Page 47 of His Forgotten Colton Fiancee

“I make it my damn business when someone gets killed.” West got in the man’s face. “I don’t know what you’re about, Larson. But I’m keeping my eye on you.”

Larson blinked. “Keep an eye if you wish, Agent Brand. If you want to question me, you’ll have to go through my attorney.”

The man strode off.

If Larson had anything to do with the explosion, he’d hang him out to dry. But West realized this wasn’t his case. He had to work with the RRPD. No longer could he operate on his own.

With the death of Tia and the close call for Quinn, everything turned around for West.

* * *

Barely an hour after West’s departure, Quinn grew restless. She had cried and then washedher face, determined to scrub away the tears. Crying accomplished nothing.

Instead, she read a cooking magazine. It contained a few fascinating articles on organic vegetables, but she felt too edgy and distracted to focus.

She tossed the magazine onto the coffee table. Unable to sit still after confined to a hospital bed, she felt restless.

Then there was the matter of that pregnancytest. Quinn headed into the bathroom and took out the box.

Well, she wouldn’t find out by standing here.

Minutes after taking the test, she studied the stick. One single line. Not pregnant.

It might be too early. She had no idea of the timing of her cycle.

Quinn tossed out the test and put the box under the cabinet.

Maybe working in the kitchen would jog a memory of her life.

The security guard, reading a book in the store’s front, nodded to her as she entered the store. Quinn went into the kitchen. The industrial kitchen was sweet, a chef’s dream. Gas burners, all the appliances stainless steel, with plenty of large pots and pans to mix this, and bake and cook that.

She bent down to peer under the table and saw an enormous aluminum bowl, big enough to servedozens.

A distant memory flashed.

Mayo Fest.

Hand on the table, she let the memory flow.

Mom, working as a server for a catering company. Her careworn, tired face sporting a bright smile solely intended for customers. A big bowl, like this one, filled with... What? Macaroni salad. Lots of mayonnaise.

The caterer had made plenty of salads, cheap and easy recipes, for a companyparty. Tuna salad. Macaroni salad. Potato salad. Quinn was a teenager, helping her mother serve.

Quinn had called it “Mayo Fest” because of all the white goo in the bowls. Quinn resolved she would own a business some day and serve only healthy, wholesome food.

Wait and see, Mom. I’m going to be a cook, and I’ll be the one serving you, only it will be grass-fed beef instead of mayo-cloggedtuna, Quinn had bragged.

The memory vanished. Smiling, Quinn stood. Maybe it wasn’t a significant memory, but it was a good start. Others would follow.

More cheerful now, she combed through the row of books on the shelf above the table, she found a notebook and opened it. Strong, bold cursive words were inked on each page of the book. Quinn found a pen, copied one word.

The writingmatched. These must be her recipes. Quinn removed the books and found a tattered notebook. Cutouts of fruits and vegetables adorned the front, along with a square of red ribbon. The cursive label penned in gold ink read Recipes.

She opened it.

These were different. Not wholesome ingredients or organic mixtures, but everyday dishes a busy mother might make for her family. Creole chicken.Taco burgers. Noodle supper.

The writing was different as well—more polished, the cursive careful, as if she’d penned this as a soothing meditation exercise. Flour stained some pages, and there were more stains on other pages, smearing the ink.