The Colour of Death Read Online Free

the doctor’s white sleeve.  “Please,” she pleaded in a dry rasp, “may I ask something?”  Her speed was old-school polite, out of town.
    “Sure,” said Jordache, leaning in before the doctor could object.  “Shoot.”
    The young woman frowned, marshaling her thoughts, then posed the exact same question Jordache was going to ask her:  “What’s my name, Detective?  Who am I?”  At that moment, he saw in her eyes a fear as raw as any he’d witnessed in all his years of policing:  a realization that she had become lost from herself, unable to find the way back to the person she had once been.  “Help me,” she pleaded.  “Someone, help me.”

 
    Chapter 4
     
    Ten days later
     
    Almost a week had passed since his uncle Howard’s funeral and Fox had already phoned his aunt twice that morning.  Once from his apartment in north-west Portland and once in the car driving over.  Samantha was always out of bed by six and it was almost eight thirty.  As he parked his battered second-hand Porsche outside the house he spotted her small Ford.  She must be in, he thought, as he rang the bell on the door of the imposing Victorian house and banged the brass doorknocker.  The funeral and the wake that followed had been surprisingly joyous, with his aunt taking center stage and appearing to revel in the celebration of her beloved husband’s life.  Nevertheless, Fox had called or visited on every day since, concerned that anticlimax and depression would descend once the well-wishers had left her to get on with the rest of her life.  He usually called when he guessed she might be at her lowest ebb without Howard:  just after she got up and before she went to bed.  Though she was invariably in good spirits and dismissive of his concerns, he was determined to be there for her, as she and Howard had been there for him.
    He used his spare set of keys to enter the house that had been his childhood home since he was eleven.  He heard voices.  “Samantha?”
    The television was on in the lounge, tuned to one of the rolling twenty-four-hour news channels.  Who is the mysterious avenging angel? read a banner across the bottom of the screen.  The mystery woman staring out at him looked lost and otherwordly.  Her pale skin, cropped fair hair and beautiful eyes momentarily diverted his attention.  A reporter’s voice explained:  “the authorities are still no closer to identifying the mystery Jane Doe who broke eleven girls out of a sex traffickers’ dungeon in Portland.  Although recovering well from her burns and physical injuries, she’s been moved to a specialist psychiatric clinic for further treatment.  To date, all attempts to match her fingerprints, dental records or DNA in major databases here and abroad have failed, and no one has yet come forward to identify her.  If you recognize her, then please call this number.”
    He turned off the television and called again, louder.  “Samantha.  Samantha.”  Nothing.
    He searched the rooms, passing photographs of his parents and sister and bookcases crammed with books.  The house had always been filled with books.  The kettle in the kitchen was warm and the glazed doors leading out to the garden were still locked but there was no sign of Samantha.
    He ascended the stairs.  At the top he turned and glanced down the landing to the two bedrooms at the end.  The one on the right was his aunt’s.  The one on the left had once been his.  As he walked toward them he passed two more rooms:  twin studies.  He looked in the first and his relief made him smile.  His aunt was sitting at her desk, small and birdlike, early covered by huge headphones connected to a black iPod, peering through thick reading glasses at a loosely bound typescript.  As she sipped coffee from an oversized cup, her pale brown bob, streaked with silver, nodded gently to the beat of whatever she was listening to, which, knowing Samantha Quail, could be anything from