Unraveling Jane Doe (Holding The Line Book 3)

by Carol Ericson

“Yes.” She blew on a spoonful of soup. Better to stay as close to the truth as possible.

  “Did your ex see the car go over?”

  “I think so.” She pressed two fingers against her throbbing temple. “I don’t remember that much about the crash and the aftermath.”

  “And he just left you there?” Rob dragged a fingernail through the damp label on his bottle. “Damn.”

  “He must have.” She lifted one shoulder and slurped up some soup.

  “Where were you coming from? Where do you live?”

  She squeezed her eyes closed. “I’d rather not talk about it. Is that okay?”

  “Sure, sure.” He tipped his head. “How’s the soup?”

  “Delicious.” She scooped up another spoonful of veggies and tasty broth. “Did you make this?”

  “No. A woman who owns a restaurant in town always makes up a batch for me because I told her it was just like my abuela’s.”

  “Are you from...Tucson?”

  “LA, originally.” His hand tightened on the beer bottle for a second. “I moved to Paradiso when I got hired on with the Border Patrol.”

  “Paradiso?”

  “That’s the town we’re in now. You must’ve seen the signs for it on the road up from...wherever.”

  She nodded so hard, a shaft of pain skewered her skull. She pushed the soup aside and dug into the sandwich. Maybe if she kept her mouth full, Rob wouldn’t ask her any more questions.

  He let her eat in peace as he finished his beer, and when she popped the last of the sandwich into her mouth, he made a move for the tray.

  Putting a hand on his arm, she said, “I’ll do it. I need to move from this spot.”

  “If you say so.” He carried his empty bottle into the kitchen.

  She pushed up from the couch and dropped her napkin onto the plate. Then she reached up to stretch and bent over the coffee table to pick up the tray.

  Rob called from the kitchen. “Who’s Rosalinda?”

  She almost sent the dishes crashing down. “What?”

  He reached behind him and rubbed his back. “That tattoo on your back. Who’s Rosalinda?”

  Chapter Three

  She froze, gripping the tray with both hands, wanting to drop it and tug down her shirt. Instead she composed her expression, popped up and spun around. “Sh-she was a friend of mine who died. All of us, her particular friends, got her name tattooed on our backs.”

  “That’s quite a tribute.”

  “She was murdered.” She snapped her mouth shut. Why was she throwing out all these details? It might make her story more believable but easier to debunk—not that Rob Valdez would be debunking anything about her. She’d be out of his wavy, dark hair tomorrow.

  “I’m sorry.” He parked himself in front of the sink and rinsed out the plastic soup container.

  The air crackled between them. She knew he had questions on his lips, but he knew by now she’d shut him down.

  Was her name Rosalinda? Did people tattoo their own names on their bodies?

  She delivered the tray to the kitchen, and he snatched the dishes from it and ran them under the water.

  “I have three bedrooms in this place. One of the extra rooms is an office and the other is a spare bedroom. You’re welcome to sleep there. The door has a lock on it.”

  Leaning her back against the counter, she folded her hands behind her. “I trust you.”

  His eyebrows quirked over his nose for a split second. “You shouldn’t be so trusting.”

  “Of you?” She pressed a hand against her stomach. Had she totally misread Rob Valdez? Being in law enforcement didn’t automatically make him a good guy. Maybe he’d been so accommodating about not calling the police because he wanted to...take advantage of her in some way. Who knew he had her here? Nobody.

  “Sorry.” He grabbed a dish towel and waved it in the air like a white flag. “I didn’t mean to freak you out. You have nothing to worry about from me. I’m just saying, in general, you’ve been very trusting tonight—except for the part where you pulled a knife on me.”

  “Not putting my faith in anyone all day almost got me killed out there in the desert. I figured if I were going to trust anyone, it would be a Border Patrol agent.”

  “That makes sense. I’m glad it was me.”

  “Me, too.” And she wasn’t even talking about the way his shirt stretched across the muscles of his back as he washed the dishes, or even the fact that he was washing dishes. Rob Valdez possessed a calmness that inspired the same in her. She didn’t know who she was or who was after her, she’d survived a car crash and a day in the desert without food or water, and yet she’d managed to chow down some food and felt ready for bed...sleep.

  “Can I—” she plucked the blood-and-dirt-stained T-shirt from her body “—shower?”

  “I’ll get you a towel and one of my T-shirts. If you want to give me your stuff, I can stick it in the washing machine.” He reached out and tugged on the hem of her ripped shirt. “Can’t do much about that.”

  That rip had exposed the tattoo on her back, but at least it had given her a clue to her identity. Maybe she’d wake up tomorrow morning and remember everything. Maybe she had a frantic husband or boyfriend somewhere.

  Her gaze slid to Rob, still in possession of her T-shirt. Then she’d end this interlude and be on her merry way. Merry way with two guys out to kill her?

  Tomorrow morning, she’d try to remember what they’d said, but now she just wanted sleep.

  “I’ll probably just toss it when I get...home, but yeah, putting on some clean clothes tomorrow would help a lot.”

  He released the shirt, a flush rising from his chest. “I’ll get that towel. You can use the same bathroom you were in before.”

  “Thanks. I really appreciate everything you’ve done tonight. You didn’t have to do anything, especially when I brandished that knife at you.”

  “I couldn’t leave you there, and that knife?” He winked at her. “I could’ve disarmed you and taken you down at any time.”

  He pivoted and exited the kitchen. She watched his departure through narrowed eyes, his broad shoulders and pumped-up arms lending truth to his claim. Despite his caring nature and surface geniality, it would be a mistake to underestimate Rob.

  She dried the dishes he’d left in the dish drainer and was putting away the last one when he returned.

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I’m not as bad off as I look. I was wearing my seat belt.”

  “But the car was upside down, wasn’t it? I could tell that even from its condition.” He shook his head. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  She shivered and folded her arms. “I am.”

  He gestured behind him. “I put a towel and one of my T-shirts in that bathroom. There’s soap and shampoo, if you think you can wash around the bandage.”

  “I’ll do that later.” She grabbed the plastic water bottle he’d given her in the car and slid open his trash receptacle.

  He jerked forward. “You don’t need to do that. I recycle. I have a bin in the back.”

  Could the guy be any more perfect?

  “Admirable, but you forgot this one.” She plucked his beer bottle out of the trash and set it on the counter next to the water bottle.

  “Oh, thanks. Everything’s locked up for the night, so I’ll be in my bedroom if you need anything else.”

  She could think of quite a few things she’d want from Rob, but none was appropriate for a crash survivor who didn’t even know her own identity. She squeezed past him out of the kitchen. “Thanks.”

  When she made it to the bathroom, she stripped off her clothes and dropped them to the floor. Facing the mirror naked, she studied her body for any more tattoos or identifying marks.

  She discovered tan lines from a bikini, and a
few more bumps and scratches from the crash. Her toes sported purplish polish, and although no such color tipped her fingernails, they looked neat. So, she probably wasn’t a homeless person. She skimmed her hands over her forearms and wrists—no needle tracks.

  She twisted around to try to get a look at the Rosalinda tattoo. She caught the tail end of a flourish with a rose. She’d have to get ahold of a hand mirror to see it completely.

  She cranked on the water and stepped into the warm spray, wincing as it hit her sore body. Did she want to reclaim the identity of a person who had people out to kill her?

  Those guys believed she’d died in the crash, or at least the fire. She’d be safe as long as they maintained that belief.

  She couldn’t have Rob or anyone else plastering her picture anywhere or looking into any missing persons reports—not yet, anyway. She needed more information before she could step back into what was obviously a dangerous existence.

  She might just hang out in Paradiso while she investigated. If Rob had friends here, she could get a job without ID. She had to support herself until her memory returned.

  And if it never did?

  She could forge a new identity. She could start life anew in Paradiso...with Rob Valdez as her first friend.

  * * *

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Rob plunged his hand into the pockets of Jane’s pants. Empty. Why had she had a knife in her pocket? It must’ve been in her pocket, or she’d grabbed it when she escaped from the car. But why grab a knife and not a purse with your ID and money?

  To protect herself against the violent ex?

  He tossed the olive green pants into the washing machine and then shook out the torn T-shirt. He fingered the label that claimed its origin as Mexico. Lots of clothes were made in Mexico.

  He dropped the shirt in the machine with the pants. That was all she had.

  He added a few more clothes to the wash and strolled into the kitchen. He’d let Jane sleep and put on some coffee.

  He had other reasons for letting her sleep in. He grabbed a plastic bag from a drawer and picked up the water bottle she’d drunk from last night, pinching the neck between two fingers. He dropped the bottle into the bag.

  It might be a little late to check Jane’s fingerprints, as she could’ve stabbed him in his sleep last night, but he deserved to know whom he had in his house. If she’d committed a crime anywhere, she’d be in the database. If not, he’d be back to square one—housing a woman who was lying about her identity.

  If she had a violent ex-husband after her, he could understand her hesitance, but if she trusted him enough to stay here, she should be able to trust him with her real name.

  He sealed the bag and stuffed it into his backpack. Pulling a chair up to his kitchen table, he dragged his laptop in front of him. When he launched a search engine, he entered Rosalinda murder.

  He clicked on a few promising articles but, after fifteen minutes, gave up on finding a murder case involving a girl named Rosalinda. He’d need a last name, a city.

  Jane would never give him that info. The only reason she’d told him about her friend was because he’d spotted that tattoo. He dragged a hand through his hair and hunched over the laptop.

  Why did he care? She’d be gone this morning, and he’d chalk it up to a strange encounter—one of many in his life. He’d keep it to himself. He should’ve reported that crash and burned-out car, but he understood and sympathized with people who wanted to stay beneath the radar, especially women on the run from domestic violence.

  As he heard the water run in the bathroom, he wiped out his search history and brought up his email. He pushed back from the table and stuck his head down the hallway.

  He called out. “How are you doing this morning?”

  She shouted over the running water. “I feel okay. I appreciate the water and ibuprofen you left on the nightstand. Are my clothes done?”

  He edged closer to the bathroom door and placed a hand against it. “Not yet. Wash is almost done, and then I’ll put them in the dryer. I’ll get some breakfast together.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he returned to the kitchen and broke some eggs in a bowl. He mixed them with some milk, dashed some pepper in there and dumped them into a frying pan sizzling with butter.

  “Smells good.” Jane wedged her hip against the counter, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt, which—even though it hit her midthigh—had never looked so good.

  “Just some scrambled eggs and coffee.” He stirred the eggs. “Toast?”

  “I can do the toast.” She took two steps into the kitchen, and he immediately felt her presence engulf him.

  For a petite woman, she had an overwhelming presence. At least for him.

  Still prodding the eggs in the pan, he reached across the counter, flipped up the lid on the bread box and grabbed a loaf of wheat. “You can use this. Do you take cream or sugar with your coffee? I don’t have cream, but you can dump some milk in there.”

  “Black.”

  He tapped the spatula on the edge of the pan. “You can help yourself to the coffee.”

  She reached around him and poured out two cups of steaming, fragrant java.

  He scooped the eggs onto plates and carried them from the kitchen, relieved to escape the close quarters with Jane. As he put the plates on the table, the buzzer from the washing machine went off. “That’s your laundry. You can start eating without me, if you want.”

  He strode into the laundry room and transferred the clothes from the wash to the dryer. When he returned to the kitchen, she’d placed silverware, napkins and their coffee on the table.

  “The toast just popped up. Butter and jam or just butter?”

  “Just butter for me. I don’t even know if I have jam.”

  She brought the toast to the table, as he sipped his coffee.

  “Why are you waiting on me? You’re the accident victim.” He took the plate of toast from her and pulled out a chair. “Sit.”

  She touched her bandaged head. “I feel fine, except that my head throbs when the ibuprofen wears off.”

  “You might need stitches.” He held up a hand. “You should see your doctor when you get home.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to go home.” She crunched into her toast, and a shower of crumbs fell onto her plate.

  “You can’t hide from him forever.”

  “Really?” She speared a clump of eggs on her plate. “Do you think you could find me a job in Paradiso?”

  “A job.” He sputtered up his coffee. “Here?”

  “Seems like a good place to lie low for a while. Maybe you know someone who could, you know, hire me off the books for a bit just so I could make a little money.”

  The thought of Jane staying in Paradiso sent a cascade of emotions tumbling through his system, but the ones that affected his body got the jump on the ones that affected his mind, and he blurted out, “Yeah, I do.”

  “You do?” She scooted up in her seat, wrapping her hand around her coffee cup. “Who? Where?”

  “It’s nothing fancy, but the woman who makes the soup you had last night runs a small café in the middle of town and her niece is heading back to college and can’t help her out anymore.” Why was he dragging Rosie into this? “Do you have any experience in food service?”

  “I do. I worked in fast food in high school and did some bartending in college.” Her light brown eyes widened for a second, and then she rushed on. “I’d be happy to help your friend out with her business, and if she needs to get rid of me when her niece comes back, no problem.”

  “We’ll go see her today.” Rob shoved some toast in his mouth to keep himself from offering her anything else. At least if she stayed, he’d have some time to find out her real story.

  As if to avoid questions, Jane kept the conversation through breakfast light and superficial.

 
After wolfing down most of her food, she waved a fork at him. “You’re not in uniform. Do you have to work today?”

  “Not until later.” He eyed her hair tousled around the bandage and a small bruise high on her cheekbone. “Are you sure you don’t need medical attention?”

  “Why?” She clicked her coffee mug onto the table. “Do I look like I do?”

  “You look...” He was going to say she looked even more appealing than she had last night, but his big mouth had already gotten him into enough trouble. “You look amazingly well after walking away from that accident and spending the day in the desert.”

  She patted her head. “I feel fine and so grateful to have gotten away from...my ex.”

  The buzzer from the dryer in the laundry room saved him from analyzing why she paused before mentioning her ex-husband—but he’d come back to that.

  He jumped up from the table. “Your clothes are done. You can take a shower, and I’ll take you to Rosie’s.”

  “She’s the woman with the café?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Thank you so much.” Jane rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “I’m glad you stopped.”

  “I don’t know what you thought you were going to do out there at night by yourself with just a knife.”

  “I—I must’ve been stunned, disoriented.” She sipped her coffee and her eyes met his over the rim. “Where is that knife?”

  His heart stuttered in his chest. He had no intention of arming his strange guest. Of course, she could’ve grabbed a kitchen knife at any time last night and stabbed him through the heart—if she’d wanted to.

  He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I think I left it in my truck. Why’d you have it?”

  “Excuse me?” She folded her hands on the table like an innocent schoolgirl.

  She always answered a question with a question to buy time. He didn’t need the academy to teach him that—he’d lived it with his familia.

  “The knife. Why did you grab a knife, of all things, when you escaped from the burning car? Why not grab your purse? Your phone?”

  “I didn’t grab the knife. It was in my pocket.” She slurped the dregs of her coffee. “Protection.”