by Sara Davison
Summer pressed her eyes shut and opened them again, willing away the darkness that crept across her field of vision. It’s so cold. A numbness started deep inside her and spread through her chest and stomach and down her arms and legs. The wail of the siren grew louder.
They’re too late.
Her entire body had already gone numb, as if encased in ice. She blinked, trying to make out the words on the wall. The letters danced a macabre waltz across the white paint and the effort it took to try and still them sent another stabbing pain shooting through her head. An inky blackness fell over her vision, as though the power had been cut in the house.
Summer closed her eyes.
Chapter Two
One month later
Summer’s mother punched the pillow on the hospital bed lightly to fluff it up, her movements stiff and awkward.
Summer touched her elbow. “Estoy bien, Mamá. I’m fine.”
She wasn’t fine. Being stuck in this bed for two weeks after waking up from her coma was about to drive her out of what was left of her battered mind. “At least, I will be fine when I can go home.” The thought sent a twist of pain through her. Where is home?
When she’d asked her parents about the place where she’d been injured, they’d been vague, something about a house she’d moved into a couple of years ago that they had never felt was right for her. The way her mother crossed her arms and spoke with a hint of smugness in her voice suggested that her accident had only proven their point. The scant details they’d provided her didn’t sound right or familiar. How could she have lived in a place she didn’t even remember?
She was able to recall every detail of the home she’d grown up in, the pale blue carpeting, the striped wallpaper in her room, the expensive antique furniture she was barely allowed to use for sitting, let alone lounging or climbing on. Her dorm room at the University of Toronto remained vividly entrenched in her brain. Even now she could close her eyes and picture that and the apartment she’d moved into after she graduated. How could those memories be so clear when everything that had happened to her in the last few years had simply been erased?
Retrograde Amnesia, the doctor had called it. He was cute—she had no trouble remembering that little fact—with dark hair and dark eyes and an accent that confirmed his Hispanic heritage. Summer had no idea whether he had been intentionally assigned her case for that reason, or whether it was pure luck that he had been able to communicate so effectively with her parents, offering them information and hope in a calm, soothing voice. Not that they appeared to need soothing. Summer had rarely seen either of them express emotion. Even now, in the face of the extensive injuries from her fall, they remained implacable, if a little impatient with having to spend so much time in the hospital over the past month.
The doctor earned more of her mother’s attention than Summer did. When Dr. Lopez stood at the side of her bed, explaining what had happened to her—the damage that had been inflicted on her brain when she’d fallen down the stairs and cracked her head on a marble floor—she’d felt her mother’s eyes on her. When Summer’s gaze had flicked over to hers, her mother had inclined her head slightly in the doctor’s direction.
Summer had glanced away quickly, but she couldn’t stop the rush of heat that flooded her cheeks. Had the doctor caught her mother’s gesture? Honestly, didn’t she have enough on her plate right now, recovering from a traumatic head injury and trying to capture the memories of the last few years, without her mother trying to match-make?
The doctor’s words—that it wouldn’t help her to recover her memories if she stressed out about it, or tried too hard to grasp for them, that the best recourse was to get on with her life and allow them to come back to her in time—were nearly lost in the buzz of humiliation shooting through her.
Her father had been gazing out the window, but he came over to stand beside the bed now. When he spoke, his words had a hint of steel woven through them. “You will leave this place tomorrow. Mamá and I are bringing you home with us. Once you are there, with your family in a familiar place, you will recover quickly.”
A shiver rippled through Summer. That did make sense. She shifted on the bed. So why doesn’t it feel right? “I’m grateful for all you and Mamá have done for me, Papá. But I should go home. I must have bills to pay and a mortgage.”
He shook his head. “You do not need to worry about that. It is all taken care of.”
“But—”
Her father raised his hand, the signal that he had spoken and would hear no more about it. Summer clamped her mouth shut. He tapped the top of the bed rail with his palm. “You sleep now. Do not think about anything but getting better.”
Her mother nodded curtly before replying, in Spanish, “Sí, you rest. We will pick you up in the morning to take you home.”
Summer studied her. People often mistook the two of them for sisters. Her mother had been twenty when Summer was born, but she didn’t look more than a decade older than her daughter. Her eyes were dark with long lashes, and she worked out in the gym in the basement of their home daily, keeping herself in peak condition. Men turned and watched her when she walked down the street, but she only tossed her head—sending the long, dark hair that flowed down her back in thick waves tumbling over her shoulders—and offered them such a look of disdain that most turned away quickly. Summer had always thought she looked far more like a spy than the accountant she actually was.
The buttons on her black shirt clicked now against the bed rail as she leaned slightly over it.
Summer tensed. Was her mother about to hug her? While her parents had provided for her every material need growing up, physical affection had rarely been doled out. Had the accident softened her mother’s heart? Her mother grasped the starched white sheet in both hands and tugged it up to Summer’s chin before straightening. “Buenas noches.”
“Good night.” A slight ache in her chest, Summer watched as her mother gathered up her purse and the bag she always brought with her to the hospital. She had no idea what either contained, as she didn’t think her mother had ever opened them in her presence. Mamá switched off the reading light above the bed so that only the dim fluorescent lights set into the ceiling remained on. Summer waited until the door had shut before closing her eyes and snuggling down farther under the blanket with a sigh.
She was nearly asleep when a sharp rapping on the door jolted her awake. Summer clutched the sheet to her chest with both hands. “Come in.”
A woman in a navy jacket and trousers strode across the room. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a neat bun, adding to the aura of professional confidence. She stopped next to the raised railing that ran along the side of the hospital bed. “Ms. Velásquez?”
Summer let go of the sheet with one hand and rested her arm near the edge of the bed, close to the call button. “Yes.”
The woman pushed back her jacket to reveal a badge clipped to her waistband. “Detective Holmes, Toronto P.D.”
She frowned. Why on earth was a detective coming to see her, especially this late at night? Was she in some kind of trouble? “What can I do for you, Detective?”
The woman nodded at the chair in the corner of the room. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not.”
While the woman retrieved the chair, Summer gingerly sat up and switched the light on then adjusted her pillow so she could lean back against it. What is this about?
The woman sat down and crossed her legs. “I’m sorry to bother you, Ms. Velásquez, but—”
Summer waved a hand through the air. “It’s Summer, please.”
“All right, Summer. We’ve been waiting for your doctor’s permission to speak with you, and he finally let us know this evening that it would be okay to question you about the assault.”
Summer’s head jerked. “Assault?”
The detective nodded. “Yes. I know you have no memory of either the attack or the perpetrator, but—”
Summer held up a hand. “I think
there’s been a mistake, Detective. I wasn’t attacked, I fell down the stairs. It was an accident.”
The woman’s forehead wrinkled. “You did fall down the stairs, yes, but it was not an accident. And the man who did this to you is still at large. We’re hoping you might be able to remember at least some details, however minor, that could help us locate…” She leaned back in her seat and contemplated Summer. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
Summer shook her head then winced at the pain that shot up from her neck. Had she really been attacked? If so, why had no one told her? Dr. Lopez obviously knew, since he had given the detective permission to talk to her. A stab of betrayal shot across her chest. Her mother could forget about anything happening between Summer and that man.
Although he likely assumed her parents had filled her in on what had happened. She bit her lip. Did her parents know? Surely they wouldn’t have kept such vital information from her. Summer’s jaw tightened. Of course they would. Growing up, she had often felt as though she were being kept in a cage, if a gilded one. Her parents had rarely shared what was going on in their lives with her, only providing her with information they deemed absolutely necessary for her to know. As she had no brothers and sisters, that had led to a pretty lonely childhood. But it was one thing for them not to share details of their own lives with her—this was Summer’s life. Her grip on the sheet tightened. What else hadn’t they told her?
The detective glanced toward the door. “Didn’t you wonder why you have around-the-clock security outside your door?”
“I have a guard?”
“For your protection, yes.”
“I haven’t left this room. I had no idea.” Summer let go of the sheet and clasped her hands over her stomach. “Obviously vital information has been kept from me, Detective. As I am nearly thirty, and not a child, something my parents appear to have forgotten, I’d appreciate if you could tell me everything you know about what happened to me.”
The woman tugged a notebook from the inside pocket of her jacket and flipped it open. “Of course. The morning of January 3, shortly after 11 a.m., you were upstairs when someone broke into your home. A neighbor reported seeing a man leave the premises and drive away in a black car, but she was too far away to be able to provide us with the licence plate number or a description of him. From the evidence we gathered at the site, it appears that, before he left, he confronted you either in your room or right outside it and the two of you struggled at the top of the stairs. You fell—or were pushed—down the stairs, and you struck your head on the tile at the bottom, which rendered you unconscious.”
Summer’s insides twisted into knots. Who would do that? “And then the man what, simply left? Did he steal anything?”
“He left, yes, likely because we received a 911 call from your address and one of our squad cars was approaching the house with the siren on. And no, robbery does not appear to be the motive. The attack seemed to be more… personal.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because whoever he was wrote a message on the wall at the bottom of the stairs in your blood.” Her voice was cool, detached—the tone of someone who had seen such horrific things in her line of work that the use of human blood as a writing medium did not even faze her.
Summer grimaced. “What message?”
The detective glanced down at the notebook. “It said, my patience has nearly run out.”
Chapter Three
Jude McCall stood in the dark alleyway across from the hospital, one shoulder propped against the cold brick wall, his breath coming out in spurts of white fog in the frigid February air. He stared up at the window of Summer Velásquez, watching as her parents moved around the room. His jaw tightened. How was it those two had unlimited access to Summer, while he was kept out by the armed guard stationed at her door?
Heat coursed through him. He was the one who needed to talk to her, to finish…
A silhouette filled the window, and he ducked back into the shadows. If they saw him, they would call the cops and he might never see Summer again. He needed to be patient. She had to get out of the hospital soon, and when she did, he’d follow her home and wait for her to finally be alone. According to his source in the Toronto PD, she had no memory of recent events, so she wouldn’t recognize him. It should be safe enough.
The light spilling from the window dimmed as a lamp was switched off. Her parents must be leaving. Five minutes later, the couple came out the front doors and made their way down the sidewalk toward the parking lot. Jude pressed his back against the wall and held his breath as they passed by him on the other side of the street. After ten seconds, he slowly let his breath out. Too close.
He gave them another minute to reach their car before shifting around to face Summer’s window again, tugging the zipper on his winter jacket a little higher. A cold wind swept between the two buildings, sending empty take-out bags and paper cups cart-wheeling through the alleyway like tumbleweeds in the desert. The light flicked back on as someone else came into the room. A woman, it looked like. His muscles relaxed a little. A doctor maybe, although from watching her the last few weeks he was pretty sure her doctor was a man. A nurse then.
Jude kicked at the wall with the toe of his running shoe. This is ridiculous. He had to stop trying to guess what was going on with her and find a way to get closer so he could see for himself. Reaching behind him, he fingered the pistol he’d stuck into the back of his jeans with numb fingers. Maybe he should shoot his way in and carry her out.
Great idea, Jude. A shoot-out in the hallway outside her room would be the perfect way to get her to go with him. Not to mention that, even if he did succeed in storming his way in there, grabbing her, and getting them both downstairs, the place would be surrounded by cops by the time they emerged from the building.
Blowing out a deep breath, he slammed his back against the brick wall. Something had to happen soon, something that would make it possible to get to her.
He was tired of waiting.
Chapter Four
Summer pulled on jeans and a light green sweater and stuffed the rest of her clothes into the bag her parents had brought her. When she pulled her long dark curls back and fastened them with an elastic into a loose bun, her head throbbed and all she wanted to do was turn out the light and crawl back under the blanket and sleep. She’d spent a restless night on the narrow bed. Questions about what had happened to her and why her parents had lied about it assaulted her weary brain, keeping her from settling. About the time weak rays of winter sunlight battled through heavy gray clouds to fall across her bed, she made a decision. She wouldn’t stay here waiting for them to come and take her to their home.
The hairbrush on the table beside the bed clattered to the floor when she reached for it. Her fingers trembled and she dropped it twice before finally clutching it firmly enough to shove it into the bag. Nothing else sat on the little table. Why had no one sent cards or flowers? Didn’t she have any friends who cared about what happened to her? Or had her parents refused to allow any of those items to get to her?
She gritted her teeth. How could her parents have kept the truth from her? Her entire life they had drilled into her how important family was, that it was everything. Was that what family meant to them? Controlling and manipulating each other? They had to have known the police would come and talk to her, or did they assume they would be there and could intercept them when they showed up, talk to them on her behalf as though she were a helpless child? Summer grasped the zipper and nearly drove it off the track as she ripped the bag closed. Even if they hadn’t lied to her, there was no way she could go to their house. Her attacker was still out there somewhere, and there was a good chance he was coming back for her. Even if her parents had betrayed her by keeping her in the dark, she couldn’t put them in that kind of danger.
The words the detective had spoken drifted through her mind. My patience has nearly run out. Summer felt for the lump at the back of her head
and winced. Patience for what? And what would he do to her when it had run out?
She sank down on the edge of the bed. Where could she go? And what about the guard outside her door? Summer pushed back her shoulders. She’d worry about where to go later. For now she had to figure out how to get out of the hospital. She reached for her purse and dug around for a moment before pulling out a set of keys. Hmm. She must have a car somewhere. Would it be in the parking lot?
Summer started to shake her head then remembered how it had felt the last time and stopped herself. Of course it wouldn’t be here. She obviously hadn’t driven herself to the hospital while unconscious, and no one else could have driven it since she still had the keys. So where was her car?
Biting her lip, she rummaged through her purse and pulled out a worn purple wallet. After riffling through the cards stuffed in the bill section, she tugged out her driver’s licence. She didn’t recognize the address on it. Her forehead wrinkled. Must be the house her parents had briefly mentioned to her. And if she had lived there, her car must still be parked there.
She pushed herself off the bed and slipped the strap of the purse over her shoulder. Grasping the handles of the bag she had packed, she strode across the room. Cautiously, she peered out the window. All she could see were the crossed legs of someone in a navy uniform sitting to the left of the door. With a hiss of frustration, Summer pressed her back to the wall at the side of the door. Would there be a shift change soon or had the person guarding her settled in for the night?
If she had to, she could slip out of the room, catch him by surprise, and take him out before he could prevent her from leaving, but that would draw far more attention to herself than she wanted. Summer frowned. What made her think she could do that, anyway? The guy was pretty big. Still, something told her she could take him on, if she needed to.
She tapped her fingers against the wall before pushing away and looking out again. A large paper coffee cup and a water bottle sat on the floor beside the chair. Perfecto. Whoever it was would have to take a washroom break at some point, right? And when he did, she would be ready.