Free Amnesia by Beverly Barton Page A

She wore it with every pair of jeans she owned. A brown leather belt with a wide brass buckle
.
    She kept talking, but still he couldn’t hear her, only the drone of her agitated voice. But he knew what she was telling him to do. With trembling hands, he slid his pajama bottoms down his hips and trembling legs, then kicked them off. He dared another glance up at her. She smiled at him
.
    Oh, God, help me. Don’t let her beat me again.
    She motioned for him to roll over, which he did. The first blow to his backside stung something awful. Those first few blows were always the worst. After about a dozen strikes over his flesh, the pain was so bad that it began to become a part of him
.
    Tears welled up in his eyes
.
    Begging and pleading wouldn’t do any good. He’d tried that over and over again
.
    I love you, Mommy. I want to obey you. I’ll try harder. I promise I’ll be good.
    She hit him repeatedly, so many times that he finally lost count. The pain surged through him as blood oozed from the stripes covering his bare buttocks
.
    “It’s my duty to punish you, to save you from yourself and your evil ways.”
    Tears trickled down his cheeks
.
    “You know I’m doing this for your own good, don’t you?” When he couldn’t manage a reply, she reached down, grabbed him and shook him. “You’ve been a very bad boy, Quinn.”
    The scream inside him ripped him apart.
    His eyelids flew open as he shot straight up in bed. It wasn’t real. Not anymore. It was a nightmare. That’s all. He’d been asleep, taking a nap, and as so often happened, his subconscious forced him to relive those horrific days from his childhood. With his heart thundering and sweat glistening on his skin, he took several deep breaths.
    That same nightmare or one very similar plagued him relentlessly. No matter what he did, he couldn’t escape. No matter how many miles or years he’d put between the two of them, she would never release him completely. She’d be a part of him until the day he died.
    But she can’t hurt you
, he told himself.
She can never hurt you again
.
    Griffin Powell didn’t go into the office on the weekends, and unless he was personally working on a case, he didn’t do anything work-related on Saturday and Sunday. After all, a man had to make time for a social life. He’d spent most of the afternoon working out in the gym he had designed to fit into the basement of his Knoxville home. Keeping physically fit was one of his top priorities. After wiping the perspiration from his face, he hung the small white towel around his neck and headed for the shower, but before he reached the bathroom adjacent to the exercise room, Sanders appeared at the foot of the stairs.
    Sanders had been Griffin’s assistant for a number ofyears, ever since he’d been at Griffin’s side on his personal journey to hell and back. They shared a comradery only those who’ve depended upon each other to stay alive truly understood.
    “Sorry to bother you, sir, but I’ve taken two phone calls that were made to your private number.”
    Griffin cocked an inquisitive eyebrow.
    “One was from Quinn Cortez. He wants you to investigate a murder case. It seems he discovered his lover’s dead body last night and as of right now, he is a person of interest to the Memphis police department.”
    “Quinn Cortez, huh?
The
Quinn Cortez.” Griffin’s lips lifted with amused interest. “I’ll call him after I take a shower.”
    “There was a second telephone call.”
    “Someone more interesting than Quinn Cortez?”
    “This person’s call makes Mr. Cortez’s call even more interesting.”
    “And this person is?
    “Annabelle Vanderley.”
    “Annabelle? Why didn’t you put her through to me immediately?”
    Griffin recalled the one and only time he’d met the lady. And she was a lady, down to the very marrow in her bones. Born and bred to Mississippi royalty, the descendant of two wealthy, prestigious families—the Vanderleys and the Austins.