LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter Three

      Jordan’s sweet attentiveness was nearly Sara’s undoing. As she sat beside him in the pew, she ducked her head, unwilling to allow everyone to see her tears.

      “Hold on, Sara,” whispered his voice into her ear. Its deep vibration sent shivers of awareness through her. Jordan was here for her. He was her husband. He must love her very much.

      And she despised herself for not remembering the deep love she must have for him to have married him. For now, she felt mostly gratitude toward him and a cognizance of his sensuality that had no business here and now.

      “I’m fine, Jordan,” she told him, and made her crying stop. She smiled at him stoically, pretending not to see the sympathy in his dark blue eyes.

      She wept more, though, when the pastor began the service. But much of her sorrow was not because she missed her father. Instead, it was because she missed whatever memories of him she should have.

      A lot of people rose one at a time to face the packed church and give testimonials about Casper Shepard. Sara recognized only a few—those who had visited her in the hospital or who had introduced themselves here: Carroll Heumann, for one. She’d considered the man abrupt with her, but he had apparently thought highly of her father. She believed it when he said he would miss Casper.

      Lloyd Pederzani was another person Sara recognized. About fifty, with a gaunt face but kind brown eyes, he had come to her hospital room the evening of her admission. He’d introduced himself as the town’s medical examiner, a practicing physician, and a very long-time family friend. He’d looked at her chart, asked how she was feeling and both shaken his head and commiserated about her loss of memory. Then, he had attempted—though poorly—to cheer her up with bad jokes.

      Now, Lloyd, in a dark brown suit that bagged at his shoulders, was somber as he described how long Casper and he had been friends. How much he was going to miss the guy who’d called him out of bed at all hours of the night to discuss a new case—though that was certainly one aspect of their friendship he wouldn’t miss. His comment drew a laugh from the crowd.

      Jordan rose, too, to speak about her father. Her husband remembered the man who had raised her brother and her after their mother had died in an accident years ago.

      Sara didn’t. That only made her feel worse.

      Even the mayor of Santa Gregoria, Pauline Casey, gave the eulogy. Mayor Casey was a slender, older woman with hair the shade of iron—which matched the fist with which she appeared to rule Santa Gregoria, the way she described it. But she spoke fondly of Casper Shepard and how he had given his all to try to make their community safe. She did, however, note that he had not been successful and vowed that whoever succeeded him as police chief would have to make a strong effort to see that no one ever got away with murder here again.

      A noble goal, Sara thought. One she hoped would be met. But she shared a dubious glance with Jordan. He winked at her encouragingly, and she attempted a smile.

      Sara was glad when the service was over, but then it was time to follow Jordan, Carroll, Lloyd and the other pallbearers outside.

      She asked June about the older pallbearer who seemed unashamed of the tears rolling down his grizzled cheeks. He was wrinkled and gray-haired, and wore an unfamiliar uniform that was too small at his rounded middle.

      “That’s Dwayne Gould,” June whispered. “He’s a driver for the medical examiner’s office. Your father was always kind to him.”

      Though grateful for June’s supportive presence beside her, and Jordan’s when he rejoined her, Sara managed just fine, even surviving the lowering of the casket into the newly dug grave.

      Afterward, she stood at the graveside beside Jordan, accepting condolences from unfamiliar mourners who apparently knew her well. Jordan introduced many people, apologizing over and over on her behalf. It was not her fault she didn’t recognize even those she had known for years, he said; it was a result of her amnesia.

      She wanted to strangle the tall, smooth-talking man beside her. During a lull in the surging line of mourners, Sara turned to Jordan. “Please don’t keep telling people about my loss of memory,” she whispered. “I feel bad enough about it, and if anyone should apologize about it, I should.”

      “We discussed this before, Sara,” he hissed as the line began to move again. “You’ll be safer if everyone knows you can’t remember anything. And I intend to keep reminding them so it’s sure to get to the ears of the killer.” And once more, when he introduced her to someone she probably should have recognized, he made reference to her amnesia.

      This time, she just gritted her teeth and smiled. She knew he was just trying to protect her.

      Why didn’t that make her feel any better?

      WAS SARA’S AMNESIA REAL?

      The Executioner watched Jordan Dawes touch his new wife in public, making a display of his feelings for her.

      The Executioner listened, too, for any indication that Sara’s loss of memory was a lie.

      Of course The Executioner realized that Dawes was trying to protect his pretty wife. The hot-shot Texas Ranger who had so recently come here to Santa Gregoria might have convinced Sara to feign amnesia.

      If it were a ploy, it wouldn’t work. The Executioner would make an example of Sara and Dawes, then go ahead with other assassinations.

      But to continue, The Executioner had to again do whatever was necessary to prevent being caught.

      The Executioner had thought it a master stroke to kill Casper Shepard at his own daughter’s wedding. But then, each of the assassinations was sublime.

      Too bad Sara had followed Casper unexpectedly into the room. Now The Executioner had unfinished business with Sara. Business that needed immediate resolution.

      Oh, if Sara truly recalled nothing, perhaps The Executioner would allow her to live. The Executioner had already spoken with her, and she had professed her lack of memory without the slightest hesitation.

      But if she really did remember…

      Then Sara Dawes would be The Executioner’s next piece of superb work.

      THE CROWD was beginning to thin. Clouds had started to roll in, chilling the air a little and casting an even more depressing pall on the day. Sara turned on the paved path—and noticed, for the first time, the granite markers on the graves beside the newly dug one for her father.

      The nearest read, “Eleanor Markham Shepard, Beloved Wife and Mother,” and gave dates of birth and death. Her mother? Sara couldn’t

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