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At a small table in the noisy bar, Noelle spilled the story of her marriage and everything she knew about Derrick’s murder. Mercy sat with her mouth half-open as she listened, occasionally interrupting with questions.

“An unsolved murder in the California legislature?” Mercy said when Noelle was done. “No wonder the FBI is taking another look. I’d heard you’d been married twice, but I didn’t know if there was any truth to it. You always avoided the topic, and people like to speculate.”

“At least that fact is accurate,” said Noelle. “If anyone had heard a whisper of the murder, stories would be flying, and they would probably be very wrong. You don’t know how nice it’s been to live without locals or media recognizing me on the street or during an investigative call.”

“And in thirteen years, there hasn’t been a single suspect in his murder?” asked Mercy.

“Lots of theories. A killer passing through town. Angry ex-girlfriend. Angry constituents. But there were no camera views or physical evidence pointing at anyone. Since I was still living in town and became the recipient of Derrick’s wealth, a lot of focus and speculation circled around me.”

“I thought they cleared you right away.”

“Sort of. It was more that they couldn’t prove I did do it.”

“They thought you’d crack the back of your own skull?”

“It’s possible to do.” Noelle shrugged.

Mercy’s eyes narrowed. “You said you didn’t remember the incident when they questioned you. Has there been any change in your memories in all these years?”

Noelle sighed. “Not really. I don’t recall being at the house that day. My memory is still crap and—” She stopped, aware she’d almost revealed a secret.

“And what?”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with the case,” said Noelle, and took a drink from her beer.

“But it has something to do with you. After having your skull cracked, I bet your head still bothers you, doesn’t it?”

Dammit.

Tell her.

“You can’t repeat to anyone what I’m about to say,” said Noelle, holding Mercy’s gaze. “Not even Truman,” she ordered, referring to the agent’s husband.

“Does it break the law? Is it something I’d be compelled to report?”

“No.”

“Then you have my word,” said Mercy.

Noelle breathed deep, searching for strength, the confession swirling around her and fighting its reveal.

“I still struggle with some short-term memory issues. I occasionally have gaps,” she admitted.

“I’ve trained myself to make notes about everything , and I use a dozen recollection techniques, but some things still slip by. ”

She studied Mercy’s face, waiting for a reaction.

The agent didn’t disappoint.

“What sort of things?” Mercy asked with a scowl. “Does this affect your job?” She paused, and a confused expression filled her face. “Wait. How would you know if you forgot something vital on a case? Does Evan know about this?” Evan was a Deschutes County detective who often worked with Noelle.

These are the exact questions I wanted to avoid.

“I think I’d be called into my boss’s office pretty often if it affected my work. And no, I haven’t told Evan.” She met Mercy’s gaze. “The lapses are very infrequent.”

“I’ll rephrase what I just said ... How do you know that? You can’t know that you’ve forgotten things.”

“It doesn’t happen that often,” Noelle repeated.

“Years ago I’d head into the bathroom to take a shower and discover that the shower floor was already wet.

Or my sister would show up for a dinner I’d completely forgotten.

I’ve barely experienced things like that in years.

I firmly believe my memory is improving,” she lied.

She had thought it was better, but last week she’d been startled to find a frozen lasagna in one of her cupboards. She could picture herself setting it in the freezer next to her ice cream when she unpacked her groceries. But the soggy mess in her cupboard said otherwise.

The week before, she’d forgotten where she’d parked at Walmart. She’d wandered the huge lot, wondering if her vehicle had been stolen, but knew that with her memory lapses she needed to keep looking. She’d finally found it and sat in the driver’s seat for a long time, fighting back tears.

“How on earth did you do your job at first?” asked Mercy.

“Like I said, I was careful and made very thorough notes. I’ve developed routines to avoid forgetting something.”

Mercy stared at her, wonder in her eyes.

Noelle tensed, defensiveness stiffening her spine. “I’m good at my job. Damned good.”

“I know. Everyone says so,” Mercy said slowly. “I’m just bewildered at how you function.”

“I’m not broken. I function just fine,” Noelle snapped. “It’s like people whose vision sucks so they wear glasses. I have work-arounds too.”

“But—”

“ Mercy. Don’t make me regret that I shared this with you.”

I already do.

Mercy exhaled and slumped on her stool. “You’re right. I’m being unfair. There’s never been a whisper of a complaint about your job performance, and Evan has nothing but high praise for you.” She looked contrite. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Thank you.”

“Is your head hurting?”

Noelle yanked her hand away from her hair. She hadn’t been aware she was rubbing the back of her head. “It bothers me sometimes. Usually in high-stress situations.”

Mercy touched Noelle’s arm, sincerity in her gaze. “I’m sorry I did that to you.”

“It’s okay.” She sighed and focused on relaxing tense muscles. “It feels good that someone else knows. It’s sort of freeing,” she said with a bit of surprise.

“Sometimes friends can help lighten the heavy weight of secrets,” said Mercy, looking into her beer.

She has her own deep secrets.

“This is a weird question,” Mercy said slowly. “And you don’t have to answer, but is this part of the reason you don’t date?”

Noelle was stunned at the woman’s intuitiveness. “I was married twice,” she said lamely.

“And one of those marriages came to a horrific end,” said Mercy. “I understand how that would make you avoid relationships, but is the fear of someone discovering your memory issues part of it?”

Noelle was silent for a long moment. “Maybe. But I also carry a lot of baggage,” she said wryly. “Who’d want to deal with all that?”

“Everyone at our age will have baggage.”

“I’m forty-two,” said Noelle. “I’ve got a few years on you.”

“Not that many. All I’m saying is don’t let this get in your way. I shut people out for a long time because I worried someone would reject me for ... doing what I do. I wasn’t like everyone else.”

Noelle knew Mercy had been raised by preppers. She still stored food, fuel, and medication and maintained alternative power sources at a hidden cabin just in case the world went to shit.

“When Truman found out,” Mercy continued, “I discovered it wasn’t the embarrassing secret I’d thought it was.”

“Truman’s pretty special. You got a good one.” Noelle was often envious of their deep relationship.

“He is. I’m very lucky.” Mercy’s lips quirked. “Anyway, you get my point.”

“I do,” Noelle whispered. Mercy had hit a bull’s-eye. Noelle had long feared telling a man about her past. And her present.

Hey, my husband was murdered, and I was there, and I have no memory of who killed him. Did I mention I was a suspect?

And by the way, I might forget some of the things you just told me on this date.

For many years, she had kept men at arm’s length to avoid any hurt. But according to Mercy, she could be making a mistake.

“Do you work tomorrow?” she asked Mercy.

“Nope.”

“Me neither. Let’s get dinner.”

Mercy’s green eyes lit up. “I’m starving, so absolutely. And you can tell me what it was like being married to someone in politics.”

Noelle winced.

“That good, huh?” Mercy’s tone was sympathetic.

“Let’s just say I have many stories.”

Like how I was gaslighted and manipulated.

Noelle remembered that she’d told the FBI agents how good her marriage was.

She suspected it was more habit than anything, engrained in her so she and Derrick presented a united front for his constituents in public.

She’d never said a word about how he treated her, both to avoid conflict with his family and to ward off personal questions.

Maybe it’s time to start telling the truth.