Dirty, Reckless Love (Boys of Jackson Harbor 3)

“Three years ago.” I grimace. “My boss and I were at dinner talking about this collection, and . . .” And he was getting me drunk on wine and high on flattery while trying to convince me I should sell the paintings in my studio—replicas of priceless missing art. I meet the detective’s eyes and feel my cheeks heat. I wonder if I agreed. I painted those as a challenge to myself, and I think we were both surprised by what I managed to pull off.

“And . . .?” The detective’s voice is gentle and coaxing, and I realize I need to say more.

“We drank a lot that night, and when I woke up at the hospital, I thought maybe one of us had gotten behind the wheel and we’d been in an accident. But then the nurses told me that three years had passed, that I was suffering from retrograde amnesia.”

“Have you been in touch with anyone from Jackson Harbor since leaving the hospital?”

“She wants nothing to do with that life,” Mom says.

I bite my lip and look at my mom, then back to my hands. I don’t have a tan line from the engagement band that sits in my jewelry box. I hadn’t been engaged long enough. But would I have put it on at all if I hadn’t planned to wear it forever?

“Ellie?” the detective prompts.

“I saw Levi Jackson a couple of days ago,” I admit.

“He came to the door,” Mom said. “He and the sister. I sent them both away.” She reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “We’re starting fresh.”

“I saw him after that.” I lift my gaze to the detective’s and avoid my mother’s. “He was at Brew Cats, and I talked to him.”

“What?” She drops my hand. “You didn’t tell me? Why didn’t you just turn around? Run away, protect yourself?” Her voice is shrill, and I lean away instinctively.

“I didn’t want to run.”

Blotchy red patches bloom brighter on her face. “After all I’ve done to try to protect you from that life?”

I lift my chin and meet her eyes. “You can’t protect me from my own life. I wanted to talk to him.”

She looks out the window, and I wait, but she doesn’t turn back to me. I’ve hurt her.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I thought I was okay with pretending those years never happened, but I’m not anymore. I want to understand.”

“Sonia,” the detective says calmly, “would you mind getting me a cup of coffee and letting me chat with Ellie privately for a moment?”

“Fine.” She pushes away from the table. “Black?”

Huxley nods, then watches her leave the room before turning back to me. “You saw Levi? Do you remember him?”

“Not exactly.” I look down at the recorder and wonder just how much I’m willing to admit on the record.

“Tell me what you do remember,” he says.

I sigh heavily and shrug. “It’

s more like a feeling. Like he is—was important to me. And I had some flashes of memories. I think that’s what they were. But they were . . . intimate.”

Huxley nods, as if this doesn’t surprise him. Or maybe he’s just been trained to have a great poker face. “The two of you were involved briefly. Have you seen or spoken with anyone else?”

I shake my head. “I’ve been too afraid to go back.”

Mom returns with a cup of coffee, obviously opting for pouring from this morning’s pot rather than making a new one and missing more of this conversation. “Here you go.” She sets it down in front of him. “I’m sorry if I seem irrational. But I already lost my grandchild. I can’t stomach the idea of losing my daughter too.”

“It’s okay, Mom. I’m here, and I’m safe.”

“May I stay?” she asks Huxley, but the challenge in her tone suggests she will regardless of what the detective says.

Huxley looks at me, and I nod. “Sure.”

He takes a sip of his coffee. “Tell me about Nelson McKinley.”