Critical Instinct(4)

“You think?”

She took a sip of her water, then continued, holding up her fingers as she ticked off the questions. “No, I have never remembered anything about my assailant. Even though I must have seen him at some point, I can’t remember anything about his features at all. How am I doing so far?”

Despite her slightly defiant tone, Brett could tell these were still hard statements for her to make. “Yes, definitely questions that were on my list.”

Paige stared down at her water bottle, all of the fight seeming to suddenly leave her. Her voice was much softer as she shrugged. “I’ve never remembered anything more that would help. It would almost make you think some part of me doesn’t want to catch him.”

Brett could read her frustration with herself. His hand itched to reach out and touch hers, to comfort her in any way he could. He ruthlessly tamped the feeling down. This was not the time or the situation. Plus, the questions were only going to get harder.

But the desire to touch her, to comfort her, was almost overwhelming. She looked so little and lost sitting on that barstool, clutching her water bottle.

“It’s okay not to remember,” Brett offered, feeling it was the least he could do. “It’s your mind protecting itself. No one would ever blame you for that.”

Paige nodded shortly, but Brett could tell she wasn’t convinced. It didn’t seem to matter if others blamed her. Paige blamed herself.

“And you want to know about my picture,” she continued, her voice even more quiet, if possible. “The one I drew.”

“Yes,” Brett responded gently. “It’s in your file, directly behind the photograph taken of you at the hospital.”

“That picture is the reason why nobody wants to come up and talk to me, you know.” Paige stood and walked over to the counter by the sink, as if she needed to put distance between them. She turned and leaned against it. “It’s never the same person twice. How did you get so lucky to be the one chosen if it wasn’t because we went to high school together?”

“I volunteered.” Brett shrugged, not elaborating.

One dainty eyebrow raised. “You volunteered to take my case?”

“Yeah. Plus Chief Pickett is my friend.”

“Ah, so he had to play the friend card to get someone up here.”

Brett shook his head. “No, it’s not like that. I’m pretty good at cold cases so the chief wanted my opinion. I didn’t mind coming here, even when I didn’t think we knew each other at all in high school. Maybe I can find something other people might have missed. Fresh eyes.”

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “But that’s right now. In a few minutes you’ll get to your questions about the drawing of myself. Then your fresh eyes theory won’t be so viable.”

Brett could feel his eyebrow raise at her quiet skepticism. “Is that so?”

If possible, Paige’s smile was even more sad. “You’ll be the latest one who has to tell the poor woman who was attacked and almost beaten to death that she’s a liar or just plain crazy. So, congratulations: short straw.”





Chapter Four





Mic drop. Paige out.

Neither of them actually left, but he probably wished he could. Probably wished they’d never had that art class together in high school.

She remembered him from school, of course. She doubted there was anyone who wouldn’t remember the charming, handsome quarterback with a quick smile for almost everyone. He was older now, his brown eyes more jaded, his smile not as quick. But he was still ridiculously handsome, tall and fit, with a strong jaw and cheekbones, a slight dimple in his chin. Not to mention a lock of black hair that still fell over his forehead like it had in high school.

All the girls had had a crush on Brett Wagner —QB to his friends and teammates— back in the day. Heck, probably a lot of the guys too.

Paige hadn’t.

Or, more accurately, she’d known there was so little a possibility that the senior football star would ever even notice her that she’d never even thought of him in that way. Paige had been closer to Brett’s younger sisters, twins, who had been a year younger than Paige. Lydia and Audrey had been so friendly and outgoing —like miniature, non-athletic versions of their brother— people couldn’t help but be drawn to them, shy Paige included.

She’d even painted them after their deaths. Left the paintings for Brett outside his door. She doubted he still had them now if he remembered them at all.

And she doubted he wanted to be here, despite the fact that his friendly QB smile remained on his face.

Paige had been through interviews with the police enough times to know that the next question Brett would ask would be about her drawing. She would insist she drew it weeks before her attack, which she had, and things would rapidly go downhill from there.

Liar or crazy. Those two options were always what it came down to for the investigating officers. Paige was either lying to get attention or suffering from a form of traumatic delusion, thinking she’d drawn the picture weeks before the attack, could be possible.

Paige wished she had never shown the drawing to the police in the first place. And she darn well wished she’d never actually drawn it. Actually, them.

All of them. All the dozens and dozens of pictures she’d drawn over the last two years.

Paige sighed to herself. She was tired. Last night had been yet another night of haphazard sleep. Every night was. Even the nights where she didn’t awake huddled on the floor so exhausted she could barely move, like she’d been beaten.

Today she hadn’t woken up with sunken eyes and blood dripping out of her nose, fingers cramping and head pounding from drawing something she couldn’t remember.

But that didn’t mean she’d gotten a good night’s sleep. Just because the crazy hadn’t happened didn’t mean the normal nightmares had taken a break. She had plenty to fear in the dark.

So Paige didn’t really want to do this. Didn’t want to be called a liar or crazy —however dressed up the terms were— by Brett Wagner, charming hometown hero.

Who was still so attractive it sent little flutters through her stomach.

The thought caught Paige off guard. She hadn’t thought of anyone as handsome in a long time. Two years to be exact.

“Crazy or liar, huh?”

Brett’s question brought Paige’s attention back to their conversation. “That’s usually how it goes once the questions start about the drawing.”

“Because of when you claim to have drawn that picture that is remarkably similar to the one taken of you in the hospital?” Paige could tell he was trying to keep his voice neutral and eliminate any trace of incredulity. She appreciated the effort.

“Yes. I still claim to have drawn the picture three weeks before the photograph was taken.” Although she didn’t know why she still kept claiming that when no one was ever going to believe her.

Hell, she’d drawn the picture herself and still didn’t believe it.

Paige could see that Brett didn’t know what to do with that information. He tried a different tactic.

“You make your living as an artist now right? So you draw for a living?”

“No, I paint. Believe it or not, I’m not really very good at drawing. Colored pencils are definitely not my specialty.” She preferred bold oils.

“I’m no expert, as we both know from how often I missed our art class, but the drawing in this file seemed pretty damn good to me.”

Paige shook her head. “That is the exception, not the norm.”

“But you paint?”

“Yes.”

“Realistic figures? Similar to the ones in the file, but with paint?”

“No, my paintings tend to be much more abstract. Although they do involve people, mostly they center around colors.”

Paige didn’t mention that the colors she painted, the ones that allowed her to make a very lucrative living from her art, were based on the auras of color she caught from people. To Paige, people were surrounded by colors. Her talent was capturing those colors on canvas. The ones she’d done of his sisters were the first ones she’d ever made public in any way.

But she was sure that telling Brett about auras would just land them right back in the “crazy or liar” conversation. Although he hadn’t gotten to that point just yet.

But standing there, watching him, she realized she couldn’t wait to paint him. Not him as a person, but the colors she so very clearly saw surrounding him. Was almost desperate to immerse herself in his colors and paint him.

The thought once again caught Paige off guard. She hadn’t been interested in painting the colors of someone she actually knew in a while, had mostly stuck to the soothing colors of children and older people the last couple of years.

But something about Brett Wagner pulled her in.

“Would it be possible for me to see some of your paintings?” he asked, once again drawing her back from her thoughts.

“Unfortunately, I don’t have any of my artwork here right now.” That wasn’t the complete truth, given all the drawings of the women she’d done over the past two years, but it was as close as she was going to tell him.

“Isn’t your house also your studio?”

Paige smiled slightly at the disappointment in his tone. Evidently he really wanted to see her paintings, although she didn’t know if it was for personal or professional reasons. “Yes, but I’m having a show next week at a gallery downtown. All my pieces are there.”