Oh, if Sara truly recalled nothing, perhaps The Executioner would allow her to live. The Executioner had already spoken with her, and she had professed her lack of memory without the slightest hesitation.
But if she really did remember…
Then Sara Dawes would be The Executioner’s next piece of superb work.
THE CROWD was beginning to thin. Clouds had started to roll in, chilling the air a little and casting an even more depressing pall on the day. Sara turned on the paved path—and noticed, for the first time, the granite markers on the graves beside the newly dug one for her father.
The nearest read, “Eleanor Markham Shepard, Beloved Wife and Mother,” and gave dates of birth and death. Her mother? Sara couldn’t be certain…but she thought so.
Beside it was another marker that was shorter and not as weathered: Stuart Markham Shepard. Stu. Her brother.
He had been only thirty-three when he had died three years earlier.
How old was she now? She wanted to break something, scream out loud, for she didn’t remember even something as simple and personal as that. She took a deep calming breath. She would ask Jordan. He would know. And she was certain that Stu had been her older brother.
She stared at his grave…and closed her eyes as a vision of another funeral shimmered before her. She was sobbing. Her father was there. Jordan was there.
And Stu…Stu had been murdered. The Santa Gregoria police force was there en masse, too. She had a sense of being stifled. Of wanting to stab someone, as Stu had been stabbed. Of wanting to circumvent laws, and law enforcement, which had been so important to all their lives, to avenge him, no matter how—
And then it was gone.
“Sara, are you all right?” It was Jordan. His arms were suddenly around her again, holding her upright. She realized she was swaying. Her mind swirled dizzily and she knew that, without Jordan’s strength supporting her, she would have fallen to the ground.
She leaned into him, appreciating his powerful presence. “I—I’m fine,” she lied. She moved even closer, pulling his head down so she could whisper into his ear, “Jordan, I just remembered—”
“I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, darling,” he interrupted. His words were slow and insistent, as though he were speaking to a developmentally challenged child.
She stiffened, then realized he might just be protecting her…again. She glanced around. Though quite a few people still milled around the cemetery, no one was close enough to hear what she said. Why didn’t Jordan let her speak?
“Jordan,” she began again, “I think my memory might—”
Once more he didn’t let her finish. “We’ll talk later,” he whispered. Out loud, he said, “There’s a little reception in memory of your father now, right inside the church. We won’t stay long. You need some rest.” He started to move her along the paved path, toward a few groups of people and away from the graves.
She let him, though she now wanted to shout at Jordan, too. She appreciated that he was trying to keep her safe. But there was such a thing as being overprotective.
The churchyard was old, full of overhanging trees and large family grave markers. Under other circumstances, Sara would have found it charming.
Now, though, its quaintness only added to her depression. Her family was buried here. Everyone—except for Jordan and her.
And someone had tried to kill her.
Inside a hall within the church, carafes of coffee had been set on tables laden with sliced fruit, donuts and cookies that looked homemade. “I’ll get you something to eat,” Jordan told her.
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.” In fact, the thought of trying to get any of that sugar down made her stomach roll.
But Jordan caressed her face gently with the side of his hand. The gesture touched her. “You need to keep up your strength, Sara.” He took her over to where June and Ramon stood. “Sara’s feeling a little peaked,” he said. “Keep an eye on her, will you, while I gather some refreshments?”
“Is all of this getting to you?” June’s tone was sympathetic. “I’m so sorry, but it’s no wonder, with everything that’s happened.” She looked less pixieish when her eyes reflected sorrow.
“You’re a brave lady,” Ramon said. His expression was admiring. “Tell me what I can do to help, all right?”
But Sara had nothing to say. There were several things she could think of that would help her, but none that Ramon, kind as his offer was, could hand to her.
The first was her memory. The second was the capture of her father’s killer. Her brother’s, too. They were probably one and the same.
She glanced at Jordan. Holding a foam plate half filled with food, he was conversing with a couple of uniform cops she didn’t recognize.
She turned toward June and Ramon, and found them engrossed in a conversation with one another. They spoke in hushed whispers. June gazed at Sara, then looked guiltily away.
They were talking about her. Didn’t they think she was bearing up sufficiently under all the strain? Or did they believe she had made up the amnesia?
She didn’t care. Even though she had experienced one small but significant snatch of memory in the last few minutes, she really couldn’t remember much. And she didn’t particularly like the way she was handling the stress, either.
Right now she felt as if the entire funeral, all the guests, were closing in on her. Creating a clutching anxiety deep inside that she needed to flee.
She surreptitiously glanced again toward her temporary keepers, June and Ramon. Neither was looking at her. Jordan, too, still had his attention focused elsewhere.
Sara took the opportunity to slip out of the church.
It was still light outside. There were plenty of people around. Sara needed to be alone.
She wasn’t stupid, though. Someone had killed her father and had attacked her. She needed to stay in a crowded place where no one would dare accost her. She didn’t go far from the church, choosing to stand in an area that appeared to be one of the cemetery’s oldest—judging by how weathered the tall stone markers that nearly surrounded her appeared. The main driveway to the church was behind her; several people were still milling around the parked cars, including media types with cameras, and uniformed cops.
She stood for several minutes enjoying the solitude, despite her sense of incompleteness. She racked her brain, trying to remember more about Stu’s funeral—the first significant memory she’d had.
Why had he been killed?
After a while, she felt a few raindrops. She looked up at the darkening sky and sighed. Coming outside had not been such a great idea, after all. She could go back in, find Jordan and ask him to take her home.
She took a few steps toward the church—but someone grabbed her. Something was shoved into her mouth, and she was wrestled sideways and to the ground, facedown, her arms beneath her.
She tried to scream for help, but the gag prevented her from doing more than make a frightened, incoherent noise. What was wrong with all those police? Hadn’t anyone seen what happened?
Jordan. Where was he? He’d wanted to protect her. He would save her.
Her assailant kept a knee in the small of her back, pinning her down. He—she?—was strong. Or was it that Sara, scared and still recuperating from her last attack, was weak?
Would she be killed this time?
The right side of her face pressed into earth that was still hard, for the rain was hardly a drizzle. Sara swallowed a whimper. She wouldn’t give