Have You Seen Me?(13)

Just as I’m finishing my coffee, the portable phone by the couch rings. When I lift the receiver, I see Gabby’s name on the screen and the sight of it triggers a rush of relief.

“Hot date?” I answer. “Or did you go to bed ridiculously early?”

“What? Wait, did you forget?”

My blood seems to freeze. “Forget what?”

“That I’m in London?”

“Oh gosh, sorry,” I say, suddenly recalling that she’d planned to leave this week on a trip for the jewelry business she runs. And it means that she probably won’t be able to offer me any clues.

“Is everything okay?”

“Uh—not exactly. But it can wait until you return.”

“No way. I’m just hanging out in the hotel until my next appointment. What’s going on?”

I spill it all then—about the fight with Hugh, how he assumed that I was at her place, my amnesia, my long, distressing day in the ER.

“Ally, this is so scary,” she exclaims. “Hugh did call me, right before I left on Wednesday, but I never sensed anything was wrong. I’m supposed to fly back Monday, but let me call my assistant and see if she can get me out of here earlier.”

“No, please, don’t even think about it. You can answer a few questions for me, though.”

“Of course, fire away.”

“When was the last time we spoke?”

“Let’s see—it must have been Monday, late in the afternoon.”

That’s one thing I do remember now that she mentions it.

“Did I give you any hint I was coming undone?”

“No, you sounded fine. The only thing that seems odd in hindsight is that you promised to call me before I left for London, but I never heard from you. I just figured you were busy and forgot.”

My pulse quickens. “Have I been forgetful lately?”

She sighs. “To be honest, a little.”

“About important stuff?”

“Nothing like that. Maybe distracted is a better word. Like last weekend, you said you were going to swing by my apartment at three but you showed at three thirty.”

I picture her sitting at her wooden table, her long red hair fanned out around her shoulders. We chatted about a thriller we’d both read, a new guy she’s seeing, her search for a better publicist for her rapidly expanding business.

“I’m sorry I screwed that up. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It wasn’t a big deal. I know the baby stuff has been eating at you. Do you think all the stress caused this?”

“I’m not sure, but now I’m even more stressed, and I will be until I figure out where I was.”

In my mind’s eye I can see the wheels turning in my friend’s mind. “You know what I would do if I were you?” she says. “Hire a private detective.”

Gabby’s an out-of-the-box thinker—it’s what makes her jewelry designs unique and riveting—so I’m not surprised she’s going there. But her suggestion feels like a move I’m not ready to make yet.

“Maybe.”

“Why maybe?”

“It would be an awfully big step. Besides, I’m hoping my therapist can help me regain my memory, and then I won’t need a detective on the case . . . but anyway, I should let you go.”

“Okay, but promise you’ll call me day or night if you need anything. And why don’t I plan to drop by right after I get back on Monday? My flight lands around four.”

“You’ll be exhausted.”

“Don’t worry about it. I need to be with you.”

As soon as we hang up, I check my email to see if Dr. Erling has responded, but there’s no word from her. Then I google “private detective agencies NYC,” simply to see what surfaces. The number of possibilities seems overwhelming and after perusing the first dozen or so, I shut my laptop with a sigh.

The house phone rings again, startling me. I assume it’s a robocall, but to my shock, I find myself staring at the main number for Greenbacks. Damien? When I answer, however, a woman’s voice asks for Ally Linden.

“This is she.”

“I’m Damien Howe’s assistant. I have your trench coat—you left it in the conference room—and I wanted to arrange to send it over to you. We’re lucky we still had an old home number for you.”

I’m grateful to hear it. The coat wasn’t pricey, but I liked it. Besides, I can take comfort in the fact that unlike my memory, it hasn’t been sucked into a black hole and lost forever. Maybe today won’t be as much of a hot mess as yesterday.

After I provide the address, she tells me the messenger should be there in a few hours. Something about her tone and uptalk suggests she’s young, and I wonder if she’s the woman I’d seen in the cubicle outside Damien’s office yesterday. Is he sitting in his office with the door open, eavesdropping on the call?

“Oh, and Damien wanted me to ask how you were feeling,” she adds. “He called the hospital, but they weren’t allowed to give out any information.”

I cringe as I flash back on the face-plant I did in his office and being hauled out on a stretcher, my hair slicked back with rainwater. I must have looked like a marooned seal.

“Please tell him I’m doing fine today, and that I appreciate his concern.”