FORTY-FIVE

MATT told me where to grab the plates and silverware, and I set up everything on the marble-topped bar dividing the kitchen from the great room. Then I settled myself into a cushioned bar chair, propped my elbows, and became slightly hypnotized watching Matt finish his Cacio.

“I’m impressed,” I told him after my first bite.

After stirring in the flavor-infused olive oil, he’d tossed the spaghetti with a patience that surprised me. Then he added the cheese, taking the time to coat all the strands.

“Where did you get the Pecorino? Your fridge was empty.”

“After Bree cleared out her things, I found a huge hunk of it left in there. I couldn’t bear to toss it, so I grated and froze it.”

“You really perfected this dish.”

“Red pepper flakes are my new add-in.” He sprinkled some over his serving.

“I’m game.” I reached for the jar.

He pulled it back. “I’d rather you eat the version I used to make for you and Joy. It might help with your memories.”

I didn’t argue; the food was too good to waste time doing that. Then we both tucked in, putting conversation on hold as we entered a bilateral food trance.

“I really miss her,” I said when my trance finally lifted.

“I know how you feel.”

“No, you don’t. It’s a disturbing state of mind, not to know your own daughter.”

“So nothing more is coming back to you? Nothing at all?”

“Like what?”

“Close your eyes,” Matt suggested. “Tell me—I don’t know—about the last strong memory you see of Joy.”

“You and I shared fried chicken with her at a park near my New Jersey home. Then we took her to the shore.”

“What’s Joy’s age in your mind’s eye?”

“Thirteen.” I opened my real eyes. “Why can’t I remember more?”

Matt appeared confounded. “In the van, we were able to progress your memories forward with guided sensory stimulation. Then, when you drank the Hampton Company coffee, you remembered a conversation with Annette Brewster—but nothing else about your life.”

“Why don’t you just tell me more about Joy? Despite whatever I apparently know about this crime I witnessed, it’s my own daughter I’m desperate to learn more about. Do you have any pictures of her?”

“Of course I do, but I think it would be better if we tried to coax your own memories to come back naturally, like we did with the fried chicken.”

“What do you suggest? A Big Mac? How about a Dunkin’ Donut?”

“Calm down.”

“Just show me one picture! What can it hurt?”

He scratched his dark beard. “I don’t know.”

“You won’t be shocking me, Matt. She rushed into my hospital room, remember? I’ve already seen her as she is now, all grown-up. Just show me a photo of a happy memory. Maybe it will jar mine. Please?”

With a resigned sigh, Matt brought out his prepaid smartphone.

“I transferred some stuff from my regular phone. I should have something for you . . . Okay, here’s one . . .”

He turned the phone screen toward me. Joy’s pretty face was beaming into the camera, her chestnut hair pulled into a neat ponytail. She was holding a half-sheet pan of freshly baked croissants and wearing a chef’s jacket.

“Matt, why is she in chef’s whites?”

“This is a picture of Joy when she was in culinary school.”

“In Manhattan?”

He nodded, naming the prestigious school.

“Oh, my goodness, I’m so happy for her! Did she graduate with honors?”

Matt looked away. “I’d rather not tell you. I’d prefer you remember what happened during those years.”

“Oh, no. Was it something bad?”

“Focus on the photo. Try to remember.”

“Nothing’s coming.”

“All right. I have another idea. I’d like you to trust me on this, okay? I want to give you some physical stimulation.”

“Physical?” I blinked. “What are you proposing?”

“I want to make love to you.”