The Devil Inside, page 9
‘It’s fine,’ Phil said.
‘If you want me to give them an earful, I’m more than happy to.’
Phil chuckled. ‘Thanks, Bev. But I can handle my parents.’
‘Okay. I’ll just check on the casserole.’ Bev moved away, heading towards the kitchen and opened the oven—a waft of deliciousness enveloped her. It made Melissa’s mouth water, and for the first time since she’d come out of the coma, her stomach rumbled with hunger. Bev busied herself shifting things in the oven.
Melissa glanced over her shoulder to see Phil leaning over the baby carrier which he’d placed on the table, no sign of the tension she’d heard in his voice evident on his face as he smiled down at the baby. She wondered what was going on between him and his parents.
He looked up, his gaze meeting hers, brows raised a little in question, expectation.
She looked back out the window, unable to face those questions, that expectation.
None of this was familiar.
Avoiding his gaze, she wandered around the space, taking in her surrounds as if they were the most fascinating thing on the planet. She used to be able to do that so well—it was partly what made her so good at her job, giving herself totally up to something, putting herself in a space, a person’s shoes, a place, a situation, a feeling.
Before long, she got sucked back towards the edge of the mezzanine level, noticing with one part of her brain the larger lounge area below. But she didn’t really look down, just stared out those windows. Looking at that expanse, her muscles became a little less tight, her breath a little warmer in her chest, her mind a little more soothed.
Wow. Just wow.
The light shifted as she watched, the greens and golds and browns and blues of the valley a stark contrast against the craggy mountains and rolling hills. Her fingers itched to get it down on canvas. Phil had said they always travelled with art supplies in case she felt like painting. Maybe she should ask him where they were so she could get them out. Alan had said she might find her memories in her art.
‘Mel? Are you okay? Do you remember anything?’
The warmth of him stroked her arm as he came to stand beside her. She couldn’t look at him, see his disappointment as she said, ‘No. No, I don’t.’ She could feel his eyes on her. ‘So beautiful.’
‘Yes.’
Heat rushed over her skin—his tone told her he wasn’t talking about the view. ‘I’m feeling a bit tired.’
‘Of course. Let me show you to our room.’
She started. ‘Our room?’
‘I mean, the room that was ours before the accident. Prof Alan told me it would be best if you slept in the room you slept in before the accident—he thought seeing something you had turned into your own slice of home when we got here might help jog your memory. All of your things are still in there—you did a bit of nesting before, because, well, you know.’ He nodded down at the baby in his arms. She glanced at the little bundle then away. She wouldn’t feel guilty about not wanting to touch or hold the baby yet. She wouldn’t. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t.
‘So …’ she swallowed. ‘We’re not sharing a room?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. Good to know.’ She couldn’t help relief from tinging her words. They’d almost kissed, and while she perhaps, maybe, wouldn’t mind if they actually kissed, she didn’t think she could handle more.
He nodded. ‘Yeah, well, I know I’m a stranger to you at the moment, so I thought, you know, you’d want your space.’
He seemed so hesitant suddenly. Guilt sliced through her—she’d done that to him, made him feel like that. God, this whole thing was cruel on so many levels. If the arsehat who had done this to her wasn’t already dead, she might just need to pick up a gun and go hunting. So much pain and damage, she hoped he was rotting in hell.
She wanted to get that look off Phil’s face. She glanced down at the baby, reached out to touch the soft hair. ‘Where will the baby be?’
His eyes lit up as he watched her touch their daughter. ‘In with me. Or her room which is next to mine. I’m not sure what I’ll feel the most comfortable with yet. Unless, I mean, if you want her with you, then we can set her up in your room.’
She snatched her hand back. ‘No.’ Oh god, that sounded too loud, too quick, too panicked. Get a hold of yourself, Melissa. ‘No, maybe just for now, I think she’d be best in with you. If that’s okay.’
‘Yes. That’s fine. I love having her with me.’ His lips twitched into a smile. ‘It’s such a relief to have you both home from the hospital.’
‘Yes, I imagine it is.’ Could this conversation get anymore inane and awkward? It was horrible. Truly horrible.
‘Oh, I almost forgot. I found this when I was preparing the room this morning.’ He went over to the kitchen bench and picked something up. As he came back to her, he held a phone with a bright red cover in his hand. ‘The police had it for a while—you had it in the car with you.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, taking it from him and staring down at the screen. It was larger than the phone she remembered buying. Sleeker too.
‘They kept it for evidence because the arsehole had used it.’ She noticed nobody ever said the name of the man who had caused so much grief last year—a bit like when everyone said ‘you know who’ in Harry Potter.
‘How did you get it?’
‘They gave it back to me a few weeks ago. I kept forgetting to bring it into the hospital. It’s charged, so you can use it right away.’
Who would she call? She didn’t even know if she knew the same people she did eight years ago. And she had no idea who her clients might be even if she wanted to get back to her business. How could she run her business with any certainty when she wasn’t even certain what was real and what wasn’t?
‘It has photos on it from, well, our time together,’ Phil said gesturing at the phone. ‘And of other things of course. Maybe they’ll help with your memory.’
‘Yes. Good. How do I use it? There’s no home button.’
‘It has facial recognition.’
‘Really?’
‘Hold it up, like that.’
She did so and the home screen came to life—a photo of them both laughing at the camera, arms around each other, his hand on her stomach. She glanced at him and back at the screen then quickly tucked the phone into her pocket. ‘I’ll look at it later.’
‘Yep. Great.’ The baby began to fuss and Phil shifted his attention, kissing her head and jiggling her a little. ‘Do you want to hold her?’
She stared at him. She knew the answer was yes, but couldn’t bring herself to say the word. It had been enough to touch the soft curls on her head. ‘My room?’ she asked, turning to the door to her left.
‘Do you want me to take the baby, Phil dear?’ Bev appeared at his side. ‘That casserole and the baked potatoes still have at least another twenty minutes or so before they’re done, so I have plenty of time. You can show Melissa her room and help to get her settled and I’ll pop a bottle on. I can tell from Arwen’s fussing she’s getting hungry.’
Melissa stared at Bev. How could she tell the baby was hungry from that mewling cry? Was she supposed to be able to just naturally know? Was that why her breasts felt strange, like they were pulsing and full and tingling? Was that what it felt like when a mother breast-fed a baby? She tried not to make a face.
‘Are you okay, love?’
‘I think I just need to go lie down.’
‘Of course. Here.’ Phil handed the baby to Bev and gestured awkwardly at the door to their left. ‘The doctor said you might be more tired than usual for a while. It’s probably best to listen to your body.’
‘I know.’
He glanced askance at her, apparently as surprised as she was at her tone. But she was sick of people telling her what was best for her. Surely, if anyone knew what was best for her, it was her? Although, perhaps she’d changed so much over the missing years that she no longer knew herself well enough to gauge what was best for her. Perhaps that’s what they were all getting at. Or perhaps the coma had changed her.
‘Here we are.’
She looked up as he pushed a door open and helped her inside the room that had been theirs. Warm. Cosy. Full of rich colours. It spoke to her in a way that told her she had done this. Not the white walls and dark honey floorboards or the curtains—the colours of spring leaves—hanging beside the large window complete with window seat and cushions the same spring green as the curtains. But everything else was her with touches of something, someone else. Someone masculine.
Phil.
Yes, it was their room. It was stamped in the striking geometric patterns on the duvet that reminded her of Indian batik, tribal and earthy. It was imprinted in the rug on the floor, a thick cream with stripes of deep red and striking blue that somehow managed to pull the blue of the sky in from outside. It was in the cushions scattered across the king-sized bed in dramatic shades of red, black and cream that played on the colour palette of the duvet cover. The stacks of books on the antique bedside tables, the photos on the mantle above the fireplace and the shining mahogany dresser in the corner all cried out that this was the room a couple shared.
A couple in love.
A gorgeous throw in different shades of green and cream was draped across the trunk at the base of the bed—her trunk from her home back in Texas. Why was that here? She would have gone over to it, to rub her hand across the well-worn surface her father had carved as a gift on her sixth birthday, but as she took a step towards it, her gaze was drawn to the photo that held pride of place at the round table set to the right of the window.
A wedding photo.
It was a large print in a silver frame, simple, elegant. But it wasn’t the usual wedding photo of a posed couple staring at the photographer trying to show their love through the awkwardness. It was a candid shot with them standing in a group of people including Dae and Craig. They were all laughing, but it wasn’t simply a moment of joyous congratulation. The photographer had captured something that was special, something that was for the couple at the centre alone. They weren’t quite looking at each other, their attention taken by those congratulating them, but everything about their pose—the way their hands touched, the way their bodies angled, said volumes about their feelings for each other. You couldn’t mistake the love, the bond, this couple felt.
Her and Phil.
She reached out to touch the photo, need and loss drilling holes in her insides.
‘You love that photo. It goes everywhere with us.’
‘It’s a good photo. It looks like a lovely celebration.’
‘It was.’ He picked it up. ‘It was the best day of my life.’ His gaze drifted from the photo to her, pulling at her, drawing her in. She took a little step towards him, the photo the only thing between them.
‘Surely there were other days that were the best too,’ she ventured, throat tight as his gaze roamed over her face. She wanted to reach out and touch him so badly, her fingers tingled with the need, lifted, the tips brushing his soft t-shirt—ah god. The warmth of him! She swallowed hard, unable to meet his eyes, tried to think about what they’d been talking about. Happy times. ‘What about when you had your first hit, played your first big stadium?’ she said, her voice a little too husky. ‘They had to be pretty good days.’
‘They were. And I thought they couldn’t get better. Until I met you.’
Her gaze met his. ‘Phil …’ she began.
His fingers tightened on the photo frame as his gaze raked over her face, touched on her lips. He was so close now, his breath brushed over her skin. ‘I couldn’t believe my luck. That you saw me and wanted me. I kept expecting it to go away.’ He looked down at the photo again. ‘But it didn’t. Not then.’
The words pushed between them and suddenly he stepped away, putting the photo down, the click of the frame on the wood of the table loud in the silent room.
She stumbled back. Automatically, he reached out, steadied her, his fingers warm and strong on her arms. He might look fine and ethereal, but there was a strength to him that was well defined. Almost scarily so.
She looked up at him when he didn’t let go. ‘Phil.’
His thumbs moved over the skin under her t-shirt sleeves, causing tingles to chase through her. ‘I know I shouldn’t push. I don’t mean to.’
‘You have lost something too.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘No?’
He held her gaze, searching, asking—she was afraid to find out what he was asking for. They’d almost kissed again, but he was probably right to stop it. The wall of her memory lay between them and it probably wasn’t a good idea to muddy it with the attraction simmering between them, especially given she couldn’t remember why she felt it. So, this time, she stepped away, out of his hold. ‘I think I need to lie down.’
‘Of course.’ He backed away so she could walk to the bed, grabbed the throw from the foot and placed it over her legs after she lay down. ‘Rest up, Mel. Come out when you’re hungry—lunch will be waiting for you.’
She wanted to ask him if he would be waiting for her, but he was gone before the words could leave her lips.
Alone finally, she couldn’t sleep even though she was tired. She sat up, staring around her, willing for anything to strike a chord. But there was nothing. Just an echoing emptiness and growing sense of sick dread. ‘Stop it, Melissa. You’re just tired. You said you wanted to lie down, so lie down.’
She nodded at the pep talk and rolled onto her back, closed her eyes.
The phone in her pocket buzzed.
She jumped then pulled it out, she looked at it askance. Should she answer it? Would she even know who it was if she did?
The ringing stopped abruptly as she stared at it. A missed call notice came up. There were possibly hundreds of missed calls—or maybe there weren’t any. She had no idea if many people had this phone number. She used to have two phones—one business and one personal. She’d have to ask Phil about it.
The phone rang again, making her jump, her thumb hitting the call answer on the display.
Shit.
She supposed she should see who was there given she’d accidentally answered it. ‘Hello? Melissa Linklater … I mean Paris …’ Or was it Linklater-Paris or Paris-Linklater? She had no idea. ‘Sorry. Melissa here.’
Silence on the other end of the phone.
‘Hello?’
More silence. No, not silence. Someone was there. She could hear breathing. Maybe it was a pocket-dial or something. ‘Hello,’ she tried again.
The breathing quickened. ‘Privet, sestra.’
‘Sorry? I think you might have the wrong number. I don’t have any siblings.’
‘Pomnite, sestra. Pomnite.’ The phone went dead before she could answer.
She stared at it. Why was some stranger telling her to remember? It was a bit weird. It had to be a wrong number. He’d been after his sister.
She lay back, pulled up the throw and closed her eyes.
He’d been speaking in Russian.
And she’d understood.
She sat up with a jerk and grabbed the phone. She needed to call him back, see who he was, what he wanted, what he knew.
She opened recent calls.
There weren’t any.
What? But … she’d just received a call. Two. How could there be no calls?
Unless she had imagined it. Like she’d probably imagined the man in her room at the hospital. Phil was the only one who believed her about that, but there was no proof. No proof someone had just called her. Even the message saying there was a missed call had gone.
She rubbed her hands over her eyes. She was just tired and her brain was still recovering from the coma. Things were bound to be off for a while. She supposed she should tell Alan and the other doctors about this. Her shoulders slumped. They’d want to pull her in for more tests though. It was only two small things she’d imagined. Three with the woman on the bed this morning.
Her fingers tightened on the throw. No. She wouldn’t say anything yet. If it happened again—she’d revisit mentioning it. It was probably just her brain trying to figure things out.
She tried to sleep but instead stared at the ceiling and willed herself to remember—as the imagined Russian had insisted—something, anything, that might help to make sense out of all this mess.
Nothing came.
Chapter 9
Phil waited for Mel to get up from her nap to eat. They had lunch—he was pleased to see her eat a decent plateful of Bev’s casserole—then he offered to show her around.
‘If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to stay here.’
‘Okay.’
They watched some TV until Jerry came to do his checks and physical therapy. When he left, she retired to the couch downstairs with a book. Phil was pretty certain she wasn’t reading—she spent more time staring out the window than at the book. They had an early dinner with Craig, Lexi and Dae joining them, but she excused herself early and went to bed, hardly looking at him and not at all at Arwen.
The next morning, he’d just finished feeding and changing Arwen and was putting her down for a sleep in the bassinet when Mel walked into the room. She stopped, eying him and the bassinet beside him cautiously.
He didn’t blame her. Almost kissing her twice had been really stupid. She wasn’t ready. He knew that. He did his best to keep his expression placid. Non-expectant. If she wanted to walk over here and chat with him, then that would be fine. If she wanted to go do something else, be somewhere else, then that was fine too.
Yeah, right.
His fingers clenched so tightly together he knew there’d be blood where his nails dug into his palms. Not that he wasn’t used to sores on his palms. He’d had many a blister form and break from practicing for hours to get certain beats right, rubbing his skin raw until he bled.
His thoughts skittered away from those memories and he took a jerky step away from the basinet, unintentionally moving closer to her.
