“Remember anything yet?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Something’s not right. Audrey, I think something’s wrong.” His voice had taken on an urgent tone and my heart rate spiked in response.
“What? What do you think it is? Amnesia? A brain tumor?”
He chuckled. “I’m wondering if I was drugged. If someone slipped me something. This has all the hallmarks of a roofie.”
I clapped a hand over my mouth, then peeled my fingers away to whisper, “Someone roofied you? That’s awful! But who? And why? Have they…?” I dropped my eyes to his jean-clad crotch and back to his face, fearful for him.
“I don’t feel like anything like that happened,” he said, but his dark brows were drawn together in a frown. My pickled brain scrambled through everything I knew about the date rape drug Rohypnol. It wasn’t a lot. All I knew was that it was a sedative and aftereffects could include memory loss.
“We should get you to the hospital, get you tested.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” He nodded.
“You were going to drop me at my car anyway,” I pointed out. “We could do that afterwards.”
“Okay, sure.” He stood, heading for my front door. “I’ll wait outside for you.”
I’d been about to follow him when I realized I was still in my bathrobe. Duh. I turned my back, already loosening the belt when he said, “Uh. Audrey?”
“Yeah?” I was rummaging through my dresser for jeans and a T-shirt.
“I can’t open the door.”
“What do you mean you can’t open the door?”
“I don’t know.” Frowning, I looked at him over my shoulder. He was standing by the front door looking helpless. The drugs must’ve messed up his head.
“Okay, wait a second and I’ll help you. Just turn your back while I get dressed.” I kept an eye on him, waiting until he’d done as instructed and was now facing the wall. Quickly stripping out of my robe, I pulled on clean underwear, slipped on a Scooby-Doo T-shirt and worn jeans and slid my feet into my sparkly pink flip flops.
“Right, let’s go.” I leaned down to pick up my purse from the floor when Ben said, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What’s that?”
“Hair?”
I lifted a hand to my head to find my hair still wrapped in my turban towel. I laughed. “Oops.” I studied his face. Now that I was closer I could see he had a grey pallor. Reaching around him I opened the door and held it open for him to pass through. “You don’t look so hot. Why not wait for me outside in the fresh air. I’ll only be a minute.”
He chuckled as he brushed past, his skin prickling mine in an icy shiver as we touched. “You forget I know you too well, Audrey Fitzgerald. You will be twenty minutes minimum.”
I clasped my hands to my chest in mock outrage. “How dare you.”
“Go.” He waved me away. “I’m going to sit here on your stairs and wait.”
3
Ben wasn’t on the stairs when I emerged thirty minutes later. Okay, so I took longer than anticipated. My blonde hair is thick, wavy and tenacious, which is why I keep it on the shorter side. That's not entirely true. It used to be long, but then I had a curling iron accident and burned off a rather substantial chunk of hair. I'd had no choice but to trail my sorry butt to my hairdresser, who must be a witch because she performed magic on it. The style she suggested—a shoulder-length bob—is edgy and chic and I love it. She even taught me how to style it with ease. Rather than battling with the straightening iron to try and create a sleek sophisticated look, every day I scrunch and blast and play to my strengths, which results in a tousled beachy look that other women pay a fortune for at the salon.
“Ben?” My apartment block was old and small. Six tiny apartments crammed into the footprint of a single house. My apartment was on the first floor, and because I was on the end I was closest to the external staircase at the end of the building. Great on nice sunny days. Crap in bad weather.
I stood at the top of the stairs. I’d been expecting Ben to be sitting here, waiting. But I had been longer than I’d anticipated; I couldn’t really blame him for leaving without me. And if he’d knocked or called out I hadn’t heard him over the hairdryer. Hurrying down the stairs, I stood on the footpath and looked left, then right.
“Finally.” Ben drawled from behind me and I jumped in surprise. Hand to my chest I turned to face him.
“Jeez, scare a girl half to death, why don’t you?” I grumbled. He still looked awful, like he had no color at all. I faced the street again. “Where’s your car?”
“Yeah, that’s what I was wondering.” He stood next to me and ran a hand around the back of his neck.
“What? You think someone stole it?”
“Maybe? I’m really blurry on the details of last night. Maybe I didn’t drive here. But I don’t remember drinking. Aside from the two beers I had with you.”
“So you do remember that? What do you remember after that? When you left the Crown & Anchor? You said you had work to do. Were you meeting someone?”
“I don’t know.”
Someone had definitely slipped him something. That was the only explanation I could come up with. The question was, why? Was it some idiot spiking people’s drinks randomly? Or something more sinister? I ran my eyes over him, looking for signs of injury, but he looked okay. Just washed out. Even the blue denim of his jeans seemed lacking color. Weird.
“Morning, Audrey.” Juliette, my neighbor downstairs, appeared, dressed in her work uniform. Juliette was a teller at Wells Fargo Bank and, according to her, was going places. I figured she was, like me, saving money by living in our dumpster dive apartments. “Talking to yourself?”
“What?” I snorted. “No. I’m talking to Ben.” I slung my arm out to indicate the six-foot-something man beside me.
Juliette peered at me closely for a minute before aiming her keys at the blue hatchback parked out front. The alarm beeped. “Oh. You got one of those Bluetooth headset things? Sorry, my bad. It looked like you were talking to yourself. Say hi to Ben for me.” She climbed into her car and I stood watching with my mouth hanging open until she pulled out and drove away. More weirdness.
“Come on then.” I shrugged Juliette’s bizarre behavior off and began walking. “We’ll catch the bus into town, get my car, then I’m taking you to the hospital to get checked out.”
“Hospital?” He snorted. “I’m fine. I don’t need to go to the hospital.” He fell into step beside me. I was worried for him. Half an hour ago he’d wanted to go, now he didn’t.
“Ben, you can’t remember anything beyond six o’clock last night. That’s not normal.”
We were silent for a few minutes, walking to the bus stop around the corner.
“There’s something else,” he muttered.
“Oh?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
I stopped and faced him, hands on hips. “Now what?” The hangover headache I thought I’d conquered was starting to creep back, pulling at my temples, creating tension across my forehead.