The Memory of You (Sanctuary Sound #1)(46)

Regrets could suffocate a person. He knew. He had his own. “You can’t change the past, but you can be there for her now.”

“I want to, but she doesn’t want visitors now that she’s starting treatment. She’s blaming the exhausting regime of meds, but I don’t think she wants to be seen so weak and . . . altered.”

“So think of something else you can do to support her.” He stared to the horizon, as if the answers to their problems were hidden somewhere in the vast expanse, waiting to be revealed. “What does she want or need that you can give her?”

“She wants to mend fences with Claire, but Claire won’t even ask about Peyton. I can’t believe she’d let her die without making peace.”

Ryan drew in a deep breath of the brackish air. “You can’t make Claire forgive Peyton. That’s up to Peyton to earn.”

“Kind of like how I’m forcing you to forgive me.” She offered a sheepish smile and kicked her foot against his.

“Kind of like that.” Time slowed while they held each other’s gaze, shoulder to shoulder, flashbacks floating around them like dandelion fluff. He suppressed the sudden urge to kiss her there in the moonlight.

As if spooked, Steffi jumped off the seawall, leaned over to pick up some small rocks, and tossed one into the sea. “I had no idea coming home would put us back in each other’s orbit, but I’m glad it did.”

He frowned to himself because she’d had to put distance between them to say those words. That much about her hadn’t changed.

“Hmph.” He scratched his head while watching her throw each rock, one by one. “Why did you come back?”

“To start my own business.” She bent down and found a few more rocks. Her careful attention remained on the task—a tactic to prolong avoiding his gaze.

“You didn’t like working for a big construction company?”

“It was fine.” She pitched another one, this time with more force than before. “I wanted out of the city.”

“Because of the mugging?”

She stared across the moonlit path on the sea, toward the spot where the iron-gray water met the slate-gray sky. “I’d been thinking about it before then.”

His brief investigation hadn’t turned up any open legal case, so he’d let it drop. He had enough on his plate. But after tonight, he wanted more details about that assault, even though he knew they might be hard to hear. “What exactly happened?”

Steffi cleared her throat and pitched another rock. This one went farther than the others. “I’d gone with some coworkers to a neighborhood bar. We played pool all night, and I’d won a bunch of money. By one o’clock, I was tired, but the guys I’d gone with weren’t ready to go, so I decided to walk home. I only lived six or so blocks away, and I’d done it before without trouble.” She rubbed her collarbone. “My guess is that the guys who robbed me must’ve been in the bar and overheard us talking. When they saw me settling my tab, they must’ve slipped outside ahead of me. There was a narrow alley one storefront down from the bar. That’s where they got me. After that, I don’t really remember much. I fought, but they were bigger and stronger . . . and they had a gun . . .”

Gun? Jesus. “You didn’t get a good look at them?”

She didn’t answer. She was rubbing her arms, her body appearing to cave in on itself while shivering.

“Steffi?” He waited, but she remained locked in silence, unaware of anything going on around her.

This behavior must be what had Claire concerned. Was it some kind of seizure? Had these episodes begun before the attack? That would explain how she—a typically aware and strong woman—fell victim to attackers.

Ryan jumped down from the seawall and approached her from behind. “Steffi.”

As soon as he touched her shoulder, she whirled on him, screaming, “Stop!”

Her elbow connected with his jaw, sending him stumbling backward against the seawall. He rubbed his cheek, stunned.

“Oh my God, Ryan. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” She rushed forward, then stopped. “I didn’t mean to hit you. I—you startled me—I thought . . . I don’t know. I don’t know what I thought.”

He recalled the milder daze he’d witnessed in his mom’s yard the day she’d first learned about Peyton. Were they connected? “Where do you go during these episodes?”

“What?” She was staring at his jaw, her eyes filled with shame.

“I called your name twice. Were you remembering something about the attack?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know, but it’s better to forget about it.”

“How can you say that?” He held his arms wide. “Don’t you want justice?”

“In theory, sure. But there were no witnesses, and I didn’t get a look at them, so I don’t waste time thinking about justice. Besides, I don’t want to be defined by that event. It’s over. I’ve moved on.” With a perturbed tone, she muttered, “Why? Are you itching to defend them?”

“Don’t deflect. This is serious. Maybe your brain is trying to tell you something.”

“It’s telling me I’m tired. Overworked. Stressed. Concussed. Whatever. It’s not a big deal. People space out now and then, especially people who’ve had lots of concussions.” Her face was tight, her movements jerky and quick. “I don’t want to talk about this.”