Free The Faithful by S. M. Freedman Page A

horses . . .”
    “What? In Chicago?”
    “Sorry, what did you say?” I blinked, bringing Dan’s face back into focus.
    “You went to a school with horses? In Chicago?”
    “No, of course not. That doesn’t make any sense.”
    “Rowan. Can you remember where you went to school?”
    After a moment, I shook my head. “No.”
    His hand was shaking as he put down the pen. “Maybe we should work backward instead. Do you remember moving to New Mexico? Meeting me?”
    “You tried to bring me to a Star Trek convention that weekend.”
    “And you missed out; it was epic. Do you have any blanks about working at Westford? What did you do there?”
    “I was working on Haystack under Kenneth Barnes. That all seems pretty clear.”
    “Good. So before that?”
    “I got my master’s at MIT. I interned at Lincoln Labs in the ISR program.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Come on, you know what that is.”
    “Do you?”
    I sighed. “ISR stands for the Intelligence, Surveillance, and Reconnaissance Systems and Technology Mission. I worked on airborne targeting and moving-target-detection radar. Do you want me to go on?”
    “Don’t get snarky, Red. I’m trying to help.”
    “Sorry, I know. I’m just . . .”
    “Freaked out?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Before you got your master’s and worked at ISR?”
    “I was at MIT doing an undergraduate. I did a double major in aeronautic engineering and astronomy.”
    “Anything about that time in your life seem fuzzy?”
    I shook my head. “No, it all seems pretty clear.”
    “All right, we’re getting somewhere. So before you started at MIT you would have graduated high school. Where was that?”
    There were horses.
    “I . . . I need more ice cream.”
    “Can you remember high school? Prom? Graduation? Anything?”
    “That’s all a blank,” I admitted, and swallowed past the cold lump in my throat. “Dan, what the hell is happening to me?”

CHAPTER TEN
    Within hours of Sumner’s deposit at the UPS drop box in the Cheyenne Regional Airport, Ora was sitting in Phoenix’s downtown Houston apartment with the envelope in hand. It had taken all her willpower not to open it, but she knew Phoenix would want to see it first, and she didn’t want to deal with one of his rages.
    In bed with Ora one time, Lexy had joked that Phoenix had small-dick syndrome. They had giggled like naughty schoolgirls afraid of getting caught by a cruel headmaster. Of course, not many headmasters could set you on fire without so much as striking a match. Phoenix could.
    Phoenix was taking his damn time on the phone in the study, and she was getting jittery. The leather couch creaked against her bare thighs as she shifted. She knew better than to touch anything; Phoenix was totally OCD about his pad. He went mental if something was out of place.
    The penthouse suite was on the thirty-first floor of one of those ultramodern glass high-rises in downtown Houston. The inside was all glass and white; the walls were a stark snowy white, the floors were white Italian tile, and the furniture was white leather. The kitchen was white granite upon white cabinets with shiny white appliances. Ora doubted Phoenix ever cooked in there; the kitchen was just for show.
    There wasn’t a speck of dust or an ounce of color anywhere. Lexy, who had an unruly mop of dark curls, once admitted she was terrified of shedding hair in the apartment. Ora knew what she meant. She had carefully removed her boots and left them on the white rug by the door, hoping they wouldn’t leave dirt on the pristine shag.
    Phoenix emerged from the study wearing white silk pajamas and a robe, like some kind of KKK version of Hugh Hefner. Ora stifled an eye-roll and tried her best to look respectful. Respect was key when dealing with a human version of a blowtorch, even if she still remembered the spazzy kid who had picked his nose while hiding behind his dad’s robes.
    He was movie-star hot, but in an albino kind of way. His white-blond hair was