"Looking for Answers"
Reviewed by Ellen Hogan
Posted January 25, 2013
Romance Suspense
Clay Marshall is losing big chunks of time and doesn't know
where he has been or what he has done. One of his bosses
Payton Bainbridge wants to help him but Clay is not sure he
can trust him. He goes to Payton's cabin and is met there by
Leigh Vaughn. When Clay finds out she is a doctor he wants
nothing to do with her. That is until he finds out that both
of her brothers have the same problem he does. She wants
nothing more than to help Clay find out what was done to him
as a child and find a way to fix him and the remaining
brother that she has left. They begin to work together and
can not help the desire that they have for each other. Clay
would like to keep Leigh safe and she wants to put herself
in harm's way to help him.
This is the third book in Ms. Butcher's Edge novel series.
EDGE OF SANITY will keep you on the edge of your seat
wondering what is going to happen next. There is suspense
and romance through out this thoroughly enjoyable read. Ms.
Butcher weaves a story that will keep readers captivated,
so that you can't help but keep reading until it's finished.
Minor characters of note are Mira and Adam and hopefully
their stories will be told too. Having not read the previous
two books did not hamper the reading of this book, it can
easily stand on it's own. Romantic suspense readers will
love, love, love this book.
SUMMARY
"I NEED TO KNOW IF ANYONE WAS KILLED LAST NIGHT." In his years working for the private security firm The Edge,
Clay Marshall has seen it all. But the recent blackouts he's
been having are new. So is waking up with blood on his hands
and clothes, with no memory of where the blood came
from—or who he might have killed. He hates to admit
it, but he needs help.
Dr. Leigh Vaughn has treated other Edge employees before,
but from the moment she sees him for the first time, Clay
strikes her as a special breed of man. She knows he's
dangerous, and distrustful of doctors, but she finds herself
drawn to him even as his own steely exterior gives way to
his growing desire for her. Neither knows, however, that Clay is being used as a pawn in
a larger experiment, and that his blackouts are only the
first step toward a terrifying goal. And both Leigh and Clay
will put themselves in harm's way to stop an unseen
enemy—and to save one another.
ExcerptChapter One
It was the blood that woke him.
Clay Marshall's fingers were glued together, sticky and
itching where the blood had dried. The heavy, metal¬lic
smell of it clogged his nose, choking him with the stench
of violence.
He stared at his dirty hands, disoriented and numb from
shock. Fatigue dragged at his bones. Pain pounded deep
inside his skull, worse than any hangover.
The water stain on the ceiling was a familiar comfort,
telling him he was in his own bed. Now, if he could only
remember how he'd gotten here.
As the fog of sleep cleared, the meaning of the blood
began to take hold. Concern gnawed at the edges of his numb
haze, nibbling away at the false sense of calm. Reality
squeezed around him, shoving out his breath like a giant
boa constrictor.
Clay sat up, trying to control the fear before it became
full–blown panic. His clothes were stiff and dark
with drying blood, as if someone had splashed a bucket of
it down his front. He searched for the source of the blood,
seeking out the kind of physical pain this much blood loss
would create.
He ripped off his shirt and jeans only to find the skin
beneath whole. His sheets were stained, but there was no
pool lying where he'd been. Those smears were only from
contact with his clothes.
Clay rushed to the bathroom on shaky legs and peered
into the full–length mirror on the back of the door.
No cuts. No gashes. Only a collage of bruises of varying
ages and a body that was so thin he barely recognized it.
The blood wasn't his, and yet he could find no relief in
that knowledge. It had to belong to someone.
The need to scrub it away arose, compelling him to
stumble into the shower. Cold water hit him hard, driving
the air from his lungs before it slowly warmed. He lathered
himself from head to toe, watching in disgust as the rusty
suds spiraled down the drain.
Even though the hot water stung, he still felt detached
from the world, as though he were covered by a thick layer
of foam, preventing anything from really reaching him. His
head was clouded with confusion— o much so that he
was only just now realizing that he was confused.
He dried off and headed for his kitchen, where the
coffee lived. After three cups and twenty minutes, Clay's
brain finally began to function. And with that relative
clarity of thought came fear.
There were stains on his floor in the shape of his
boots, leading from the kitchen door all the way to his
bedroom. He followed them to where the bloody pile of
clothes lay on the rug.
There was even more blood on them than he'd imagined.
So much, he knew someone had to be dead. The question was
who? And whether Clay had been the one to kill them.
A sick sense of dread settled over him, making the
coffee in his stomach churn.
He had no memories of last night; he couldn't remember
anything since lunch yesterday. The sun was streaming in
through the windows, but as hard as he tried, there was
simply a gaping black hole where the missing time should
have been, as if he'd been asleep since then.
The blood proved otherwise.
Clay turned on the local news and barely breathed as the
anchor moved from one story to the next. He wasn't sure
what he expected to hear—reports of a building
col¬lapse or a giant pileup on I– 5, maybe—but
he knew what he feared: murder.
His hand shook as he surfed from one station to the
next, seeking some sign of what he'd done. When they
started repeating the same stories, he wasn't sure whether
he was more relieved or scared. Maybe he hadn't hurt
anyone. Maybe he'd saved someone's life and gotten them
medical attention. Then again, maybe they just hadn't found
the body yet. Or bodies.
This wasn't the first time Clay had woken up with blood
on his hands, but he had no way of figuring out how to make
it be the last time. The only person he could trust was his
best friend, Mira. She was like a sister to him, and he
couldn't stand the idea of burdening her with his problems.
Still, if anyone could help him solve the mystery, she
could.
Clay dug his cell phone out of his bloody jeans and
wiped it clean before dialing Mira.
Her voice was so cheerful and bright, it hurt his
head. "Good morning, Clay. You're up early."
"Heya, squirt. I need a favor."
"Sure."
"I need to know if anyone in the area was killed last
night."
The line went silent for a minute. "Uh . . . what?"
He hated lying to her, but there was no other way. "I
saw a ton of blood on the sidewalk outside a club. I was
wondering if anyone was murdered. Can you find out?"
"Where was it?"
Shit. He hadn't been thinking clearly enough to
consider even such a simple question. He was even worse
off in the mental department than he'd thought. "I don't
re¬member. I was drunk."
"Clay," she said in that voice that told him she knew he
was lying. "What's really going on?"
"Can you find out or not?"
She let out a heavy sigh. They'd been friends a long
time—since they were kids—and he was not easy
on his friends. Especially Mira.
"Hold on." Disappointment weighed on her voice.
Clay heard the clicking of keys in the background
before she came back on the line. "There was a drug-r
elated shooting that killed three. One fatal car accident.
Three deaths from natural causes. That's all I could find."
"Any John or Jane Does?"
"You want me to hack into the morgue? That's a little
dark, even for you. What's going on?"
"Nothing. Really. Don't worry."
"How can I not worry? You sound awful. Did some¬thing
happen?"
The lie nearly choked him. "No. I'm sorry I bothered
you."
"You're not a bother, Clay. You know I love you.
Whatever you need, I'm there, okay?"
An unexpected spurt of emotion clogged his throat. She
was the only person in the world he really cared about. He
didn't know why she stuck with him when he was such a mess,
but he was glad she did. "I love you, too, squirt."
"Then let me help you. The headaches, the
blackouts—you need help."
The pile of bloody clothes popped into his mind,
staring at him in accusation. Until he figured out what
was going on, he wasn't safe to be around. "I'll be fine.
But I'm not feeling so great, so I'm taking a sick day.
Will you let Bella know?"
"Sure. Get some rest and call me if you need anything,
okay?"
"I will," he lied.
Mira hung up the phone feeling sick to her stomach. Clay
was getting worse. The bruises, the split knuckles, the
dislocated joints. And now he wanted her to check death
records? Even if her IQ had been cut in half, she would
have been able to figure out what that meant.
He thought he'd killed someone.
Clay kept pushing her away, making up reasons why they
could no longer hang out together. The more she tried to
help, the harder he pushed.
If he wouldn't let her help him, she had to find
someone who could. And there was only one man Mira knew
who had even a chance at getting through Clay's thick
skull.
What she was about to do would piss off her best friend,
but that was just too bad. She owed him her life—
even if he didn't remember— and if she had to suffer
through his anger, so be it.
With her decision made, she dialed the phone.
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