The Dollmaker(The Forgotten Files #2)(72)
Lifting her head slightly, she felt the pull and crinkle of bandages on her face. God, what had happened to her?
Elena’s gaze darted around the room, and she took in the simple white chair by her bed and the matching table across the room. No pictures. No windows. No sounds. No clue that told her where she’d been brought.
She tried to sit forward, but the movement sent agony slicing through her skull. She lowered gently back against the headrest. Panic rose inside her as bile crawled up her throat.
“Please,” she whispered. “Someone, please help me?”
Had she been in an accident? Was she in a hospital? What had happened to her? Even as her mind cleared, her memory of what happened danced just out of reach. Tears welled in her eyes. It even hurt to cry.
Heart pounding, she twisted her hands in an attempt to free them from the bindings. The leather straps rubbed hard against her wrists. The left side didn’t budge, but the right yielded slightly. If she could keep working on it, maybe she could get her hand free and find out what had happened.
On the other side of the door, footsteps sounded. Panic rising, she froze. Eyes wide open, she waited desperately to see who had restrained her.
When the door opened, the man smiled at her with an expression of surprise to find her awake. “I thought you’d be asleep at least another hour.”
She paused, her lips protesting any movement. “What happened to me?”
He set down a small tray with what looked like soup and a smoothie. “You’re fine,” he said. “I don’t want you to worry one bit.”
Her vision was clearer now. And she could see that this man was tall and broad shouldered. “What happened?”
Brown eyes filled with genuine tenderness. “All that matters is you’re going to be perfect.”
Time folded in on itself. She couldn’t remember what had brought her here. “Was I in an accident?”
He came beside her and took her left hand in his. Gently, he raised it to his lips and kissed her fingertips. “I don’t want you to worry about what happened. Just know you’re going to be fine. I’ll see to it. I swear.”
Her battered body and fogged mind succumbed to trusting him. He didn’t look deranged. He sounded kind. His touch was gentle. “I can’t remember anything.”
“I know, sweetie. I know. It’s the drugs. They often wipe the memory. Which in your case is for the best. Transitions aren’t easy, and some experiences are best not remembered.”
“Transition? Have I changed?”
He patted her hand. “You’re fretting, and there’s no need for it. I’m here. Let me feed you some of this soup. I made it just for you.”
Despite the tug to trust, a dark fear curled in the pit of her stomach. Cradling the soup bowl, he ladled a spoon. “Be a good girl and open wide.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sunday, October 9, 1:00 p.m.
It took Andrews an hour in traffic to drive out to Douglas Knox’s house located in the small town where Roger Benson had lived. This time of year, the tree-lined roads were exploding with yellow and orange, making this some of the prettiest country he’d seen in years.
He drove past million-dollar homes in gated communities sporting massive windows that took full advantage of the crystal waters of the lake.
Douglas Knox, former police chief and investigator on the Kara Benson case, had retired to a small brick rancher in an old lakefront neighborhood close to where Kara Benson’s body had been found twelve years ago.
Andrews parked his Jeep behind an old red truck and took a moment to survey his surroundings before getting out of the car. He moved past the truck, noting the front seat was filled with a dozen fast-food wrappers and discarded paper coffee cups.
He made his way along an overgrown path to Knox’s front door. The once-white paint trimming the windows had grayed and was peeling and popping in several places. He pressed the doorbell, but there was no chime or the approaching thud of footsteps. He then knocked on the door. From inside the house a television blared. He knocked again.
Finally, he heard footsteps and what sounded like a plate hitting the floor and a burst of curses. The door creaked open to a man well into his sixties. Thinning white hair hung over a rumpled plaid collar and framed a wan face. Stained pants and old athletic shoes finished off the look.
Andrews pulled off his sunglasses. “Douglas Knox?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Garrett Andrews. I’m looking into the Kara Benson case for Agent Sharp.”
The mention of the girl’s name made the old man cringe. His right hand trembled as he raised it to rub his chin. “I gave the files to Sharp, hoping I could make it to my grave without hearing her name again.”
“Why’s that? I’d think you’d be willing to talk about the case and help us solve it.”
He shook his head, his gaze growing distant. “I spent more hours than I want to remember thinking about that poor girl.”
“I’ve read the files you gave Agent Sharp, and he has unearthed new details. Do you have a moment to discuss them?”
Knox curled arthritic fingers into a fist. Bloodshot eyes and the heavy scent of whiskey suggested the man had already had a few. “That case consumed me. I put everything I know in those files. You have the files, so you know what I do. I can’t help you.”