Her rational mind told her it would never work based on geography alone: she lived in Denver and he lived in Pinewood Springs. Also, he was in an MC, and she’d like a life free from rival gangs, turf wars, and all the other crap she read about when she did her research.
No, I can’t let him get to me.
Forcing herself not to think of Axe, she concentrated on getting ready for dinner.
* * *
Dinner was a tennis match between her and Logan, trying to best each other in front of Gary and Bob. She let herself be sucked into it, and it made her feel uncomfortable, but her competitive nature had kicked in.
During dinner, a sweet, vinegary smell, like apple cider, wafted around her and a vivid memory of a tall, lean man with graying hair, piercing green eyes, and a long, sharp nose flashed before her. The man came toward her as she cowered on the steps, unable to move. Suddenly, a surge of overwhelming fear gripped her.
“No. No,” she gasped aloud, her hand covering her pounding heart. I can’t fucking breathe! She gulped air, but the more she did, the more her lungs refused to fill. All of her limbs were stiff, and her face turned red as she continued to gasp, both hands covering her heart. I’m going to die. Oh, God! I’m going to die in front of everyone. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. Black spots twirled in front of her eyes as the room spun, and Gary, Bob, and Logan stretched further away from her.
“Are you all right?” Bob asked as he leapt from the chair, rushing over to her.
Sweat poured down her face as she gripped the table, her knuckles white from the pressure.
“You’re as white as a ghost,” Gary said as he dunked a corner of his napkin in his water glass then dabbed it on her face.
The coolness soothed her, and Bob’s hands massaging her shoulders began to calm her down.
“Sorry,” Baylee panted. She willed herself to slow her breathing so she could calm down.
Shakily, she brought her water glass to her mouth and took two large gulps. After a few seconds, she fibbed, “The crab cake must have shrimp in it. I’m allergic to it. I guess I should’ve asked.” “Now that I’ve drunk some water, I’m feeling much better. Sorry I scared you.” She looked down at her plate to avoid their stares.
“Glad you’re better,” Bob said. “You gave us quite a start. Are you sure you’re okay?”
Baylee nodded, her neck flushed from embarrassment. She’d made an idiot of herself, but seeing the killer stage-front in her mind had freaked her out.
Logan shifted the conversation back to him and all his wonderful accolades, but she just let it go, still reeling from her flashback. Oh, my God! I remember the killer’s face. For the first time since Mom died, I remember. The face wasn’t a crystal-clear picture quite yet, but it was definitely coming back. The minute she returned to her hotel, she’d call Dr. Scott. The enormity of the vision stunned her—this was a major breakthrough.
Back from dinner, she checked out her room before latching the deadbolt and security locks. She sat on her bed and, with trembling fingers, called Dr. Scott. He answered on the third ring.
“I saw the killer,” she blurted out.
“You did? In your mind?”
“Yes, I had a flashback to the night my mom died. I saw him. I’m so shaky, but a part of me is jumping for joy.”
“Can you identify him?” Dr. Scott asked.
“Not really, but the image was much clearer than any other I’ve had. I know he had green eyes. Intense, frightening, green eyes. This is huge, isn’t it?”
Dr. Scott cleared his throat. “Yes, it is. You now know the killer has green eyes and a large scar on his lower arm. You are making progress. What were you doing when you had the memory?”
“I was out at a business dinner. Pretty routine. I don’t know what triggered it.”
“A certain scent, sound, or touch can trigger the mind to unlock the portion which holds the buried memory.”
Baylee racked her brain, trying to remember what happened the seconds before the memory assaulted her. “Wait. I think it was the smell of fermented apples that did it.” She scrubbed the side of her face. “Yes, that’s what did it. When I smelled it, it seemed like a vaguely familiar scent.”
“During our sessions, you spoke about the sweet and pungent scent surrounding the killer. You’ve mentioned that since you started therapy back when you were a child. Perhaps the killer smelled like fresh, harvested apples, or the air had the scent in it that night. Whatever it was, the smell triggered your memory.”
“Wow. It was intense. I had a panic attack right at the table. I felt like such a fool.”