The Missing Hour Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  Dear Reader

  Title Page

  Dedication

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Preview

  Copyright

  A gunshot exploded in the night…

  Beth started at the noise.

  Then Cole dived at her, propelling her down the stairs and into the sheltered space beside them.

  It wasn’t until the second blast, until she heard a brick splinter in the wall above her, that it dawned on her that someone was shooting at them.

  Her heart began hammering faster. But there was only silence.

  They stayed right where they were, Cole’s body pressing hers to the building. She could feel the warmth of his breath fanning her skin, and the sensation sent a tiny ripple of desire through her, taking her completely by surprise.

  It seemed bizarre that she could feel the attraction. They’d almost been killed, and she couldn’t stop shaking. But she was aware, oh, so aware, of her body heat mingling with his.

  She moved her head to look at Cole. He was watching her—as if he knew exactly what she was thinking…

  Dear Reader,

  I’ve always been interested in the workings of the human mind, which undoubtedly explains why I majored in psychology and spent many years working with psychiatrists.

  In The Missing Hour, heroine Beth Gregory goes to great lengths to help her repressed memory surface. But when it does, she wishes with all her heart that it hadn’t.

  Remembering seeing the murder of someone she loved is bad enough. Remembering that the killer was her own father is a hundred times worse.

  This is a book about relationships—the good, the bad and the ugly. And about the fact that, sometimes, it’s hard to distinguish one type from another until it’s too late.

  The Missing Hour is my twenty-sixth novel for Harlequin, i hope you enjoy reading it.

  Warmest regards,

  Dawn Stewardson

  P.S. For those of you who know that I often draw on my own pets to create animal characters, yes, I do have two cats. But their names are Yeats and Salem, not Bogey and Bacall.

  The Missing Hour

  Dawn Stewardson

  To my mother and father, who like mysteries. And to John, always.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Beth Gregory—She’d had traumatic amnesia for twenty-two years. Now that she remembered, could her memory possibly be wrong?

  Cole Radford—He thought he’d signed on to investigate a twenty-two-year-old murder—but his greatest challenge became keeping his client alive.

  Glen Gregory—Beth’s father had no motive for murdering Beth’s aunt—or did he?

  Angela Gregory—She’d discovered her daughter crying by her sister’s body. Why hadn’t she called the police immediately?

  Dr. Mark Niebuhr—Larisa’s husband revered his wife’s memory. But when Cole and Beth discovered the truth about Larisa, they had to wonder—why?

  Larisa Niebuhr—Beth’s aunt died before Beth’s eyes. What secrets had she taken with her?

  Frank Abbott—The retired police detective had never believed Larisa was killed by an unknown intruder.

  Esther Voise—The Niebuhrs’ neighbor had seen almost all of the murder suspects—including the mystery man.

  Prologue

  The dust in the attic was tickling Beth’s nose, but she barely noticed. She was too busy watching Aunt Larisa pull treasure after treasure from a trunk and toss them onto a growing rainbow of color on the old couch.

  “There, honey,” she finally said. “Think that’s enough for some good dressup?”

  Beth nodded, feeling bubbly inside. She loved it when Mommy left her at Aunt Larisa’s house. They always spent every minute playing.

  Mommy said that was because Aunt Larisa didn’t have any kids of her own to play with, but the why didn’t matter. Beth just liked it—specially the way Aunt Larisa let her do things she never got to do at home, like put on real makeup.

  Oh, they had to wash it off before Mommy came to pick her up, but it was still lots of fun. And it felt good here. Specially when Aunt Larisa hugged her and said she was her absolutely favorite niece.

  Sometimes Uncle Mark was home and heard that. Then he’d laugh and say Beth was their only niece. But she didn’t care if he teased. She knew she’d still be Aunt Larisa’s absolutely favorite no matter what.

  “Okay, honey.’ Her aunt gave her a warm smile. “Which one do you want to try first? How about this red velvet number? You’d look like Santa.”

  That made her laugh. Aunt Larisa could be awfully silly.

  “Santa’s an old man with a long white beard,” she pointed out. “And it’s July. I don’t think he wears his red suit in July.”

  “No? Well, don’t be too sure about that, because Mrs. Claus is a personal friend of mine, and she once told me…”

  “Told you what?”

  “Just a sec. I thought I heard a noise downstairs.”

  Beth scrunched up her face so she could listen real hard, but she didn’t hear anything. She was just going to say so when she heard a creak.

  “Mark?” Aunt Larisa called.

  Something in her voice made goose bumps pop up on Beth’s bare arms.

  “Mark, is that you?”

  The house was silent for a minute. Then there was another creak.

  Beth swallowed hard. Her aunt looked scared, and that was very frightening. If she wasn’t sure who was in the house…

  “It has to be Uncle Mark,” she said quietly. “Because we checked all the locks before we came up here, right?”

  “Uh-huh.” Aunt Larisa always checked the locks. And Beth always helped her.

  “Okay, you stay right here, honey, and be quiet as a mouse. Hey, you know, maybe that’s what’s making the noise. Maybe there’s a mouse downstairs. I’ll just go check, and be right back.”

  Her heart beating fast, Beth watched Aunt Larisa hurry downstairs. Then she waited, straining her ears but not hearing another sound.

  Finally, she couldn’t stay in the attic by herself for a second longer. As quietly as she could, she crept down the stairs.

  Aunt Larisa had closed the door at the bottom, so Beth stopped on the last step and pressed her ear to the wood. She could hear her aunt talking to someone, and she sounded awful scared.

  Awful scared herself, Beth cracked the door open. Only a tiny bit. Only enough to peek along the hall. She peered through the crack—and was plunged into a black void.

  Chapter One

  Beth Gregory woke with a start, her heart pounding.

  Moonbeams, streaming in through the skylight, softened the blackness to silver. She was safe in her bedroom; it had only been the nightmare again.

  But it was so vividly real, it had left her shaking inside—almost unable to believe she was actually a thirty-year-old woman, not the eight-year-old child she’d been that day.

  Sitting up, she turned on the bedside lamp to keep the demons of the dark entirely at bay. Bogey and Bacall grumbled a few throaty cat complaints from the end of the bed, while she sat gazing at shadows and trying to make sense of things.

  Did these nightmares she’d been having mean that when she’d gone down those stairs sh
e really had witnessed Larisa’s murder?

  For what had to be the millionth time, she wondered how many people had asked her if she had. And how often she’d asked herself.

  But she didn’t know the answer now, any more than she had all those years ago, because the nightmares invariably ended with her plunging into that black void the moment she peered through the crack.

  And, consciously, she’d never remembered anything from the moment she’d cracked that door open until she’d realized her mother was there with her, hugging her and crying hysterically.

  It was as if time had stood still. Yet, in reality, she’d spent at least an hour sitting on the attic stairs—however much time had passed between her aunt’s murder and when her mother arrived to pick her up.

  Switching off the lamp, she scrunched down beneath the blankets again and lay staring up at the moon. The bedroom skylight was one of the things she loved most about her apartment.

  Its louvered blind was on a timer that slid it closed before dawn, so the sun didn’t come streaming in and wake her. But before she went to sleep at night, she could watch the stars above.

  After a minute or two she closed her eyes, even though she could almost never get back to sleep after one of the nightmares. They left her brain working in overdrive, trying to come up with a surefire way of making them stop.

  Logic said they were manifestations of her long-repressed memories trying to surface. And if they just could, maybe it would do the trick. With that in mind, she’d made every effort to help them.

  First, she’d tried to talk to her mother about Larisa’s murder. But that had been a disaster, with her mother ending up in tears.

  Finding her sister’s body, she’d explained, had been the worst moment of her entire life. And even after all this time, she still couldn’t bear to talk about it.

  So, ghoulish as it had made her feel, Beth had

  gone through old microfilms of the Toronto Star and the Sun, photocopying anything and everything related to the murder.

  Much of it was pure speculation, because the police hadn’t released many details. And no matter how often she reread the articles, they hadn’t helped her remember a thing about that missing hour. Not so far, at any rate.

  She lay in the darkness for a little longer, phrases from the articles drifting through her head. Then she gave up and got out of bed, eliciting another round of complaints from the cats.

  Telling them to go back to sleep, she headed for the kitchen, flicking on lights as she went.

  Aside from her bedroom, with its tiny two-piece en suite bathroom, and the main bathroom, the apartment was a loftlike open space. Her living-dining room sprawled across its width, with only a counter unit defining where the kitchen began.

  Her office, which lay beyond the living area, was separated from it by nothing more than a wall of glass bricks.—and even that only extended about three-quarters of the way across the space and just partway to the ceiling.

  She liked the openness; the lack of closed doors made her feel safe.

  And was that, she asked herself, because she’d once seen something horrible happen through an almost closed door? Or were her nightmares merely some sort of perverse self-torture?

  Whichever, she was starting to think she needed help, because the nightmares were really messing up her mind.

  In the kitchen, she made a pot of coffee and filled her favorite mug. Then, as if drawn by a magnet, she carried the coffee into her office. Taking the file folder out of the bottom drawer, she opened it onto the desk and let her gaze slowly sweep bits and pieces of the first photocopy.

  Police believe the murderer removed the screen from an unlocked kitchen window to gain entry, then left via the back door.

  And left it unlocked. That was how Beth’s mother had gotten in when nobody answered her knocks—one of the details that had been mentioned somewhere in the articles.

  Turning to the next one, Beth skimmed a paragraph from it.

  Mrs. Niebuhr’s body was discovered by her sister, who had arrived to pick up her daughter. The child was playing in the basement of the house, and police say she had no idea what had happened.

  She hadn’t, of course, been playing in the basement. And the police were never certain whether she’d seen the murder or not. That statement had simply been issued for her protection—just as laws had prevented the news media from publishing her mother’s name, to protect the identity of her child.

  Beth glanced at the article again and picked up where she’d left off…she had no idea what had happened Police believe the killer was unaware of her presence in the house.

  The killer had been unaware of her presence. But had she been more aware of his than she could recall?

  Slowly, she shook her head, still amazed that a child could so thoroughly repress something. She’d done a bang-up job of it, though.

  At the time, there’ d been a surprising number of specialists interested in traumatic amnesia. And it had seemed as if every single one of them had come crawling out of the woodwork.

  Psychiatrists and psychologists and a whole ream of other “ists” had poked and prodded at her eight-year-old mind. She’d even been hypnotized, in an attempt to determine whether she’d actually seen the murder.

  But when none of the experts could make her remember, the police gave up hope of having an eye-witness. Ultimately, the case remained unsolved—the murderer assumed to be an unknown intruder who’d stabbed Larisa to death when she’d confronted him.

  Beth took a sip of coffee, then turned to the next article and forced her tired eyes to focus.

  The police are appealing to the public for help in identifying Larisa Niebuhr’s murderer. Anyone who saw a stranger in the vicinity of Tranby Avenue on July 27, between 10:00 a.m. and 12:30 p.m., is asked to call Fifty-nine Division at 555-5959.

  July 27. Her gaze lingered on the date. In only about six weeks it would be July 27 of this year—twenty-two years after the fact.

  She sat back, letting her thoughts drift. The police appeal had resulted in numerous calls from the public. But none of the callers had seen anyone near Tranby Avenue with blood on his clothes. And surely there’d have been so much blood…

  Blood. The word began oozing through her mind. Then a bolt of brilliant crimson flashed before her eyes—and sent a chill up her spine.

  UNDER NORMAL circumstances, Beth loved being in her uncle’s penthouse. The day she graduated from interior design, he’d hired her to redecorate his living room—her first paying assignment—and every time she was here she felt good about herself.

  At least, every time until this morning. Now, watching Mark pace the room, she desperately wished she hadn’t come.

  He’d never remarried, and she suspected it was because he’d never completely gotten over Larisa’s death. With that possibility in mind, after she’d decided she definitely did need help, she’d debated for days on end whether to ask him for it—and it looked as if she’d made the wrong decision.

  Finally, he sank onto the couch opposite her. “I’m afraid I can’t do it, Beth.”

  “I understand,” she said quietly. “Listening to me talk about that day would be too hard on you. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair—silvery gray now but still thick and meticulously styled to give him a truly lionlike look.

  “No, asking was okay,” he said. “And after all these years I could handle the listening. The problem is that you’re my niece. Taking on a relative as a patient wouldn’t be ethical.”

  “Aah,” she murmured, relieved the problem wasn’t that she’d upset him. “Not ethical. Does that mean it’s completely against the rules or just kind of dicey?

  “I’m not a blood relative,” she added when he hesitated. “Only one by marriage.”

  “You’re as close as a blood relative.”

  She smiled a little. She’d always been glad he hadn’t let their relationship slip away after the murder. H
e’d spent a lot of time with her during her growing up years—especially after her parents had separated.

  ‘I’ll refer you to someone you’ll like,” he said. “I don’t want to bother her on a Sunday, but I’ll call her first thing in the morning.”

  It was obvious from Mark’s expression that he wanted to help her, that he was only suggesting she see someone else because ethics suggested he should. Since ethics were the least of Beth’s worries at the moment, she said, “Mark, I like you. And I want someone I can trust to not try forcing me. That’s what they all did after it happened—tried to make me remember. And it’s what I’ve been doing to myself since the nightmares started. But I’m still not positive there’s even anything to remember, so I just want help with going slowly.”

  “Any competent psychiatrist would help with that.”

  “But I don’t want any psychiatrist. After the murder…Well, let’s just say I’ve had more than enough of strangers trying to pry out my innermost secrets. I’d feel so much better with you. And I wouldn’t ?exactly be a patient. I simply need someone to talk to about the nightmares.”

  “Beth…Look, as a psychiatrist, I should be all in favor of your doing that. But as your uncle, I’m going to warn you there’s an inherent risk.

  “If you did repress something, you did so because it was too awful to deal with consciously. And if you force yourself to remember, slowly or not, there’s no guarantee your nightmares will disappear. In fact, you could end up with worse ones.”

  “Yes, I know.” Lately, she’d read a fair bit about repressed memories—enough to learn that trying to recall them could be dangerous.

  “But I think I’ve got to take that chance,” she continued, “because there’s something else. Recently I’ve started having memory flashes, too.”