As Nikki told it, she’d been tripping with her boy-toy in Berlin, a German kid named Carsten Riedle, and she overdosed. No Tristan, young Riedle left her for dead, drooling on the floor of the family’s townhouse in one of the city’s most fashionable neighborhoods.
The Riedles’ housekeeper found her in a coma the following morning, and sent for an ambulance. Hospitalized, she remained unconscious for the better part of a week and, when she awoke, remembered almost nothing. Weeks went by, and then a month. Finally, she was removed to a clinic in Switzerland where they had a doctor on staff who’d had success with cases similar to her own. The clinic also treated substance abuse and since Nikki’s troubles had started with an overdose, it was considered the ideal place for her rehabilitation.
While her doctors expected the amnesia to pass of its own accord, she remained Patient X to herself and everyone else. Meanwhile, queries to the U.S. Embassy in Bonn—Nikki’s English was clearly American—proved fruitless. According to embassy officials, no missing persons reports had been filed that would fit her description. Neither had anyone found a passport with her picture on it. Which meant that her nationality could not be established. Next!
And then it happened. On a warm spring day, as she walked from the clinic toward the marina and its restaurants, Nikki saw a poster on the wall emblazoned with an ad for Far and Away. Cruise and Kidman were locked in an embrace, and… Nicole. It all came flooding back. She remembered her name. She remembered Carsten Riedle. She even remembered the music that was playing on the CD when the scumbag shot her up. Alanis Morissette. Jagged Little Pill.
Two days later, she had a lawyer, and two weeks after that, a settlement: in exchange for the fräulein’s agreement to disappear from their son’s life and to forgo legal action against the family, the Riedles would establish a trust fund in her behalf. And so it was done: half-a-million dollars. Exit the Riedles.
The elevator opened on the lobby, and Adrienne stepped out, still thinking about Nikki. She’d always wanted to ask her, When did you remember me? Was it there, in Switzerland, or later? And: why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you come home? Not to mention the questions she had for the clinic, such as: Who was the idiot they talked to at the Embassy? Because Deck and Marlena had called the State Department repeatedly. Knowing that Nikki’s last known address was in Germany, they had made several inquiries, asking if an American woman of her description had run afoul of the police, or been in an accident. Somehow, Nikki’s plight had slipped through the cracks. It was infuriating, but there wasn’t anything to be done about it.
And, anyway, it wasn’t the same Nikki who’d come back—not really. It was like, Nikki-Lite or something.
Almost furtively, Adrienne glanced around the lobby, half expecting to see her sister—and feeling a guilty rush of pleasure when she did not. Crossing the lobby, she reflected on the fact that her affection for her sister was more nostalgic than real, her contacts driven as much by duty as they were by affection. That was wrong, but she wasn’t going to beat herself up about it. Nikki wasn’t just disturbed; she was disturbing.
What was always revealed between the kiss hello and the appetizer was something that Adrienne preferred to forget. Nikki was not getting better, she was getting worse. And this shrink she was seeing was not helping. Quite the opposite, in fact. During the time that Nikki had been seeing him, she’d gotten loopier and loopier, ranting about things that not only had never happened—but never could have happened.
And seeing her sister like this, Adrienne wanted to do something about it, but—
“You leaving?” The doorman was holding the door open for her.
Adrienne shrugged. “I guess she went out.”
The doorman looked puzzled. Shook his head and frowned. “I don’t think so—I would have seen her. You check the laundry room?”
Adrienne paused in front of the door, then turned around. “No—what a good idea.” Forcing a smile, she took the stairs down to the basement, where she could smell the room before she saw it. The heated sweetness of the fabric softener, the sharp tang of the bleach. She peered inside, but there was no one, the small room desolate under the fluorescent lights, its banks of machines still, the round eyes of the dryers blank.
So it was back up the stairs, where the doorman was waiting with a chagrined look on his face.
“Hey,” he said with an apologetic shrug. “I forgot to look. She left a note for you.” He handed it to her.
As Adrienne took the envelope, a feeling of foreboding came over her. Opening it, she felt a surge of adrenaline sparkle through her veins, and the hair stood up on her arms. For a moment, it was almost as if she were standing on a cliff, looking down. And then the note, so short she didn’t have to read it.
A—
Couldn’t stick it any
longer. Rainbow sorry.
Nikki
Chapter 7
The doorman’s hands were shaking as he inserted a master key in the lock to Nikki’s door. Over and over, under his breath, he kept repeating, “Y’never know, y’never know.” Then the lock turned, the door swung open, and Adrienne blew past, eyes wild.
“Nikki?” The apartment was dark, the dog barking, somewhere off to the right. “Nikki?”
Ramon’s hands felt for the light switch, but nothing happened when he flicked it on. He gave Adrienne a bewildered look. “I think—maybe the fuse blew,” he said.
“Fix it,” Adrienne ordered as she stepped deeper into the darkness of the apartment.
“Breaker’s in the kitchen,” Ramon replied, “but I’ll need a flashlight. You think she had one?”
Adrienne didn’t say anything. She could hardly breathe.
“There’s—there’s a utility room down the hall.” The doorman turned, then broke into a run.
“Nikki?” She could feel the hot tears rolling down her cheeks as she moved, step by step, through the living room, hands extended, just above her waist. She didn’t want to trip over… “Nikki?”
The only light in the apartment was the ambient, neon glow from outside the windows. That, and the light from the hall. She could make out shapes—the couch and the table, the big leather club chair. But… “Nikki!?”
Jack was barking louder now, his feet scrabbling against the kitchen door. As her eyes began to adjust, she maneuvered her way toward the sound and, finding the door, pulled it open. The dog burst into the room and, yipping, chased his tail in a frantic little circle, then jumped up against her. “Down,” she ordered, at once startled and annoyed.
With a yip, Jack bolted through the living room to the hallway where, once again, she could hear him scrabbling at a door—this time trying to get in rather than out. She followed the dog, thinking how silent the apartment was with the electricity out. The only noise was the faint hum of traffic, and the scratching sound that Jack was making. Then he began to bark, and a shaft of light crashed into her eyes.
“I found a flashlight,” Ramon told her.
Adrienne raised a hand in front of her eyes, squinted and blinked, helpless as a deer. Ramon swung the light in a figure eight through the rooms, and Adrienne’s eyes followed it, afraid of what she’d see. But there was nothing.
“I’ll get the dog,” she said. “You get the lights.”
Ramon nodded, and strode toward the kitchen, taking the flashlight with him. Adrienne felt her way toward the bathroom door, feeling as if she were about to be seasick. “Jack,” she said, “c’mon.” But his scrabbling became even more frantic, now that she was beside him. Relenting, she opened the door to the bath, and stepped into the pitch-dark.