Secrets and Sins:Raphael(6)

Greer started to nod, but when the throb threatened to upgrade to a  hammering, she whispered. "Yes, my head hurts. Not as bad as before,  though. And I'm just a little nauseous."

"Both to be expected. Can you remember anything about the head injury?"

"Excuse me, doctor," a low, male voice interrupted. "We'll take it from here."

For the first time, displeasure crossed the physician's expression. Her  mouth tightened as her eyes narrowed. "Fine. But she's still my patient.  Please keep that in mind."

The woman stepped back, and an older, graying man in a slightly creased  brown suit and white shirt entered her line of vision. Lines fanned out  from the corners of his eyes. A shiver worked its way down her spine at  that hard, dark gaze.

"Ms. Addison, I'm Detective Marshall. I'd like to ask you a few questions about your fiancé, Gavin Wells."

"Gavin?" She frowned. What did Gavin have to do with her being in the  hospital? She'd broken up with him. Hadn't seen Gavin since she found  him in bed with Aubrey. Had he put her here? "Where is he?" she rasped.  "Is he here?"

"No," Detective Marshall said, tone as flat as the stare fixed on her.  "He's dead. Gavin Wells is dead. Murdered. Found in your apartment. And  we need to ask you a few questions."





Chapter Four

"Let's start from the beginning, Ms. Addison." Detective Marshall leaned  back in his chair, large hands folded over his slightly rounded  stomach. The bare walls of the police station interrogation room seemed  to close in on Greer as he studied her from across the scratched gray  table. Studied her. As though she was an amoeba under a microscope.  Scrutinizing her for any signs of weakness. After three days in the  hospital and now hours of this intense interrogation, she was so … tired.  And she longed to just surrender and give him what he sought: a  confession. An admission of guilt. But she couldn't. Even if she could  remember what had happened that night in her apartment where the police  said she killed Gavin, she wouldn't confess to something she didn't  commit.

"I've told you, Detective," she said wearily. "Earlier that evening I was at my parents' home-"

"Where you told them your engagement with Gavin Wells was over because you'd discovered he'd cheated on you."

"Yes," she conceded. "Afterward-"

"No, let's go back to that. You walked in on your fiancé screwing another woman. You mean to tell me that didn't make you mad?"

She sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose. "Yes, of course I was mad.  But that doesn't mean I killed him. I broke off the engagement. He  wanted to stay engaged, not me."

"Hmm." Which could mean anything, but the cynical twist of his lips  telegraphed his disbelief. "That's not what his parents believe. They  said you wouldn't let go."

She shook her head, winced as the low-grade ache in her head protested  the action. "That's not true. I don't know what he told them, but he  called my father, asked him to convince me to change my mind about  ending the relationship. You can ask my father. It's why we argued."

"You mean your father would want his little girl to marry a man who'd already cheated on her?"

She didn't blame his sarcasm or doubt. How could she? Part of her could  still barely comprehend that her father had been willing to sell her off  to a weak, unfaithful man to solidify a business relationship. While  the other half-the half that had witnessed her father operate for  twenty-six years-could fully believe and accept that he was just that  damn cold.

"Yes, Detective. He'd want it and expect it. He's the head of one of the  largest banking institutions in the state. His daughter married to the  heir of New England's wealthiest real estate mogul? The connections  alone mean more than whether or not Gavin was, or could remain, faithful  to me."                       
       
           



       

For a long moment, Marshall remained quiet. As if her matter-of-fact  explanation surprised him. As a Boston police officer, he most likely  witnessed many examples of how cold and cruel humans could be to one  another. Yet a father banking on his daughter's  marriage-literally-seemed to take him aback.

"Okay," he finally said. "Say it's true. Say you did end the engagement.  Why was Gavin in your apartment, then?" He dropped the lazy drawl, shot  forward, and slammed his palm down on top of a manila folder that sat  on the table. "Explain to me how he ended up like this?" He slapped open  the folder and slid it in front of her.

She recoiled, pressing her spine back against the chair as if she could  escape the horror of the crime scene photos. Of the ugliness of the  violence depicted in graphic, garish color.

"Oh, God," she rasped. Gavin. She reached for him with trembling  fingers. As if she could smooth the familiar blond strands off his  forehead. As if that gesture would somehow erase and heal the obscene  wounds puncturing his back. As if it could clean away the blood. Jesus  Christ, all that blood. He'd cheated on her, lied to her, used her. But  he hadn't deserved this. Not the terror of this death. She snatched her  hand back, cradled it against her chest. "I-" She swallowed, shaking her  head so hard, her ponytail swished against her shoulders. "I didn't do  this."

"And how do you know that, Ms. Addison?" Marshall sneered. "I thought you didn't remember anything."

He didn't believe that she couldn't recall anything about the night of  Gavin's murder. Well, that wasn't exactly true. She remembered the ugly  confrontation with her parents about the cancelled wedding, going to the  bar with Ethan afterward, and … Raphael Marcel. She remembered leaving  with him and having sex in the backseat of his truck. She briefly shut  her eyes, those memories all wrong in this scary, depressing place. But  after he'd dropped her off at home … she couldn't dig those minutes and  hours out of the black hole her brain had become. After sliding her key  into the lock and opening the door, her mind had become a blank slate,  her memories gone as if wiped away with a chalkboard eraser.

The amnesia, Dr. Davidson assured her, might not be permanent. She'd  received a blow to the back of the head, and a concussion had been the  result. Add the head injury to the trauma of Gavin's death-and possibly  what she'd witnessed-and the combination had probably been too great.  The brain's response was to "protect her" by blocking it out. As she  healed, the memories might come back slowly, even all at once. Or not at  all.

But Detective Marshall wasn't buying the excuse-or the lie, as he  apparently believed. How could Greer explain the fear that had taken up  residence inside her chest since waking up in that sterile hospital  room? Violated. Broken. Damaged. Anything could've happened in the block  of time she couldn't recollect. And she couldn't remember. She.  Couldn't. Remember.

"I don't, Detective," she said, answering his accusation. God, she was  tired. So damn tired. And terrified. And alone. So damn alone. "But I  couldn't have done this. This"-jerked her chin toward the photos-"isn't  me. It's not in me. I couldn't … " She trailed off, understanding no  matter what she said, the man across from her with the hard, cynical  eyes wouldn't just take her word.

"Maybe you and Mr. Wells had an argument. Maybe it turned violent. He  grabbed you. You were scared. Maybe you picked up a knife in  self-defense … "

She was already shaking her head before he finished the sentence.

"No. Gavin isn't-wasn't-that type. He's never touched me in anger."

"Be that as it may, you were the only person in the apartment besides  Mr. Wells. You were found next to the body. With the murder weapon in  your hand."

Again, she shook her head. The detective had informed her that she'd  been found gripping the knife used to kill Gavin. That it'd been one of a  set located in her kitchen-a set missing a large butcher knife. But as a  firm believer in takeout and delivery, she'd never used the blades  before. The set was more decoration than anything. Yes, the weapon had  been hers, and she realized how bad the circumstances appeared. But even  with the hole in her memory, she couldn't believe that the first time  she used the knife had been to stab her ex-fiancé.

"I can't explain how I ended up with the knife, Detective. Maybe the  person who really killed Gavin placed it in my hand after he or she  knocked me out."                       
       
           



       

He snorted. "We're still checking into that. The unconscious-amnesia  thing seems awfully convenient, Ms. Addison, that's all I'm saying.  You-"