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Authors: Sally Berneathy
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him.
Chapter 7
Leanne looked up as Eliot strode into her office, his presence dominating and filling the room. Her breath caught in her throat at the dark aura of anger surrounding him, the storm raging on his face.
He tossed a business card onto her desk then flopped into the recliner, and she saw the pain in the dark depths of his eyes. His anger was directed inwardly, not at her.
She lowered her eyes to the card and took a deep breath. Her vision blurred for a moment, but then the words came into sharp focus. Kay Palmer .
"It was in my desk drawer," he said, his normally smooth voice harsh and grating. "She had mine, too."
Reluctantly Leanne switched on her recorder even though she wasn't sure she wanted to hear this, much less have a record of it.
"So you knew her."
He shook his head, denying it even as his next words admitted it. "Apparently I went to her for manicures."
"Apparently?"
"So the police tell me. They came by today to question me."
She sucked in her breath, trying to keep her reaction silent, but he grinned wryly.
"Pretty damning, isn't it? I almost told them..." He shrugged. "Well, I didn't know what to tell them, so I took the cowardly way out and didn't say anything. They found my card at her apartment, my name and unlisted phone number in her address book, and my name in her appointment book at Executive Styles."
"That's all still circumstantial," she protested.
"It would be, but there's more. She called my office a few weeks ago changing the time of my appointment. I remember getting the message, but I pitched it. I thought it was a joke. I never get manicures."
"Maybe it was a joke." There could be an explanation for all this, an explanation that didn't stain Eliot's hands with blood. She realized she wanted to find such an explanation, wanted to believe he was not a murderer, but she knew only too well that things usually were exactly as they seemed. And ignoring the truth not only didn't make it go away—ignoring it could also be dangerous.
"No, it wasn't a joke," he answered, his expression stoic. "I went to the shop and talked to one of her co-workers. She recognized me, called me by name. Kay told her we were involved. So involved that Kay was going to ask her husband for a divorce." His jaw clenched. "Because of me. Her friend thinks maybe Kay's husband killed her because he was jealous. That means, even if I didn't choke her with these hands, I still killed her."
He had been involved with Kay. So involved that she wanted to divorce her husband to be with him. Had Kay felt the same attraction to Eliot that she herself felt, the same need to ignore the possible consequences of trusting him? Kay had paid for her trust with her life.
Leanne swallowed hard, trying to swallow this unprofessional distraction. "And you remember nothing about any of that?" she asked. "Even after you got to the shop, it didn't look familiar. Nothing her friend told you brought up a sense of recognition, of deja vu ?"
"No. Nothing. If it wasn't for that dream, I'd think the woman was nuts, that somebody was trying to mess with my mind."
Everything he told her was consistent with MPD. Almost everything.
"It sounds like you must have spent a lot of time with her. I know I've asked you this before, but it's very important. Think before you answer. Do you have missing periods of time? Do you suddenly realize it's night, and you can't remember what happened to the evening? Do you check your watch and find that it's two hours later than you thought? Find yourself wearing clothes you don't remember putting on?"
He shook his head, his lips compressed into a thin line. "I don't know. Maybe. That's normal, isn't it?"
"No," she said quietly, a chill enveloping her at this sudden breakdown of the last barrier to a diagnosis. "No, Eliot. It's not normal to find yourself in a place you don't remember going to or realize that you've lost several hours."
He stood and paced the length of her office.
Chapter 7
Leanne looked up as Eliot strode into her office, his presence dominating and filling the room. Her breath caught in her throat at the dark aura of anger surrounding him, the storm raging on his face.
He tossed a business card onto her desk then flopped into the recliner, and she saw the pain in the dark depths of his eyes. His anger was directed inwardly, not at her.
She lowered her eyes to the card and took a deep breath. Her vision blurred for a moment, but then the words came into sharp focus. Kay Palmer .
"It was in my desk drawer," he said, his normally smooth voice harsh and grating. "She had mine, too."
Reluctantly Leanne switched on her recorder even though she wasn't sure she wanted to hear this, much less have a record of it.
"So you knew her."
He shook his head, denying it even as his next words admitted it. "Apparently I went to her for manicures."
"Apparently?"
"So the police tell me. They came by today to question me."
She sucked in her breath, trying to keep her reaction silent, but he grinned wryly.
"Pretty damning, isn't it? I almost told them..." He shrugged. "Well, I didn't know what to tell them, so I took the cowardly way out and didn't say anything. They found my card at her apartment, my name and unlisted phone number in her address book, and my name in her appointment book at Executive Styles."
"That's all still circumstantial," she protested.
"It would be, but there's more. She called my office a few weeks ago changing the time of my appointment. I remember getting the message, but I pitched it. I thought it was a joke. I never get manicures."
"Maybe it was a joke." There could be an explanation for all this, an explanation that didn't stain Eliot's hands with blood. She realized she wanted to find such an explanation, wanted to believe he was not a murderer, but she knew only too well that things usually were exactly as they seemed. And ignoring the truth not only didn't make it go away—ignoring it could also be dangerous.
"No, it wasn't a joke," he answered, his expression stoic. "I went to the shop and talked to one of her co-workers. She recognized me, called me by name. Kay told her we were involved. So involved that Kay was going to ask her husband for a divorce." His jaw clenched. "Because of me. Her friend thinks maybe Kay's husband killed her because he was jealous. That means, even if I didn't choke her with these hands, I still killed her."
He had been involved with Kay. So involved that she wanted to divorce her husband to be with him. Had Kay felt the same attraction to Eliot that she herself felt, the same need to ignore the possible consequences of trusting him? Kay had paid for her trust with her life.
Leanne swallowed hard, trying to swallow this unprofessional distraction. "And you remember nothing about any of that?" she asked. "Even after you got to the shop, it didn't look familiar. Nothing her friend told you brought up a sense of recognition, of deja vu ?"
"No. Nothing. If it wasn't for that dream, I'd think the woman was nuts, that somebody was trying to mess with my mind."
Everything he told her was consistent with MPD. Almost everything.
"It sounds like you must have spent a lot of time with her. I know I've asked you this before, but it's very important. Think before you answer. Do you have missing periods of time? Do you suddenly realize it's night, and you can't remember what happened to the evening? Do you check your watch and find that it's two hours later than you thought? Find yourself wearing clothes you don't remember putting on?"
He shook his head, his lips compressed into a thin line. "I don't know. Maybe. That's normal, isn't it?"
"No," she said quietly, a chill enveloping her at this sudden breakdown of the last barrier to a diagnosis. "No, Eliot. It's not normal to find yourself in a place you don't remember going to or realize that you've lost several hours."
He stood and paced the length of her office.
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