Remember to Forget Read online

  She shook the thought away, wagging her head so hard her hair grazed her cheeks. Never again was she going to be in trouble with him. It was time to wash his controlling, brainwashing messages out of her mind.

  She was free. Free.

  With new resolve, she headed down the street. But after walking aimlessly for ten minutes, she realized she didn’t know where she was going. She couldn’t just wander around this town looking lost.

  When she passed a café, a pretty hostess waved and smiled from the window. Somehow that small acknowledgment gave her courage. Backtracking, she stepped inside. The aromas of cinnamon and vanilla and strong coffee assailed her nostrils. Her stomach rumbled again.

  “Good morning. Just one this morning?”

  Maggie froze for a second.

  The hostess waited expectantly, still wearing that welcoming grin.

  Maggie inspected the merchandise in the glass case beneath the cash register while she gathered her wits. “I just need a pack of gum and—” Gulping in a deep breath, she made a decision. “I was wondering where I could buy a bus ticket.”

  Four hours later and ninety-nine dollars poorer, every joint sore from the long hike to the bus station in Ridgewood, Maggie stared out the window of a Greyhound bus headed for Columbus, Ohio. She would have been sunk without Mrs. Sanchez’s cash. As it was, she was lucky they’d let her on without a photo ID. She told them the truth—if not the whole truth and nothing but the truth—that she’d left her license in the glove compartment of her car.

  She stared at the telephone poles jutting up along the railroad running parallel to the highway. They had a hypnotic effect on her as they flashed past the windows of the bus.

  She had never been to Columbus. Never been farther west than Philadelphia. But Ohio was as far as she could go for less than one hundred dollars. It felt like leaping off a cliff to purchase that ticket.

  Now she only hoped she could fly.

  Wren’s laughter drowned out the ghost of Amy’s voice. The relief of it eased Trevor’s pulse.

  Chapter Four

  Trevor Ashlock pulled the last sheet of paper off the press and punched the shutdown switch. The roar of the massive Heidelberg died to a whirr, then went silent. A dying fluorescent light buzzed above him, threatening to drown out the Vivaldi wafting from the CD changer in Trevor’s office.

  He doffed his filthy apron and hung it on a peg by the back door. On his way through to the front office, he switched off the CD player and the overhead lights. The Main Street door was locked, and beyond the plate-glass windows, the street was empty, as it was every night by five in Clayburn, Kansas, population 1,250. At the counter he leafed through the new orders Dana had put in the in-box. There were seven or eight job tickets. Nothing that would let him retire at thirty-five, like he’d once foolishly dreamed—especially now that thirty-five was less than three years away—but that advertisement they’d run in the Clayburn Courier had apparently done its job.

  Not that he had any desire to ever retire nowadays. No. Best to keep busy. To keep from having to go home too soon. He moved to the back of the office and cranked the thermostat up. It’d be hotter than blazes in here come morning, but the electric bill was eating up half his profits.

  After exiting the back door and locking it, Trevor headed toward his pickup. He tossed his briefcase into the passenger seat, then trotted across the alley to the inn. The sign declaring the place Wren’s Nest hung at a cockeyed angle over the side entrance. He made a mental note to fix it first chance he got. But the electrical work in the kitchenette was top priority tonight. He’d promised Wren Johannsen he would have the electricity back on before he quit for the night, and it would take a good three hours to finish rewiring the tiny room. He also hoped to get a good start on the drywall. At least it would be nice and cool at the inn. And if he was lucky, Wren might have a slice of her famous peaches-and-cream cheesecake left over from the Tuesday-morning Bible study. Working on Tuesdays had its advantages.

  He walked through the long hallway to the lobby, noting that the doors to all the rooms were open, meaning there was, unfortunately, plenty of room in the inn. Business usually picked up on the weekends. But if they didn’t fill at least a couple of rooms on the weeknights too, Bart and Wren Johannsen couldn’t pay the regular bills, let alone afford the remodeling Trevor was doing for them.

  He admired the Johannsens for not giving up. But there came a point where they’d be better off cutting their losses and getting out while they could. He was afraid that point wasn’t far off. Bart was surely old enough to retire, but Trevor respected the man for not taking that step. He’d already decided he would never retire. It was hard enough filling that hour or two at home before he could finally crawl into bed and let sleep dull his senses and shut off the memories.

  “That you, Trevor?”

  At Wren’s shrill call, he shook off the voices and images that had started to play in his head—Amy’s musical laughter, little Trev’s pudgy arms reaching out to him . . .

  “Yeah, it’s me, Wren. Hey, is that cheesecake I smell?”

  Wren’s laughter drowned out the ghost of Amy’s voice. The relief of it eased Trevor’s pulse.

  Wren appeared in the doorway of the little dining area adjacent to the kitchen, hands propped on her ample hips, stretching to her full five-foot-two stature. She attempted an aggravated expression but couldn’t quite succeed over the twinkle in her eye. “Now how am I supposed to bake anything when my oven is sitting in the middle of the kitchen?”

  “I don’t know”—he inhaled deeply—“but that doesn’t smell like anything that came from the Wal-Mart bakery.”

  Wren chuckled and shook her head. “Ooh, you’re good, Mr. Ashlock. I’ll give you that. Clara let me use her oven, but she was none too happy about it, I can tell you. I’ll be hearing about it for umpteen weeks.”

  He grimaced, exaggerating his expression, in an effort to take the blame for Wren being on the outside of Clara Berger’s good graces.

  Her smile forgave him. “You get my kitchen back in working order before you leave tonight, and I’ll send the whole bloomin’ cheesecake home with you.”

  “The whole thing?”

  She expelled a breath and tucked a strand of white hair into her frowsy bun. “Bible study got cancelled. And you know Bart. The man will eat every last slice of that thing if I leave it sitting here. And there’s not enough insulin in Coyote County to counteract that much sugar.”

  Trevor grinned. “Well, in the interest of Bart’s health, I guess I can take it off your hands.”

  Wren waved off his joke and bustled past him to the broom closet behind the check-in desk.

  He helped himself to a couple of day-old snickerdoodles from the antique cookie jar on the desk and ducked under the ladder leaning against the arched dining-room doorway. He stood there, chewing and surveying the space.

  Last month he and Bart had knocked out the back wall of the kitchenette, appropriating six feet from an unused side entry to enlarge the tiny galley kitchen and turn the dining alcove into an L-shaped room.

  Brushing the cookie crumbs from his fingers, Trevor grabbed his toolbox from under the sawhorse. Why they were going to all this trouble and expense, he didn’t know. They rarely filled the dining room as it was. But he admired the hope reflected in this remodeling project. And it gave him a way to fill his time. A way to forget.

  She watched in horror as the bus rolled out of the parking lot.

  Chapter Five

  You want half of my sandwich?”

  Maggie’s head jerked against the back of her seat. She fought to hold on to the fading image of her dream. To keep that flicker of hope kindled inside her.

  But like a gust of wind, slumber slipped away, snuffing out a fragile memory she’d all but forgotten. The river lapping gently at her feet, cooling her calves . . .

  She rubbed her eyes and blinked. Where was she? Ah, the bus. Outside, the western sky matched the tinted windows of the
Greyhound, and the interstate spooled out before them like a never-ending silver ribbon.

  Her seatmate, a toothless old man, held out a limp triangle wrapped in clear plastic. “Want half my sandwich?” he asked again. “You’re welcome to it.”

  She made herself return his smile. “No thank you. You go ahead.”

  She was hungry, but not that hungry. Yet, she told herself wryly. This time tomorrow she might be kicking herself for turning down that soggy wad of bread and cheese.

  The man shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  She turned in her seat and rested her forehead on the cool window glass. It vibrated with the rhythmic thump of the highway beneath the wheels, and a childhood song her mother had sung came back to her. It played over and over in her head.

  The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round . . .

  They’d been on the road for hours, and with each mile she breathed a little easier. She dozed off again briefly, but the vacuum-pressured wheeze of the bus’s brakes roused her. Passengers rustled around her, gathering their possessions in preparation for the stop.

  After pulling off the interstate, the driver parked at an all-night diner. Maggie followed the other passengers off the bus. The stench of diesel made her cough, and she jogged away from the fumes and toward the building.

  Once inside, she waited in line to use the rest room, then washed her face and neck in the grimy sink. She tried to do something with her hair, but without a hairbrush, her efforts were wasted. She ended up slicking the limp strands behind her ears. Maybe she could pick up a few toiletries in the store adjacent to the restaurant. She wandered into the shop and selected a wide-toothed comb that would fit in her pocket, along with a toothbrush and a tube of ChapStick. Her stomach tried to remind her of its empty state as she walked by a display of candy and potato chips, but she ignored it. She didn’t know how far the wad of cash in her pocket would have to stretch, but she could hold off at least until they got to Columbus.

  She turned toward the checkout and stopped short as a row of pay phones outside the windows caught her eye. She paid for her items and took the bag outside. The bus was idling in front of the building, but several passengers were still inside the store. She had a few minutes.

  Slipping two quarters into the far pay phone, she dialed the apartment.

  The phone rang half a dozen times before a voice croaked, “Hello?”

  Maggie’s heart thudded at hearing Kevin’s voice. Was it possible that she actually missed him? He sounded strangely subdued and, for a minute, she felt a little sorry for him.

  But she pushed away the unwelcome thought when he barked, “Who’s there?” into the phone.

  She heard the all-too-familiar tone of agitation in his voice, heard him rattle the lamp on the nightstand. If Kevin was in bed, it must be after ten. Or else he’d gone to bed with a bottle. She peered through the window at the clock in the rest stop. Twenty minutes after nine. Whatever concern she’d felt seconds earlier vanished on the breeze.

  “What the . . . ?” The voice in her ear spewed a curse and confirmed her suspicions. He was drunk. She heard his breathing, could feel the tension.

  “Maggie? Is that you, Maggie? Where are you?” In a few seconds his terseness would turn into a string of curse words and he’d start kicking things around the apartment. Her resolve stiffened. If she were there, if she went back, how long would it be before she was the thing he was kicking around?

  “Where’s my car? Where’s my fifty bucks? And where’s my Jack Daniel’s?” His voice gathered venom. “I don’t have time for this. I have to work in the morning, you know. So help me, Maggie, you lousy little—”

  She dropped the receiver back in place. Had she really thought for a minute that he might be worried about her? That he might miss her or be concerned that something had happened to her?

  She was a fool.

  Again.

  The grinding hiss of compression brakes made her look back to the bus that sat idling at the edge of the parking lot. A terrifying thought struck her. What if Kevin could somehow trace her call? Did pay phone numbers show up on caller ID? Kevin was good with the computer. If there were a way to trace where a call came from, he would figure it out. Had she blown her cover before she’d tasted even twenty-four hours of freedom?

  Her gaze flicked around the parking lot as she made her way through two rows of parked cars. She was being ridiculous. She’d ridden the bus for hours. Even if Kevin left New York right now, he’d never catch up with her. She should feel relief that he was at the apartment, that he’d answered the phone. Besides, he would never believe she could get this far away without him knowing it.

  But she’d been stupid to call him. For all she knew, when he picked up the phone, the caller ID had spelled it out for him: Maggie is calling from this particular bus stop. Come to Pennsylvania (or wherever in the world she was) and get her.

  A new thought struck terror in her chest. What if Kevin saw her location on caller ID and called the local police? They could be here within minutes. He wouldn’t be above telling them that she’d stolen his car, and in that case they would have the authority to take her in—or worse, hold her until Kevin came for her.

  The passengers were now waiting in queue to get back on the bus. The engine revved and diesel puffed from the exhaust. Panic seized her. If she got on that bus, she’d be a sitting duck. It wouldn’t take much for the cops to discover where the bus had originated. They’d arrest her and haul her back to New York.

  But if she didn’t get back on the bus, she might never make it past this little spot in the road. She hadn’t put nearly enough miles between her and Kevin Bryson yet. And besides, she’d paid fare all the way to Columbus. She couldn’t afford to buy another bus ticket.

  The bus horn blared, and the behemoth inched forward. Kevin’s cursing echoed in her head. She felt like the rope in a vicious tug of war. Finally the bus won and she broke into a run.

  But even as she ran toward it, the bus crawled away. She broke into a sprint, her breath coming in sharp, painful gasps. “Stop! Wait! Stop!”

  Her plea was carried away on an acrid belch of diesel fuel, and she watched in horror as the bus rolled out of the parking lot. The engine puffed and groaned, shifting gears and gathering speed. When the Greyhound finally eased down the ramp onto the interstate, Maggie slumped to the ground, burying her face in her hands.

  What would she do? Her money was dwindling fast and, like an idiot, she’d convinced Kevin that she had run away. If she’d stayed away from the stupid telephone, he might think she was dead.

  Now he probably assumed she was still in the Civic. If he had the police hunting for her, that’s the vehicle they’d be searching for. The thought caused her to relax a little. She smiled to think how surprised he’d be when the police tracked down the car. Of course, the carjacker had probably abandoned the Civic long ago.

  None of that mattered now. The bus wasn’t an option anymore.

  Leftover heat from the afternoon sun seeped up through the asphalt. Maggie wiped the perspiration from her forehead with the tail of her blouse and trudged back toward the convenience store.

  If there was an ounce of comfort in losing them both on the same day, it was that they’d gone together.

  Chapter Six

  Trevor stood at the curb and looked west. The sun rode low in the sky. It would be dark in half an hour. He stepped into the street but turned back to see Bart Johannsen waving from the doorway of the inn, as Trevor knew he would be. The old man’s yellow white beard nearly reached the bib of his engineer overalls.

  Trevor smiled to himself. Wren would be nagging her husband to trim his shaggy mane soon.

  Bart dropped his hands to clasp cigar-thick fingers over a belly that had seen too many of Wren’s homemade cream pies. “See ya tomorrow, Trev.”

  Trevor waved back but winced at the nickname. He’d never gone by Trev. At least not after his son was born. He turned away and hurri
ed across the alley to his pickup. Bart couldn’t know how much it hurt to hear Trev’s name.

  It was only one of a million reminders every single day. The empty swing set in his backyard. The tricycle that sat abandoned in a corner of the garage. The day-care kids traipsing behind Miss Valdez on a field trip up Main Street—kids Trev would have started kindergarten with this fall.

  Trev. It was his given name. Trev Alex. Trevor hadn’t been crazy about the idea when Amy first brought it up, but she was adamant. “I want to name him after you, but this way nobody will saddle the poor kid with Junior.” She’d wrinkled her nose then—that goofy expression that always made him think of a Chinese pug puppy.

  He’d pretended to be reluctant to go along with her idea for naming their baby after him, but secretly, he’d felt honored. And when their little boy was born, nobody could have been a prouder dad than Trevor Ashlock.

  The pickup was hotter than Wren’s oven, but the smell that blasted him when he opened the door was more like a junior-high gymnasium on game day than one of Wren’s savory offerings. He tucked the cheesecake she’d sent with him in the jump seat. In spite of the layers of newspaper she’d swaddled the dessert in, it’d be a miracle if the whole thing wasn’t a warm pool of cream and peach juice by the time he got home.

  He climbed in and leaned across the seat to roll down the passenger side window. With his air conditioner on the fritz, it was a choice between dust and heat this time of year. He didn’t handle the latter well. Dust would wash off.

  He decided to forgo his usual drive-thru burger in the interest of getting the cheesecake home sooner. Besides, a couple of thick slices of the delicacy would make a more-than-decent dinner.