Silent Run - Barbara Freethy [48]
Sarah couldn’t get used to hearing herself being called Samantha. Sarah felt more real to her, more true. She wondered if either of them was her real name. “What can you tell me about Mrs. Bradley?”
“You used to get her groceries, and she loved Katie. You visited her a few times in the rest home, and then she died. She gave you her car because she hated to see you taking the bus.”
“Who lives in Mrs. Bradley’s apartment?” Sarah asked.
“A single guy. I don’t know his name. He’s never around. He’s in his forties. I don’t believe you knew him, although I can’t say for sure.”
“Has there been anyone else around here looking for Sarah or Samantha?” Jake asked. “In fact, let’s go back to the guy in the elevator. What did he look like?”
“Samantha saw him; I didn’t,” Amanda replied. “She told me he had one of those beanies on his head and a sweatshirt with a hood, like the teenagers wear. He was white, I think. . . .” Amanda paused. “I don’t recall anyone else coming by in the past few days. At least, no one knocked on my door. And while we were friends, you were really private. You didn’t confide in me much.”
Amanda sounded a bit resentful about her lack of sharing. Sarah wondered just how close they’d been. “Did I have any hobbies? Anyplace I went on a regular basis besides my job? Like a gym? You said you teach aerobics. Did I take your class?”
“No, you didn’t want to leave Katie in child care. And you said you didn’t have the cash to join the gym.” She shrugged. “You did the usual stuff, went to the supermarket, the park, that kind of thing. I guess that’s not very helpful.”
“Where’s the park?” Jake asked.
“It’s about three blocks from here, toward the beach, on Jenner Street. Maybe you talked to some of the moms at the park,” Amanda said with a new light in her eyes. “You did go there almost every morning.”
“Thanks. That helps.”
Amanda turned to go back into her apartment, then stopped. “You also liked photography. I thought you were really good, that you could make money at it if you wanted, but you said no. Once, I took you to an art gallery on Windham Place a few blocks from here—my friend Peter runs it—and I showed him some of your work, but as soon as we got close, you bolted. You told me to mind my own business and you wouldn’t go in. I thought it was kind of weird at the time.” She gave Sarah an odd look. “None of this rings a bell?”
“I wish it did.”
“Well, my phone numbers are on the bulletin board in your kitchen. Call me if you need me.”
“Thanks.” Sarah headed down the hall to her apartment and slid her key into the lock, feeling a momentary sense of trepidation, but she pushed past it. This was her home. She had to go inside. As she opened the door she wondered if the memories would suddenly come flooding back, if fireworks would go off in her head, but when she walked into the room she felt absolutely nothing.
The apartment was a small studio. There was a double bed in one corner, a crib next to it, a small gray couch in the main part of the room, a TV the size of a toaster, a couple of beat-up end tables, and a kitchen that was little more than a small counter with a stove, a refrigerator, and a microwave. The room would have been completely sad if it weren’t for the photographic prints tacked and taped across the cracked, dull walls. They were all landscapes, the beach, the city, the sunset. At least she’d tried to liven up the place.
This was her home, she told herself. There had to be a clue to her past somewhere. Turning her attention away from the walls, she moved toward the bed. It was unmade. For some reason that bothered her. She felt as if she were the kind of person who always made the bed. She walked over to the crib and stared down at the pink blanket, the floral sheet, and a tiny white bear with a red satin ribbon around its neck.
As she picked up the bear, an image shot through her head.
Caitlyn