Free Remember Me by Sharon Sala

“What?”
    â€œHow much I love you.”
    He paled. The pain in her voice was palpable. “And I love you, too,” he whispered, his voice shaking with emotion.
    Her chin began to quiver. “Then why, Clay? Why are you keeping me at arm’s length?”
    His hands were shaking as tossed the envelope toward her. Money spilled from inside as it flew through the air.
    â€œThis was in the pocket of your slacks. Where did it come from?”
    Frankie saw it fluttering to the floor, but her mind was already moving beyond the action to a scene from her past.
    She rolled him over, shocked by the blood trickling from his lips. Then she gritted her teeth and thrust her hand in his pockets. She would need the money to help get away.
    â€œFrankie?”
    She looked up, her expression blank.
    â€œI asked you a question.”
    â€œI’m sorry, what did you say?”
    â€œI asked you where the money came from.”
    The answer came out of nowhere, surprising her more than it did Clay.
    â€œI thought he was dead.”
    Clay jerked as if he’d been slapped, then grabbed her by the arm, forcing her to look up at him.
    â€œWhat the hell did you say?”
    She covered her face with her hands. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” she mumbled.
    But Clay couldn’t let it go. “Who, Frankie? Who did you think was dead?”
    Dark eyes—white teeth—smiling—always smiling.
    Then the image disappeared, gone too quickly for her to see his face.
    â€œI don’t know,” she moaned.
    He cursed and turned away.
    Suddenly it was all too much. Frankie sank to the floor on her knees, desperate for Clay to believe. “For God’s sake, give me a chance.”
    Clay turned, and in that moment, knew a terrible shame. “Ah, God, Francesca, don’t do that.”
    He picked her up and carried her down the hall. Her quiet sobs tore at him as he laid her on the bed. When he turned her loose, she rolled away from him, curling herself in a ball as her shoulders shook from grief.
    â€œFrankie, I—”
    She put her hands over her ears.
    Heartsick, he straightened, covered her with an afghan and started toward the door.
    Suddenly she rolled over on her back, her tear-streaked eyes wide with fright. “Don’t close the door!”
    He paused and turned. The terror in her eyes and voice was impossible to miss.
    â€œAll right,” he said.
    â€œI don’t like to be shut in,” she muttered, then watched to make sure he did as she’d asked.
    Clay’s heart was hammering as he walked back to the kitchen. He paused in the doorway, remembering the fear in her voice as he knelt to pick up the money. A few moments later he stood, the wad of cash in his right hand. An echo of her cry sifted back through his mind.
    I thought he was dead.
    He looked down a the money he was holding and shuddered.
    â€œJesus,” he muttered, and stuffed it back into the envelope, then dropped it in a nearby drawer. There would be time enough later to figure out what to do with it. For now, he just wanted it out of his sight.
    Down the hall, Frankie lay on the bed, swallowing the last of her sobs and contemplating the emptiness of her homecoming. This was so wrong—so very, very wrong—and she didn’t know how to make things right. Clay didn’t believe her, and in spite of his assurances to the contrary, she didn’t believe he loved her anymore. At least, not like he used to. She felt like she was coming undone. She rolled over on her side, pulling the afghan with her and closing her eyes.
    Clay was in the kitchen now. The subdued banging of pans was not as subtle as it might have been. On any other occasion, it would have been comical, Clay trying to cook. Then she took a deep, shuddering breath. But he’d been doing just that for the better part of two years now, hadn’t he? In fact, in his mind, he probably thought he’d been