Remember Me

“Sweet Jesus,” he whispered. Tentatively he reached forward, expecting to feel nothing but air. Instead, his fingers curled around her wrist, absorbing the warmth of her skin. “Frankie…my God, you're real.”

She frowned. “Have you been drinking?”

He couldn't answer. Instead, he slid onto the bed beside her and pulled her close. And then reality hit, and as suddenly as he'd held her, he thrust her away. His voice was low and shaking as he focused on her face.

“Where the
hell
have you been?”

She stared. “You
have
been drinking.”

Clay stood abruptly. “I want answers, Francesca.”

Frankie frowned. “Answers to what?”

He stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. “For starters, answers as to where you've been for the past two years. You disappear out of my life for two goddamn years and then you waltz back in as if you'd never been gone.”

Something skittered through her mind. Something dark—something frightening. But it was gone before it became solid thought. He wasn't making sense.
Two years?

“Sala keeps the tension high and the pace hopping.”

—Publishers Weekly
on
Dark Water

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

“F
rancesca…come here to me, baby.”

Frankie LeGrand was beginning to worry about the darkening clouds, but as her husband's voice wrapped around her, her thoughts shifted. She pivoted, turning her back on the window at which she'd been standing, as well as the view of the storm about to hit their Denver home.

“I think it's going to rain,” she said.

“I think I don't give a damn.”

Frankie smiled. Clay LeGrand had been her husband for exactly a year and one day—all six feet four inches of him. On most days, he was a law unto himself. It would seem this day was one of those times—and it was part of why she loved him. Clay liked what he liked, and laughed when something struck him as funny, and didn't give a good goddamn what anyone else thought.

She gave him the once-over as he leaned against the doorway, her wifely instincts kicking in to make sure that when he left, he would be prepared for a wet day ahead.

He was ready for work. Blue jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and, of course, a flannel-lined denim jacket and work boots. His hard hat would be in the truck. As foreman of his father's construction company, it was something he never left home without.

Thunder rumbled overhead, rattling the window behind her. Although the weather was not unusual for an October morning, she shivered suddenly, hugging herself in reflex. Before long it would be winter, and she hated the cold.

“Hey,” Clay said. “If you need a hug, let me do that.”

“Then hug,” she said, and opened her arms.

When his arms wrapped around her, she closed her eyes, savoring the safety of his love. The fabric of his shirt was soft against her cheek as she inhaled slowly, cupping his backside as she pulled him closer.

“You smell good,” she whispered.

His voice lowered to a growl. “Francesca…”

“Clay, am I in trouble?”

He grinned. “Why?”

“Because the only time you growl at me is when you're angry.”

He frowned. “I am never angry with you and you know it.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Well…maybe disturbed is a better word. And don't deny it, because I know you were
disturbed
when you caught the bag boy at the grocery store winking at me last week.”

“Damn right,” he growled, then scooped her into his arms, kissing her hard all the way to the bed.

“You're going to be late.”

Ignoring her warning, he yanked her shirt over her head.

“Clay, what will your dad say?”

“Probably something like, ‘Where the hell are my doughnuts?”'

Her laughter shattered about him, causing him to flinch. He loved her so much it scared him. She made him weak, and Clay LeGrand had never been a weak man.

As he wrapped her in his arms, she knew that she was blessed. Clay was diligent to a fault, but a few minutes late would put him in no danger of losing his job, especially if he showed up with a dozen of his dad's favorite chocolate-covered doughnuts.

She savored his kisses, feeling the warmth of his lips against her skin. When the tip of his tongue laved her nipple, she sighed and closed her eyes. For Frankie, Clay was her joy, her reason for living. Raised in an orphanage, she'd been alone in this world—until him. He wasn't just her husband, he was her everything. She cupped his face with her hands, momentarily stopping his excursion.

“Clay?”

He raised himself up on one an elbow. “What, sweetheart?”

“When I was standing at the window…”

He gazed down at her, wondering how something as simple as black hair and brown eyes could be so enchanting in one woman's face.

“What about the window?” he muttered.

“You started to say something to me. What were you going to say?”

“That you looked sexy as hell in my shirt.” Then his eyes darkened as he looked at her there beneath him, hair tousled, sleepy-eyed and naked. “But you look even better in nothing.”

She arched toward his touch as he stroked the length of her body. His eyes glittered as she grabbed his hand, stilling its journey.

“What?” he growled.

“Take off your clothes and make love to me now, before I die from pure want.”

He grinned. That was a request he could easily fill.

Minutes passed. Outside, the storm made good on the promise of rain. Now and then, a hard gust of wind would shatter the rhythm of the raindrops against the windows, but nothing could stop the rhythm of the lovers as they rode out a storm of their own.

 

The day dragged from one hour to the next. Even though most of the construction on the site was being done indoors, the rain still hampered deliveries. It was too wet to haul Sheetrock, and too wet to finish the roof on the north end of the complex. Clay's dad had gone home at noon, leaving only a skeleton crew, with Clay in charge. By four o'clock, Clay called a halt and sent them home, as well. The delay wasn't crucial. They were several weeks ahead of schedule as it was, and going home early would be good. Maybe he and Frankie would order in a pizza. If the temperature kept dropping, they might even build a fire in the fireplace. Frankie would like that. She hated the cold.

Clay's mind was spinning as he stopped off at the supermarket. He made a dash for the door, splashing through the puddles as he ran, then stopped at a pay phone just inside to see if there was anything she needed in the way of groceries before he went home.

Shivering slightly from the chill, he dropped the coins into the slots, then counted the rings, each time expecting Frankie to pick up. She didn't. He hung up, absently pocketing the coins that the phone had returned as he started toward the back of the store. She was probably taking a shower. You couldn't hear the phone if the shower was running. A few minutes later, he headed back to his truck, a half gallon of Rocky Road ice cream richer than he'd been before he'd gone inside.

It was forty-five minutes after four when Clay pulled into the driveway and parked. The rain was coming down in sheets, almost obliterating his view of their little house. In fact, as he began to gather his things, it almost looked as if there was a wall between him and home. He shuddered, wondering where the thought had come from. Normally, he wasn't the fanciful type. He tucked the sack of ice cream beneath his jacket as he got out of the truck, then made a run for the house. The childish feeling of trying to outrun the rain had him laughing at himself as he loped in the front door.

“Frankie…I'm home!” he shouted, still laughing as he shrugged off his jacket and took off his boots. “Hey, honey! It's me! I brought you a surprise!”

He picked up the ice cream and started toward the kitchen, expecting her to step out of a room—any room—at any minute. Halfway across the living room, he stopped and turned around, looking back the way he'd just come. The hair rose on the back of his neck as the quiet of the house suddenly wrapped itself around him.

The front door.

It hadn't been locked.

He turned slowly, suddenly aware of the silence. He heard nothing familiar. Not a radio. Not a TV. Not even the sound of running water. Only the downpour on the roof. He clutched the ice cream a little tighter.

“Frankie…Francesca…Are you home?”

No one answered.

As he stood, the cold of the ice cream began soaking through his clothes. He looked down, as if surprised to find that he still held it, and started toward the kitchen.

A clap of thunder rocked the house as he stepped across the threshold, rattling cups in the cupboard across the room. He jumped as if he'd been shot.

“Damn,” he muttered, and then headed for the refrigerator. Halfway across the kitchen floor, he stopped again, but not because of the storm. It was the broken coffee cup and the puddle of coffee in which it was lying that brought him up short. Spilling coffee wasn't a big deal. But spilling it and leaving it was. Panic hit, knotting his belly and shortening his breath, until he caught himself gasping for air.

He pivoted sharply and started running, shouting Frankie's name as he went.

Back through the living room.

Down the hall.

Into their bedroom.

The bed was unmade, just as it had been right before he left. He stared at it, remembering the passion of the morning, and trying to reconcile it with the panic he was feeling right now.

The shirt she'd been wearing was on the floor near the closet, as if she'd stood there and changed into something else. None of this was like Frankie. She was neat to the point of aggravation. He shook his head like a man who'd been blindsided and moved toward the bathroom. The smear of blood on the sink stopped his heart.

“Jesus,” he whispered, and would have gone to the floor had he not backed into the wall instead. “Oh, Jesus, Jesus, please, no.”

His legs were shaking as he walked back through the house. His fingers were so cold he could hardly feel them, and it took him a moment to realize he was still holding that damned half gallon of Rocky Road.

He started for the freezer when something—call it instinct, call it a foreboding—told him not to touch a thing other than the phone.

He set the ice cream down on the table, then reached for the cordless phone on the cabinet nearby. He kept telling himself that he was making a big deal out of nothing. That things like this didn't happen to people like them. It wasn't Frankie's day to work, but maybe someone had called in sick at the library. Maybe she'd just left in a hurry.

He punched in the numbers, then closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath.

“Hello, Denver Public Library, Mary Albright speaking.”

He pictured the middle-aged woman with her bright copper hair. “Mary, this is Clay. Is Frankie there?”

“Why, no, dear. She isn't scheduled to work until day after tomorrow.”

His hopes slipped a notch. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “I just thought…well, that someone might have gotten sick.”

“No, dear, I'm sorry. Is everything all right?”

He shuddered. “I don't know.”

He hung up in her ear.

Focusing on the next set of numbers, he made the next call, taking comfort in the familiarity of his mother's voice.

“LeGrand residence.”

“Hey, Mom, it's me, Clay. Frankie isn't there, by any chance, is she?”

Betty LeGrand frowned. She knew her son too well not to recognize the anxiety in his voice.

“No, she's not. In fact, I haven't talked to her since early yesterday morning.”

“What about Dad?”

“Oh, I'm sure he hasn't, either,” Betty said. “If he had, he would have—”

“Ask him.”

“But Clay, I'm—”

“Dammit, Mom, ask him, okay?”

Betty's heart skipped a beat. “Sure, Clay. Just a minute.”

He waited, praying, hoping, telling himself that this was nothing but a bad dream.

“Clay?”

“Yeah, Mom, I'm still here.”

“He hasn't talked to her, either.”

Clay's legs buckled. It was all he could do to stay upright.

“Okay, thanks, Mom.”

“You're welcome,” Betty said. “Is there anything we can do?”

“No…at least, I don't think so. Oh, and, Mom…”

“Yes?”

“I'm sorry I snapped.”

“That's all right. Should we go looking for her? Do you think she had a breakdown in the truck or something?”

He closed his eyes. He had their only vehicle. “No. I had the truck. Look, I've got to go. I'll call you.”

He disconnected once more, then hit the power button again, waiting patiently for the dial tone to come on in his ear. As soon as it began to hum, he made his last call.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“I think something has happened to my wife.”

A slight shift in the tone of the woman's voice went unnoticed as Clay tried to stay calm.

“Is she there with you now, sir?”

“No. She's not. I just got home from work and found the front door unlocked. There's some stuff spilled and broken in the kitchen, and blood in the bathroom.”

“Are you Clay LeGrand, at 1943 Denver Avenue?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been injured, too, sir?”

“No,” Clay muttered. “I told you…I just got home.”

“Yes, sir. I'm dispatching a unit.”

“Okay, thanks,” Clay said numbly, unable to believe he'd just made the call.

The 911 operator's voice rose a notch. “Sir, I need you to stay at the address until the officers arrive.”

A chill of foreboding swept over him. Without Frankie, where the hell else would he go?