Crazy in Chicago by Norah-Jean Perkin Read Free Book Online

plans by extraterrestrials? If anyone’s to blame for sensationalism, it’s him.”
    Stung by the criticism, Roberta lashed back. “As usual, you’re exaggerating. But that’s what the media always do, don’t they? Blow everything out of proportion.”
    â€œNo they don’t.” Cody’s even tone started to fray. “Maybe the National Enquirer or The Globe. But not The Streeter . And not me.”  
    His eyes glittered dangerously but Roberta ignored the warning. “If you’re so principled, why do you work for The Streeter? ” she challenged. “It’s just another sensationalistic rag, doing anything to make money.”
    Cody opened his mouth, then shut it. A spark of shame niggled at Roberta for her attack, but she shoved it aside. Why should she always be the one on the defensive?
    â€œ The Streeter is not a rag,” Cody finally said in a slow, deliberate voice. “I work there because they pay me well and allow me freedom to write about anything I want. I used to work for The Tribune, and it was great, but the people there aren’t any more principled than at The Streeter . The Streeter gives my work good play and is starting to command more respect all the time.”
    Roberta watched the grim set of his jaw. The picture tripped a switch in her memory. Her eyes widened.
    She knew where she’d seen that handsome face before. She knew why he seemed so familiar.
    She’d seen that face plastered on newspaper after newspaper, and on the morning and evening TV news. She’d read all about him in great detail, day after day, along with everyone else in the Chicago area. She had a file with every word written about him in the cabinet in her bedroom, and another complete set of clippings at work.
    She stared at him, her eyes round. “I know who you are,” she said. “You’re that reporter—the reporter who mysteriously disappeared last year for six weeks!”

 
    Chapter 3
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    Defensiveness and anger drained out of Cody, replaced by a deep weariness. He shut his eyes. He hated talking about his disappearance, but there was no point denying it.
    He sighed and opened his eyes. “Yes. That’s me.”
    His gaze settled on Roberta’s expressive face. He watched as a myriad of emotions crossed it. Surprise. Curiosity. Eagerness. Excitement. Was she remembering what she’d read about him? Had she read about his string of girlfriends, his life in the fast lane, his flirtation with dangerous sports? His former fiancee, a columnist at The Streeter, had written about every aspect of his life, including his many faults, in the paper’s extensive coverage of his disappearance. On his return to work, he’d read every article and cringed more than once.
    â€œSo what happened to you?” Roberta interrupted his thoughts. “I don’t remember hearing or seeing much afterwards except that you’d been found. And something about you losing your memory.”
    â€œYes.” He paused. What was the quickest way to answer her question and end this discussion? “They found me in a waterfront park, walking around in a daze and muttering incoherently. The first thing I remember, though, is waking up in the hospital, surrounded by doctors and nurses.”
    â€œBut don’t you remember anything about the time you were gone? Not even now?”
    â€œNo. Not a thing. Even after being poked and prodded by numerous doctors and therapists. They gave me pills, injections, even tried hypnosis, but didn’t come up with a bloody thing.”
    He rubbed his jaw as he recalled the unpleasant weeks and months after his return. He didn’t mention that he’d cut his treatment short because the therapists had tried to delve into his childhood whenever they reached a blocked path. Hell, he didn’t want to talk about his childhood or his relationship with his parents. He wanted to know where