it had been too overwhelming for Faith to think about then, and now she felt a prickle of uneasiness.
All this from a friend? Why?
"My advice," Burnett said cheerfully, "is to fix yourself something simple for dinner or order in a pizza, and have an early night. Familiarize yourself with where everything is. Make yourself comfortable here." He smiled at her perceptively. "Stop thinking so much, Faith. Give yourself time."
She knew he was right. And she was even able to say bye to him calmly, promising to return to the scheduled appointments in a few days for a checkup and hospital another session with the physical therapist.
Then she was alone.
She locked the door, turned on the television in the living room for company and background noise, and looked again through the apartment.
This time, she looked more closely.
Her initial puzzlement took on a chill of unease.
There was no history here. No photographs, either displayed or tucked away in drawers. And very little to indicate her interests. A few books, mostly recent bestsellers that ran the gamut of genres, and many of those apparently unread.
She found plenty of clothes in the drawers and closet, and the bathroom held the usual supplies of soap and shampoo, moisturizers and bubble bath and disposable razors, and a small toiletry bag of makeup containing the basics, all new or nearly so. A blow dryer and a curling iron were stowed in the cabinet below the sink.
What there was not was evidence that a woman had lived here for more than a few weeks or months.
No old lipsticks or dried-up mascaras in the drawers.
No unused foundation compacts that had turned out to be the wrong shade. No nearly empty tubes of moisturizer or hand lotion. No fingernail polish or remover. No samples given out at cosmetics counters in practically every store in the world.
Either Faith Parker was the neatest woman alive ... or she had spent very little time here.
She went into the living room and sat down at the small desk tucked away in a corner. The single drawer held only a few things. A small address book showing meager entries—names, addresses, and phone numbers that meant nothing to her. Her checkbook and a copy of her lease, both of which indicated that she had lived here for nearly eighteen months before the accident.
There were regular deposits made on Fridays, obviously her salary, which was enough to live on without living particularly well; some months it appeared that ends had barely met. Checks had been written to the usual places, some of which matched entries in the address book. Grocery stores, department stores, hair salons, dentist, a couple of restaurants, a pharmacy, a women's clinic, a computer store.
A computer store.
Faith looked slowly around the room with a frown. According to the register, she had bought a laptop computer on a payment plan only a few weeks before the accident. It should be here.
It wasn't.
She'd had only a purse with her when she rammed her car into that embankment, they'd told her. So why wasn't the computer here?
On the heels of that question, the phone on the desk rang suddenly, startling her. Faith had to take a deep, steadying breath before she could pick up the receiver.
"Miss Parker, this is Edward Sloan." The lawyer's voice was brisk. "Forgive me for disturbing you on your first day home, but I thought there was something you should know."
"What is it, Mr. Sloan?"
"The service I hired to clean your apartment this week found it in ... unusual disarray."
"Meaning I'm a slob?" she asked, even though she already knew the answer.
"No, Miss Parker, I think not. Many drawers had been emptied onto the floor, pillows and other things scattered about. It had all the earmarks of a burglary, perhaps interrupted in progress, since nothing appeared to have been taken. This was three days ago. Knowing you were still in the hospital, I took the liberty of acting in your stead. I reported the matter to the police, then met them at your apartment. They took the report, took photos of the place, and questioned others in the building. But since no one saw or heard anything out of the ordinary, and since your television and stereo were still there and nothing had been damaged as far as we could determine, no further action was taken."
"I see," she murmured.
"The cleaning service was allowed to do their job immediately afterward. They were instructed to put things back in place as neatly as possible, and to use their judgment as to where everything belonged. Do you have any complaints on that score, Miss. Parker?"
"No."
"Have you discovered anything missing?"
He knew about her amnesia, but it seemed an automatic, lawyer's question.
"No," Faith repeated, looking down at the checkbook entry concerning the computer. She did not want to mention it, though she couldn't explain why, even to herself. "Nothing."
"If you do discover anything, you'll let me know?"
"Of course, Mr. Sloan." She hesitated. "There is one thing. You said that all my recently incurred debts had been paid?"
"Yes."
"How did you know about them, Mr. Sloan?"
"Miss Leighton supplied that information, Miss Parker. I believe she took the liberty of going through your desk to get a correct accounting. Other than regular monthly bills such as utilities, rent, a small credit card balance, and so on, there were two recently incurred debts. One for a laptop computer, which Miss Leighton informed me had been in her possession since your accident, and the other for new living room furniture. Both accounts were paid in full."
"I see." She swallowed. "Thank you, Mr. Sloan."
"My pleasure, Miss Parker." He hung up.
So Dinah Leighton had the laptop that Faith had bought weeks before her accident. Why? And where was it now?
Her thoughts were whirling, confused. Then, to make matters much, much worse, she caught a glimpse of something on the television. She lunged for the remote and turned up the sound.
"Kane Macgregor, one of those closest to the missing woman, expressed his trust in the efforts of the police to find her," the off-camera voice intoned solemnly.
The blond man before the cameras looked tired, his face drawn and thin, his gray eyes haunted. Numerous microphones were thrust at him. A question Faith could barely hear was asked, and he replied in a deep voice that made a warm shiver course through her.
"No, I have not given up hope. The police are making every effort to find her, and I believe they will do so. In the meantime, if anyone watching has any information they believe could help locate Dinah" His calm voice quivered just a bit on the name-"they should call the police and report it as soon as possible."
"Mr. Macgregor, have you called in the FBI?" one reporter shouted out.
"No, the matter is not within their jurisdiction. We have no evidence that Dinah has been kidnapped," he answered.
"Have you hired a private investigator?"
Kane Macgregor smiled thinly. "Of course I have. I'm doing everything in my power to find Dinah."
"Which is why you're offering a million dollars to anyone providing evidence that would locate Miss Leighton alive and well?"
"Exactly." He drew a breath, the strain really beginning to show on his lean face. "Now, if you people don't mind..."
"One last question, Mr. Macgregor. Are you engaged to Miss Leighton?"
For an instant, it seemed Kane Macgregor's face would crack open and all his wild emotions would come spilling out. But it didn't happen, and only his voice, harsh with pain, revealed what he was feeling.