Convicted - Romig Aleatha (читать книги полностью без сокращений .TXT) 📗

Tony laughed. “That was a million years ago, wasn’t it?”

Laying her head against his shoulder, she nodded. “It sure seems like it. Is there any new information from Phil or Agent Jackson?”

“Well,” he hesitated, causing Claire to look up. Although she couldn’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, from his secretive smile she knew he was up to something.

“What?”

“Phil said he’s been released from his current job. He doesn’t believe Sophia’s in any danger. Catherine has worked very hard to introduce and include herself into Sophia’s life.”

“Then I’d say she’s in danger.” Claire added quickly, “but not enough for you to go protect her. I need you here.”

“Yes, you do. You may be pleased to learn who else will be here; let’s say for your Christmas present.”

Closing her eyes, Claire sighed. “A little Claire or a little Tony would be the best present. I’ve loved most of this—it’s just lately, I’m so tired and uncomfortable.”

“We really do need to pin down some names. I’m not comfortable with either a little me or a little you”—He smirked—“You see, I really like the big you, and when I think of the name Claire, the feelings that ensue are totally inappropriate for my daughter.”

“Big?”

Laughing—“You know what I mean. Now first—back to your Christmas present.”

“Yes?”

“Well, it won’t be the exact one. Phil can’t exactly ask Catherine to go through our bedroom, but he did see your wedding band. After all, he’s the one who bought it back and brought it to me.”

Claire’s voice perked up. “You’re getting me a wedding band for Christmas?”

“More than that, Phil will be here in less than a week to deliver it. I thought you might enjoy company, and since he’s the only one we can have, my choices were limited.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I love it! Thank you.” Then she realized. “But wait, what can I get you for Christmas?”

Kissing her lips, he said, “I’m not picky. A girl—or a boy—would be fine.”

“I’m not due until the second week of January. Will you take your gift late?”

“Only under one stipulation.”

“So, now there are stipulations on gifts?”

“Yes, my dear, and before you start with that beautiful, smart mouth of yours, let me say that this one isn’t debatable. I must insist upon it.”

She shrugged. “Rather demanding, but I guess I’m used to it—what do you want?”

“That nothing happens to you while my gift arrives. I’ve read a few things too. I thought maybe if Phil were here, if we need anything, well, the man is very resourceful.”

“I’ll be fine”—she kissed his cheek—“but I love that you’re concerned.”

“My dear, you are my only concern.”

Claire felt the tightening sensation once again. “Oh, I think someone else wants to be your concern, too.”

Truth, like gold, is to be obtained not by its growth, but by washing away from it all that is not gold.

—Count Leo Tolstoy

September 13, 2016

Last night, I was too shocked to write. I had to think about what happened, mull it over, and figure it out. By the time I got Claire back to the facility, she was no longer speaking. I don’t understand. She was still hearing me; every now and then her eyes would register and lock onto mine. Then she’d look away.

I’ve decided she gave me a test. She knows that I know her story. Her recognition of her surroundings is new; it didn’t exist last month, week, or even a day ago. If she isn’t ready to share this revelation with others, I guess it isn’t my place to divulge it. I just hate that I won’t be around to help her move beyond this milestone.

I’m off to my last day. I’ve decided that I owe it to Claire to allow Emily to fire me. My husband reminded me last night that I’ve been in violation of their restraining order. I’d actually forgotten that—which is in a way comical. This whole exercise has morphed through so many phases—curiosity—investigative reporting—recognition of guilt—and finally, a deep agonizing friendship. No one will believe that I’d given up the reporting, to help Claire. At least, as I sit in jail, I’ll know the truth.

Claire paced the trek she’d created next to her bed. Since she’d found her voice last night, she was anxious to use it. Yes, she considered speaking to some of the other people, but she was afraid. There were so many things she couldn’t recall, so many voids, and so many things that didn’t make sense. It was painfully obvious; this facility—as Meredith called it—was a mental facility. She had recollections of discussions about that. Each day, more memories surfaced. Some were clearer than others. She remembered Tony telling her that the offer of a mental facility was to protect her. Was that why she was here? Was she being protected?

That’s why she needed to talk with Meredith. Claire’s speed increased as she walked exactly six steps one way, turned, and stepped six paces the other way. She didn’t mean to count, but behind her thoughts, concerns, questions, she heard the numbers: one, two, three, four, five, six—turn—one, two...

There wasn’t a clock in the drab room. As she truly looked around—there was nothing. No pictures, no personal items, nothing that gave the room her personality. Claire wondered how long she’d been there...two, three, four, five, six—turn...The only indication of time was the gray in her hair, and what did that tell her?...five, six—turn—one...

Claire heard the door open. She wanted to look, but what if it wasn’t Meredith, she wasn’t prepared to speak with anyone else.

“Hi, Claire, it’s me, Meredith.”

She wanted to turn, but she was only on two. Claire waited until it was time to turn. That was a better time to break the cycle; however, by the time the voice behind her thoughts said turn, Meredith was talking again, “...when I got here. They told me you were all right after our late night. I think that was their way of reminding me not to do that again. They also said there’d been no changes with you.”

Claire turned toward Meredith’s voice. She wanted to look up and see her friend’s eyes. No, she didn’t want to see Meredith’s eyes—she wanted to see Tony’s. As she forced her glance toward Meredith’s face, she saw dark blue irises. Her knees weakened. It wasn’t the dark brown she sought, but it was color! For so long, there’d been no color. Inhaling deeply, she smelled the food that Meredith had placed on the table. If she ate it fast, they could go outside. If they went outside, she could ask her questions. It was too risky talking in here.

“Why, Claire, why haven’t they noticed any changes?”

She didn’t answer; instead, she walked to the table, uncovered the dish, found her silverware and began eating. Each bite she took faster and faster.

“Slow down; I can’t have you choking on my watch. I’m already on probation for our late night escapades.”

It wasn’t funny. Claire knew she was supposed to be concerned about appearances. Following rules and behaving was essential for appearances; however, listening to Meredith talk about breaking rules made her smile. It was either that, or the blue in her eyes. All the people around the facility wore white scrubs. Well, except for Emily, the doctors, and therapists. Suddenly, more than food, Claire wanted color. Wasn’t that an odd request? Maybe that was what being crazy was all about, seeing things differently and wanting things that others didn’t realize were gone.