Silent Run - Barbara Freethy [101]
Suddenly everything clicked into place.
“Jake,” she whispered, his name rocketing through her body in a series of sharp, tingling sparks of memory. It was all coming back. Finally.
She closed her eyes again, feeling a deep sense of relief that she had to savor—if only for a moment. She knew who she was. Her past was in line with her present. Her head and her heart had made the last connection.
“Sarah, I know you’ve remembered something. Can you talk to me now? I don’t want to rush you, but we don’t have a lot of time.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him, really looked at him, noting all the wonderful details of his face, his beautiful green eyes, his strong jaw, his passionate mouth. There had been a time in her life when she’d thought she would never see him again. The memories flooded back through her head like images from a video collage: the first meeting at the café, their first kiss in the moonlight under the Golden Gate Bridge, the first time they’d made love in his apartment, the day Caitlyn had been born, Jake cutting the umbilical cord, laying their baby across her breast, the nights the three of them had spent in bed together like a real family.
Her heart broke at what they’d had, what they’d lost. Just because she remembered what had happened didn’t mean she could change it. She’d made mistakes, decisions that she couldn’t take back, and now she would have to explain them. Some of them were indefensible.
A tear dripped down her cheek. Jake wiped it away. “Not now, Sarah,” he said, his voice husky and raw.
He was right. It was time to face the music. It was time to talk to Jake with total and complete knowledge of who she was to him, and who she’d been to other people in her life.
“I remember everything,” she said slowly. “Every last detail of my life, where I was born, who my parents are, where I lived, Chicago, Victor, Shane Hollis, everything.”
Excitement flared in his eyes. “I want to hear it, but let’s start with the most important piece of information. Where is Caitlyn? Do you know?”
Her daughter’s name pierced another hole through her heart, and she bit down on her lip as she nodded.
“Yes, I know where she is.”
“Thank God! Where?”
“With Teresa—in Santa Barbara.”
Jake shook his head in confusion. “Santa Barbara? That doesn’t make sense. If Teresa’s in Santa Barbara, she would have seen the news broadcast, your picture in the local paper. Why didn’t she come forward? Why didn’t she come to the hospital?”
“I told her not to tell anyone she had Caitlyn, no matter what happened to me. I made her promise that she would keep Caitlyn safe. She grew up like I did, Jake, with no one to trust. She didn’t ask me questions I didn’t want to answer. She just said she would guard Caitlyn with her life until I came back.”
Jake stared at her “If you stopped there right before your accident and someone was following you, then they already know where Caitlyn is.”
“I didn’t take Caitlyn there myself,” she said quickly, seeing his mind racing to a horrible conclusion. “I sent her with Amanda. We were closer friends than Amanda said when we saw her yesterday. She’d grown up like me. She was a street kid. We had a lot in common. She knew how to survive, too. When she heard I was in trouble when that guy tried to grab me in the elevator, she offered to help.”
“Amanda,” he echoed in bemusement. “I suppose she made you the same promise of silence, and that’s why she kept the secret when we saw her yesterday.”
“Yes. It’s my fault, Jake. I didn’t tell them who I was running from. I thought too much information would put them in more danger. I guess when Amanda saw you with me she just couldn’t trust that you were the good guy. And since I couldn’t remember, she—”
He cut off her explanation with a wave of his hand. “Whatever. We know where Caitlyn is; let’s go.” He jumped to his feet. “I don’t want to lose another minute. You can tell me the rest on the way there. It’s almost a two-hour drive.”
She grabbed her bag and packed up her clothes while Jake closed up the computer and grabbed his own things.