get out right now. Go somewhere safe, a friend, or a hotel. Don’t go into work, he’ll look for you there.”

“You’re serious?”

“I swear.”

The sound that came over the line was almost a whimper. It was the last thing he wanted to hear from this woman, this strong, capable woman. “Listen, you don’t have a lot of time, but you should have enough. He’s coming from the Farmers Market, it will take him a little while. But seriously, right now, get going.” Silence. “Sophie!”

“What?”

“You can’t freeze up right now—”

“Who froze? I’m packing.”

He smiled. “That’s my girl. Don’t bother with much. Just grab your purse and get the hell out.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, staring into Laney’s eyes, seeing them staring back at him. He didn’t even want to blink. “Yeah, I’m fine. Better than.”

“Where are you?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Things have changed. For one thing I found—”

Laney shook her head, put a finger to her lips. She didn’t want Sophie to know she was alive? Why?

It didn’t matter. He trusted her. “I, ah, I found the guy who did this. That will help us.”

“How do you know he’s coming—”

“No time. Are you out?”

“I’m locking the door. Hold on.” There was the sound of keys, then heavier breathing as she walked.

“Get in your car, drive around the neighborhood a couple of times. Keep your eyes on your rearview mirror. If any cars follow you, any at all, you go straight to a police station. If they don’t, go somewhere safe.”

“All right. How do I—”

“I’m about to learn more. I’ll call you when I can.”

“All right.”

“I love you, Soph. Be careful.”

“You too. But once this is over, I’m going to kick your ass.”

“Fair enough.” He hung up the phone, took a deep breath.

“She’s okay?” Laney asked.

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure?”

“It would take him, what, twenty, twenty-five minutes to make the drive? It can’t have been more than ten.”

“So Sophie’s safe,” Laney said, stepping closer, her eyes locked on his.

“Yeah.”

“And you’re okay.”

“More or less. And you’re alive.”

“More or less,” she said, inching closer still, her gaze lasered onto his.

“What happened to your eye?”

She smiled, licked the tip of her finger, dragged it across the purple splotch, smearing it down her cheek.. “For a while I was a blonde named Belinda Nichols. She had a port wine stain. Amazing how no one looks at anything else.”

“But now you’re you.”

“Yes.”

“And Bennett doesn’t know where we are.”

“No.”

“Well, then.” He swallowed hard. “Would it be okay if I kissed you?”

“No,” she said, the syllable barely floating on breath. “Not unless you want to make love on the swing set. Next time I kiss you, I don’t intend to stop.”

“Ever?”

“Not for a long time.”

His body responded to that, to her. “Where?”

“A hotel downtown? One of those cheap ones that won’t need ID?”

He thought of the Ambassador: stained walls, piss smell in the lobby, bedding home to whole civilizations of crawling things. No. “I thought you were dead. And I very nearly was. I’m not having our reunion at a flophouse.”

“What do you have in mind?”

5

The façade was gray stone carved in intricate patterns, framing an archway thirty feet high. Lavish flower arrangements spilled out of concrete planters. The flags above the arch whispered and popped in the breeze. A uniformed doorman stood at attention. “Welcome to the Beverly Wilshire.”

“Thank you,” Daniel said, and gestured Laney through the open door, ignoring her are-you-crazy? look. The lobby was echoing marble and graceful curves. A chandelier of shimmering crystal hung in the center of the room. Daniel took a deep breath: clean air, faintly scented with lemon. Behind the reception desk, a smart-suited man nodded to him.

“What are you doing?” Laney asked under her breath. She had her sunglasses on, one hand up to obscure her face.

“First, I’m going to get us a room. Then I’m going to do terrible things to you in it.”

Still looking down, she smiled, but said, “This very romantic, but we can’t take the risk. Bennett has people everywhere, he’ll know if you use your credit card.”

“How much cash do you have?”

“About five thousand dollars.”

“Five thousand dollars? What are you doing with– It doesn’t matter. That’s plenty.”

“But they won’t let you—”

“Relax,” he said, feeling better than he had in weeks. “I’m a writer.” He winked and turned away, strode over to the desk. The man behind the counter flashed a bright smile, said, “Good morning, sir.”

Daniel straightened his posture, glad he’d left the gaudy Hawaiian shirt back at the Farmers Market. Great thing about L.A., anyone in a black T-shirt might be a producer. “Morning. Are you the manager, by any chance?”

“Yes, sir.” The man’s suit had never had a wrinkle. “How may I help you?”

“I’d like a suite.”

“We have several Beverly suites available.”

“The rooms are nice?”

“They’re lovely, sir. King-sized bed, Italian marble soaking tubs, balconies offering stunning city views. For how many nights will this be?”

“Just one.”

“Yes sir.” The man clicked on a hidden keyboard. “All I’ll need—”

“Here’s the thing– I’m sorry, what was your name?”

“Thomas River.”

“Here’s the thing, Thomas. I’d like to be discreet about it.” He gave the tiniest motion with his head to indicate Laney behind him. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Certainly, sir. We just need a credit card to book the room, but we don’t charge it, and you can pay however you like.” The ready answer of a man experienced at accommodating cheating husbands.

“I appreciate that, Thomas, I do. But my credit card bills go to my house. And while I’m sure you would be careful, I can’t chance one of your employees making a mistake, maybe charging room service. I’m afraid I need a little more discretion than that.”

“I see. Well—”

“So what I’d like to do, if I may, is give you cash, up front, for the room. And of course for your trouble.”

“Sir, I—”

“How about . . .” He pulled the money from his pocket, all that remained from pawning his Rolex a week ago. “Two thousand, one hundred and . . . eighty-seven dollars. I’d leave it to you to determine how that money broke down, of course.”

The manager’s smile widened by a scant degree, and then he nodded his head with military polish. “Welcome to the Beverly Wilshire, sir. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“I will.” He took the key cards the man handed him, nodded again, and turned back to the lobby.

Laney had settled in a tall white throne screened from the entrance by a broad pillar. She sat with legs to the side, knees together, one hand at her chin. Her hair was blond instead of the dark brown he remembered, and she was smaller than she looked on TV. The oversized sunglasses could have landed on the diva side of the scale if it weren’t for the slow smile that bloomed as she saw him coming toward her. With calculated languor, she brought her hands up to tangle through her hair, arms framing her face.

Daniel shook his head. “Jesus.”

“Did you miss me?”

“Come upstairs and I’ll show you.” He held out a hand, and she took it. Their footsteps echoed through the lobby. The elevator seemed to take a long time, and he studied her as they waited. This was his wife. The woman he had married. They had lived together, loved each other intensely and as best they could. They had made dinner and cleaned the house and woken on Christmas morning. They had fought and been ill and overworked and stressed.

And you still don’t remember it.

Suddenly he felt like a fraud. Who was he to be taking this woman to a suite, to be planning to make love to her? The adrenaline from the escape had worn off, and the reality that remained was complicated. He may have been her husband on paper, but without his memory, this felt like a violation. Like he was pretending to things he didn’t deserve.

With a gentle tone, the elevator arrived. They stepped aboard and Daniel hit the button for fourteen. He said, “Listen. There’s something I should tell you.”

“What?”

“I. Things.” He stopped. “Have you ever felt like you didn’t quite know who you were? No, that’s not. I mean, I know who I am. It’s just that—”

“What?” she asked softly, stepping forward. He could smell her sweat, and see the downy hairs on her neck. “You haven’t forgotten where everything goes, have you?”

He laughed. “No. But I have forgotten—well, not completely, but . . .”

“Daniel.” She stepped closer.

“I—”

“We just escaped from a psychopath. We’re alone in an elevator. Can’t you think of something better to do?”

“I just, I don’t want to take advantage—”

She put a finger to his lips, and he felt that solar plexus kick. Desire, but also recognition, and something even more elemental. On the other hand . . . She stepped forward, her head tilted up, eyes on his, lips slightly parted—

The tone sounded again, and the door opened. Laney held the gaze for a second, then glanced down at his hand, snatched the key card, and bounded out of the elevator, giggling. For a moment, he stared at her retreating body, conflicted.

Fuck it.

He ran after her.

Laney had barely opened the door by the time he caught up, and he grabbed her, pulled her inside. The suite was wide and spacious and there was a king-sized bed, and that was all he saw of the room. She didn’t so much touch as envelop him, her whole body against his, making a clumsy two-step across the room without breaking the kiss, his blood pounding as he tugged at her shirt, yanked it up over her head, the neck getting caught, her giggling again, skin creamy and glowing, and then they both went sideways over the bed, and the giggle became a throaty laugh. He pulled the shirt the rest of the way off, fumbled at his own, both of them rolling now, flesh to electric flesh, every nerve ending singing. She reached behind her back to unsnap her bra, tossed it, breasts falling free, his lips kissing down her neck, teasing a nipple into his mouth, his cock straining in his pants, throbbing against her as she ground into him, her head going back in a moan, god, he knew that sound, knew it on some base level deeper than thought. He hooked one foot behind the other, kicked off his shoes as she straightened above him, ran her hands through her hair, shook it free, then bent back down so that it enclosed them, the world narrowed down to a whimpering prayer and a dance of touch. Somehow she had her jeans off, and he could feel the heat of her through the thin lace of her panties as she rocked forward to undo the buttons of his pants. He arched his hips and reached down, got his jeans and briefs down to his thighs in one motion as she pulled the panties aside and slid herself over the length of him, wet and warm and welcoming, and then she used her hand to guide him inside, and there was nothing but sensation, her head back, a cry from her lips as he pushed all the way into her, yes, yes, yes.

Home.

Sweat, and the smells of sex, earthy and rich.

The tangle of limbs, the awkward weight of flesh.

The sweetness of the curve of the inside of her thighs.

A rhythm feverish then measured then greedy again.

The spill of her hair across luxurious white sheets.

Her voice, begging, urging, pleading, cajoling, teasing, ordering.

The cold of her bare toes—they were always cold, he remembered that—the feeling as familiar and intimate a knowledge as her most secret wetness.

That sense of reaching for something shimmering and just out of reach as he thrust into her.

The way her whole body tightened as she came, every muscle straining. His own orgasm a release, the bars of a cage flying open, a soundless howl, a taking and a giving.

And then he collapsed on top of her, both of them panting, skin slick and sticky. So close he couldn’t tell where he ended and she began. Their breath fell into sync, the rise of her back matched to his exhale. He buried his face in her hair, his eyes closed, nose filled with the smell of her. They lay together, floating in a world beyond words. Finally, she cleared her throat. “Wow. You did miss me.” “You have no idea.”

She blew a breath, shifted slightly, and he moved to lie behind her, spooning. Sunlight spilled across their bodies. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe we ought to fake my death every so often, just to spice things up.”

His laughter was almost as good as the orgasm.

When he could move again, they untangled themselves. She sat up, yawned. Stretched her arms wide, then sat cross-legged, every inch of her body exposed. She had always been completely unselfconscious about nudity. He’d loved that, loved that it was only for him, that she had always refused to do it for the screen, to share her body with the hungry eyes of strangers.

“I hate to spoil the mood,” he said, “but can we talk?”

“Where do you want to start?”

“How about the part where you’re alive.”

Laney reached for a pillow, dumped it in her lap, lay her hands on top of it. Her expression was hard to read, the traces of satiation mingling with something else, fear maybe, or regret. He flipped onto his back, put his arms behind his head, content to wait her out.

Finally, she began to speak.

5

EXT. DANIEL & LANEY’S MALIBU HOUSE—AFTERNOON

LANEY THAYER digs keys from her bag, unlocks a powder blue VOLKSWAGEN BEETLE. She slings the bag into the passenger seat, cranks the engine, and opens the security gate.

Her fingers open and close nervously on the steering wheel.

LANEY

It’s okay. He’s not here. It’s okay. She takes a deep breath and pulls out.

EXT. MALIBU STREETS—CONTINUOUS

Laney drives fast. Her eyes dart from mirror to mirror.

She turns without signaling. Pulls through parking lots, does a loop, comes out going the opposite way. Circles the block several times.

Eventually, she gets on the . . .

PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY—CONTINUOUS

Laney blows past hotels and surf shops, past Pepperdine, past the houses of the uber-rich perched on rocky cliffs.

Traffic is light and she’s making good time. Malibu is well behind, L.A. approaching. A light goes from yellow to red. She reluctantly brakes.

A car noses out of a canyon behind her. Sunlight off the windshield hides the driver’s features.

The car turns in her direction.

Laney bites her lip.

The car draws closer.

LANEY

(to the traffic signal)

Come on.

(glancing in the mirror)

Come on, come on . . .

The car comes closer. Closer still.

Laney is about to gun the Beetle through the light—and a stream of turning cars—when the car behind her rolls under a tree.

The shadow reveals the driver to be a middleaged woman with a bad haircut.

Laney laughs.

LANEY

Twitch much?

A horn sounds a quick beep-beep.

Slowly, she turns her head.

From the driver’s seat of the NISSAN XTERRA next to hers, BENNETT waves.

LANEY

No.

She jams on the gas.

Horns squeal as she tears across the intersection. She dodges between cars.

Laney risks a glance at the rearview. Her sudden acceleration caught Bennett off-guard, but the Xterra is following—and gaining.

LANEY

Shit.

Her fingers dig divots in the steering wheel.

Laney reaches for her bag with one hand, begins to rummage through it.

LANEY

Come on, come on.

She finds her cell phone. Glances in the mirror, pales to see Bennett right behind her. He wags a finger reproachfully.

LANEY

Screw you.

She flips open the phone. Her hands shake as she tries to dial.

Laney glances down at the phone, sees that she has punched in 8-1-1. She grimaces, clears the number, begins to dial again.

The Xterra honks twice.

Laney jerks her head up.

A large DELIVERY TRUCK is right in front of her.

LANEY

Shit!

She drops the phone, grabs the wheel with both hands, yanks to one side.

The front of her car barely clears the bumper of the delivery truck.

But now she is in the wrong lane, facing oncoming traffic.

She gasps, starts to turn back to her lane, realizes she’ll collide, and instead puts the accelerator to the floor. The Volkswagen is moving past the delivery truck, but slowly.

And in front of her, a battered OLD PICKUP is approaching fast. It holds down the horn. LANEY

I see you.

She continues racing forward, playing chicken at reckless speeds.

Bennett has followed her into the wrong lane. She is now hemmed in, death on all sides.

The pickup is incredibly close.

Laney grits her teeth, glances at the delivery truck beside her. Almost there.

The pickup brakes hard, rear tires smoking and slewing sideways.

At the last possible second, Laney throws the wheel to the right, shooting in front of the delivery truck.

Squealing tires and angry horns fill the afternoon air as the pickup loses control. Its rear end slides too far, and suddenly it is sideways in the road.

The delivery truck reacts, jerking aside to try to avoid the collision. Too late. The pickup broadsides the truck, and both spin out of control.

But Laney is past.

And better still, as the two trucks drift to a stop, she sees that they have blocked off the PCH.

Bennett’s Xterra is trapped behind them. Laney yells, laughs, punches the roof of the car.

But she’s going a hundred miles an hour on one of the most dangerous roads in America. And there’s a curve coming up, a ruthless twist with nothing but empty air and a long drop to the ocean below.

She brakes hard. The car jumps and swerves. She wrestles with the wheel to fight the fishtail.

Her car sideswipes the barrier rail. Metal screams and sparks fly.

The world spins as she loses control. Out the windshield: sky, tree, canyon wall, sky.

Laney fights back and manages to stop the spin. But the Beetle is now heading directly into the barrier.

LANEY

No!

She screams as she slams into the metal.

Her body is thrown against the seat belt. The air bag explodes.

The world is chaos and breaking glass and smoke. And then, suddenly, it’s over.

Laney groans. She reaches up with fumbling hands, touches her face. Her lip is split, and there’s a smear of blood on the air bag. But she’s alive.

Out the cracked windshield, she can see only sky and water. The Volkswagen’s engine coughs and shudders.

LANEY

Oh god.

She throws the vehicle into park, struggles with her seat belt, panic setting in. She gets it on her third try.

On the passenger seat, her bag has fallen open. Makeup, wallet, sunglasses, pepper spray spill across the seat.

As do five neat bundles of twenty-dollar bills.

Laney hesitates for a fraction of a second, then stuffs the money back in the bag, retrieves her cell phone and wallet, and leaps out.

Wobbly on her feet, she looks around. The VW has broken through the barrier. The front tires are inches from the cliff’s edge.

But she’s alive.

Laney looks behind her. The accident is out of sight around the curve and has temporarily blocked traffic from that direction. There are cars coming the other way, but they are far off. No one can help her.

And Bennett will be here in seconds.

An idea occurs, and she is in sudden motion. She climbs halfway into the Beetle, presses the brake, and shifts the engine to drive.

Then she guns the gas as she leaps out of the car, landing in a clumsy heap.

The V W lunges for ward. Momentu m carries it over the cliff.

It slams down the rock face like a dumbbell down stairs, every impact stunningly loud, and then there is a splash, and the sound of waves.

She edges to the cliff, looks over. Her little car is upside down in the surf, and sinking. One tire spins lazily.

From behind, the roar of an engine.

Laney rushes across the PCH and into the low scrub brush on the other side. She flattens herself in the ditch, wriggling beneath the thin cover of dry brush.

The engine is near.

The Xterra brakes, coming to a stop near the mangled barrier. The door opens, and Bennett hops out.

Laney holds her breath. If he looks on this side, he’ll find her.

Bennett hurries to the cliff edge. He leans over. BENNETT

Oh, fuck me.

He rubs his forehead.

Then he turns and hurries back to his truck. The Xterra races away.

Laney waits only seconds before she climbs out and begins limping the other direction, bag slung over her shoulder.

LANEY

Jesus. Jesus.

(beat)

You should be dead.

A steep path winds up the side of the cliff a hundred yards away, and she aims for it. LANEY

You are dead. Laney Thayer is dead. You’re no longer Laney Thayer.

(beat)

You’re . . . Belinda. Belinda Nichols. As she begins to climb the hill, sirens sound in the distance.

5

“At first,” Laney said, “I was only thinking of getting away from Bennett. But then I realized that if he thought I was dead, he might back off. Of course, for that to work, everyone had to think so. Even you.”

“Why—”

“You know how smart Bennett is. He would have been watching the house. Maybe even tapped the phones. He liked to do that, plant microphones and cameras. And if he realized I was alive, he’d come after you.”

“So your plan was, what, lay low forever? That doesn’t make any sense.”

She shrugged. “You’re the writer. You plan things. I was improvising.”

“Improvising.”

“It’s what actresses do, love.”

“So you were just going to let me think—”

“Only until I could find a safe way to get in touch with you. A day or two at the most. I knew it would be terrible for you, I just didn’t see any choice. But then you were gone. And I figured, well, if Bennett thinks I’m dead, maybe that’s useful. Maybe it will give me a chance to get close to him. So I dressed as a cleaning lady, became a woman named Lila Bannister, and went to the house for one of your guns. Then I started looking for him. And for you.”

Daniel stared at the ceiling. His mind screening footage of the car chase, of her limping away. “I see how you’re alive, but why was Bennett chasing you in the first place? Who is he? How do you know him?”

Laney laughed humorlessly. “Yeah, right.”

“I mean it.”

“I don’t want to go through it all again, okay? I don’t want to fight. It was a long time ago.”

Daniel stiffened, stomach going sick. What was a long time ago? Every time he got one answer, two new questions popped up.

Then he realized. He had known all of this. He must have. It’s just that it was gone, along with the rest of his memories.

“Besides, it’s not like you don’t have things in your past,” Laney continued, voice rising. “What was the name of that skank you used to sleep with? The one who got pregnant and told you and four other guys that they were the father, asked for money. What was her name, huh?”

“I don’t know,” Daniel said. He rubbed at his eyes.

“Yeah, I bet. So don’t you—”

“Laney.”

“I never thought he’d come back into our lives. I thought that was behind—”

“I need to tell you something.” He took her hands. How are you going to explain this? It’s one thing to tell Sophie you don’t remember her. But this is your wife. “You know that woman you asked about?”

Laney’s shoulders tightened. “What about—”

“I don’t remember her name. I don’t actually remember her at all. In fact,” he tried to laugh, but the sound was wrong, “I don’t remember most of my life.”

“What? What are you—are you being philosophical again? Because now isn’t the time to go all Sartre on me.”

“No. Literally. I don’t remember. I have some kind of amnesia.”

She stared at him. He met her gaze. After a long moment, she said, “What are you talking about?”

“I’m still figuring it out myself. Things are coming back, a lot of them. But most of my past, it’s . . . I can’t remember it.” Haltingly, he took her through the last week of his life. Waking in panic and pain, half-dead on the wrong side of the country. The pursuit, the endless drive, the loneliness, the dreams. The revelations about their life—okay, yeah, he downplayed the complete shock to discover they were married—and the discovery that she was dead. His grief and anger and attempts at revenge.

Laney listened, her face neutral. She seemed to be consciously withholding judgment, as if someone were telling a joke that might be offensive and she was waiting for the punch line to see which way it landed. Her reserve made him talk faster, wedging words between words, embroidering his statements, spinning the tale as best he knew how, trying to paint for her the state of his life, the edge of madness he’d haunted, the constant uncertainty.

Finally she broke in. “You don’t remember anything.”

“Like I said, it’s coming back. Some of it. And I’m hoping that now that we’re together . . .” He broke off, realizing how lame that sounded.

“You’re not joking.”

“No.”

“This isn’t some weird game.”

“No.”

“Last Christmas, when I roasted a chicken and we lay in the backyard looking at the stars. You don’t remember.”

“No.”

“Our wedding day, on the beach in Maine.”

Slowly, he shook his head.

“The day we met.”

“I’m—I’m sorry. It’s not something I chose, believe me.”

She turned away. “Do you remember me at all?”

“I . . .” He took a deep breath. Guilt and shame had been constant companions for the past week, but now they found new ways to twist within him. “I know that I love you. I have certain things, images, little . . . vignettes, I guess, that come to me. I don’t control them. But I can tell how precious you are to me.”

She made a sound that might have been intended as a laugh.

“I realize how that . . . especially . . . I mean, you know.” He gestured at the twisted bedding.

“That’s what you were trying to say in the elevator.”

“Laney, I’m so sorry. If I could turn this off, get rid of it, I would. It’s been tearing me apart ever since I woke up on that beach and realized I didn’t know how I got there.” He reached out to touch her, stopped before his fingers made contact. Held them there for a moment, and then lowered his hand. “I know this much,” he said quietly. “Even when I didn’t remember anything at all, I knew you were out there. I knew that I had to get back to you. I followed a television show, a fantasy, across the country. I chased you before I knew your name. I was trying to get home. And home is you.”

She knit her fingers together, palms up—this is the church, this is the steeple, open it up, see all the people—and spoke to them. “You need a doctor. It could be a brain tumor, or an aneurism—”

“No,” he said. He told her about the MRI clinic, the radiology tech shrugging, saying, Man, you want to see a doc, up to you, but this is your brain, and there ain’t nothing wrong with it. Physically, at least.

“It could be something else. Something that doesn’t show up on an MRI.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What do you know about medicine? I mean, if it’s not physical, then how did this happen?”

“I’m only guessing.”

“Okay.”

“I think maybe my brain was trying to protect itself.”

“From what?”

“From . . . dying.”

“Dying? What do you mean?” She turned suddenly, her eyes gas-burner blue.

He looked away.

“Daniel?”

“I don’t know for sure. I think maybe I was.” He sighed. “Maybe I was trying to kill myself.”

“What?”

“I don’t know—”

“Trying to kill yourself? What are you talking about?”

“Well, I mean, it’s . . .” He tried for a sheepish grin, failed miserably, turned away again. “It’s my best guess of how this all started. My amnesia. I thought you were dead, and so I tried to kill myself.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, all right? I don’t remember. All I know is that I thought you were dead, and next thing I can put together, I woke up on the beach where we got married. So I figure that I was . . .” He shrugged. “Lost. Miserable. And I ran from L.A., and kept running until I made it to the beach. I had a gun with me, and I’m guessing maybe I planned to use it on myself, but then decided to swim into the ocean instead. That seemed more fitting, somehow, and—”

“Asshole!”

Daniel blinked. “What?”

“Was that supposed to be romantic, all Romeo and Juliet? Did you stop to think for half a second what that would do to me? Did you?”

“Well, I don’t remember. But seeing as how you were dead at the time, I’m going to guess not.”

Laney looked like she wanted to keep yelling, but his words threw her. She shook her head. Laughed emptily. “Yeah.”

“I’ve been feeling this terrible guilt, I mean, just unbearable guilt and shame. Ever since I woke up. And these dreams. One in particular that keeps coming back, where I’m standing in front of this dark tunnel, and there’s something horrible about it, something I can’t take back. Which would make sense if I tried to kill myself, wouldn’t it?”

“A tunnel?” Something flickered across her face.