Lost Down Deep

by Sara Davison

  Chapter Eight

  Summer wheeled her car into the parking lot behind a gas station and put it in park. The car felt strange, as though she’d recently bought it and had to figure out where everything was. On impulse, she leaned over and opened the glove box. After rummaging through it, she found a small blue folder, pulled it out, and flipped it open. The ownership and insurance information. Sure enough, there was her name in black and white. Summer Velásquez.

  With a sigh, she replaced the folder and closed the door. What now? She had to get out of the city, but where could she go? She had no family anywhere else in the country. A stab of pain shot through her chest. Her parents had lied to her. At the moment, she couldn’t depend on family anyway. Did family keep things from each other? Show each other such little respect and honesty? For now, she would have to carry on as though she had no family. The sharp edge of that thought carved out a hollow, empty space in her chest. Summer gritted her teeth. If she was going to survive this, she couldn’t trust her family or anyone else. Not for a while. She was on her own.

  So where should she go? She had no phone and no GPS, although she wouldn’t have any idea what destination to key in if she did. Could she get a map in the gas station? Did they even make maps anymore? Wouldn’t hurt to ask. Worst case, she could grab a coffee and something to eat while giving whoever worked there a good laugh when she told them what she was looking for. With a wry grin, she shoved open her door and made her way around the building. A large man in grease-covered overalls nodded at her as he came out and held the door.

  Summer flashed him a quick smile and ducked inside. The store was small. Before she could even ask, she spotted a rack containing books of maps. So the world hadn’t gone completely digital yet. She walked over and stopped in front of the rack, slowly spinning it as she read the titles. She’d never been on the run before. What was the protocol? To get as far away as possible from where you were? Stay relatively close and hope your pursuer, if you had one, assumed you would be farther afield?

  Her options were limited, at least on three sides. From where she was, just east of Toronto, an hour or two south would take her into the States. As she had no passport with her, that wasn’t an option. Because of the Great Lakes, to go very far west, out of the province for sure, required driving south into the States or hours and hours north, up long stretches of isolated highways winding through a rugged landscape of rocks, trees, and lakes. The population there was sparse, the main inhabitants being deer, moose, bears, and wolves. She repressed a shudder. Not a good place to get stranded, especially when she had no one to call to come help her.

  Summer reached for the purple wallet and tugged it out. As discreetly as possible, she opened it and counted the cash. Slightly over a hundred dollars. She glanced at the ATM in the corner. Should she risk one withdrawal? Whoever had attacked her knew she was in the Toronto area, so she wouldn’t be revealing anything new. She just wouldn’t be able to use any kind of plastic after this.

  Summer tugged her bank card out of a pocket in the wallet and stared at it. Did she know her password? If she’d had it longer than six or seven years, it might come back to her. Staring at the small plastic card did not summon any combination of numbers into her head. After a couple of minutes, she replaced the card with a frustrated sigh. A hundred bucks then. Her gas tank was full, thankfully, but her traveling options were now even more limited. She’d have to try to find a place within a couple of hours’ drive and somehow get a job as soon as she got there with no resume and no clue what her last few years of work experience might have looked like.

  She shoved the wallet into her bag. Well, it always worked out for the girls in those cheesy Christmas movies, fleeing overbearing parents trying to set them up with the wrong man or demanding bosses in high-stress careers. Real life worked like a Hallmark movie, didn’t it?

  With a grimace, she turned back to the rack of maps. That had given her an idea. The heroines in those movies always landed in a small town somewhere, where people were a little friendlier and less concerned about pesky things like credentials and references. Where could she find a place like that?

  Summer snatched a book labeled Southern Ontario off the rack. With spring still more than a month away, it was comforting to think about going to a place with the name southern in it, although southern Ontario wasn’t much warmer than the rest of the country at this time of year. Still, psychologically it sounded appealing. She flipped idly through the pages. God, lead me. Show me where to go.

  She blinked. Where had that come from? Did she have a faith? Although they both had a Catholic background, her parents hadn’t taken her to church when she was growing up. Still, the prayer that had sprung into her mind felt right, somehow. She’d have to mull that over, maybe while she was driving. Search her soul, so to speak, to find out what she believed and what, exactly, her relationship was to the God she’d cried out to.

  A picture caught her eye and she stopped flipping. An old mill sat at the edge of a narrow river, water flowing over small falls next to it. Something about the mill and the row of neat, cottagey-type houses with flowering vines climbing stone walls and trellises in backyard gardens spoke to her. Called to her even. Was this the place? Could it be the answer to her prayer?

  She searched the page until she found the name. Elora. The word flowed over her like the water over the rocks in the picture. It sounded like something out of a fantasy novel, a kind of fairy village. A definite possibility. She whispered the name, something about it resonating with her deep inside, like a bird fluttering its wings slightly before settling back into its nest and tucking its head under a wing. She checked the location. About an hour and a half drive, which shouldn’t be a problem in terms of fuel. Was it far enough away, though?

  Summer, sé valiente. Yes. She needed courage. Also a job and a place to stay. But courage first. And coffee. Tucking the book under her arm, Summer wended her way around shelves of chips, groceries, and cleaning supplies to a coffee machine. After filling a brown paper cup and splashing in a dollop of cream, she snapped on a plastic lid and carried the cup and the book over to the counter.

  A young man with straggly, shoulder-length brown hair punched the items into the cash register and grabbed her money without taking his eyes off the video game on the tablet on the counter. That was one benefit of their technology-obsessed society—fewer people would take the time to really look at her, let alone attempt to engage her in conversation. Of course—her eyes shot up to a cobweb-draped camera dangling from the ceiling in the corner of the store—electronic eyes were on her constantly, even if human ones weren’t. Should she dye her hair? Get glasses? Try to change her appearance in some way like they did in the movies?

  Summer almost giggled at the thought as she dropped her change into her wallet and picked up the book and coffee. This isn’t funny. She sobered immediately. Of course her situation wasn’t funny. Someone could be watching her even now, waiting to follow her. Could she be leading him straight to a small, innocent town whose friendly, unsuspecting citizens had no clue what havoc was about to descend upon the normally peaceful place?

  God, please protect me. Protect anyone around me from any harm that might come to them because of me. The muscles that had tightened in her shoulders relaxed a little. All she could do was be as careful as possible and trust that God would watch over her. She had no idea where that trust had come from, but she felt it suddenly down deep in her bones. However it had come about, she did have a relationship with God. He was with her, and he would watch over her, wherever her journey took her.

  Breathing a prayer of thanks for that assurance, Summer pushed open the door with her elbow and stepped into air so cold her breath came out in puffs of white clouds.

  When she reached her car, she unlocked the vehicle with the remote and slid behind the wheel. After setting the coffee in the cup holder and tossing the book onto the passenger seat, she shut and locked the door. For a moment she sat, gripping the
wheel with both gloved hands, gathering strength. Then she slid the key into the ignition and started the engine.

  It was time to hit the road and see where it took her.

  Chapter Nine

  Jude drove through the parking lot of a coffee shop and wheeled into a spot. Snatching his phone from the cup holder, he studied the screen a moment, his brow furrowing. Where was she going? An hour ago she had driven through Toronto, heading west. Did she have a destination in mind? As far as he knew, Summer had no family outside of Toronto, other than back in Mexico. He’d been monitoring her bank and credit cards and she hadn’t attempted to use either, which meant she had a limited supply of money and gas. So, what was her plan?

  Feeling the need to stretch his legs, Jude climbed out of his car and strode into the coffee shop. He grabbed a coffee and a ham and cheese sandwich at the counter and headed back to the vehicle. No rush to keep up with her as he could monitor her movements as long as she was in her car, but he didn’t want her getting too far away from him either.

  Jude took a bite of his sandwich, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in an attempt to dispel a little of the excess adrenaline pumping through him. What if she dumped the car like she had her phone? It was the last connection he had to her. The only way he could track her down.

  And if she didn’t, but stopped somewhere and found a place to stay, what then? Could he arrange some kind of “accidental” meeting? What if her memory suddenly came back? He stuffed the rest of the sandwich in the bag and tossed it on the passenger seat, too worked up to eat. He’d deal with each of those possibilities if and when they came up.

  For now, all he had to do was figure out where she was and where, exactly, she was going.

  Summer turned onto the road that led into Elora and crossed the metal bridge leading to the heart of the little town. It was as picturesque as it had appeared in the map book, even more so now, covered in a thick layer of snow. After the bridge, she turned left, drove down a block, then pulled over to the curb and turned off the engine. Ahead of her and across the street loomed the beautiful Elora Mill, the building that had attracted her interest in the book. For several minutes she gazed at the old stone structure, a hotel and fine-dining establishment, and the smaller building beside it, an elegant spa. She glanced down at her fingers and winced. What she wouldn’t give for a manicure right about now. Or a pedicure. Or a massage. She rested her head against the back of the seat. Maybe one day. Judging from the look of the place, she’d need to make a bit of money first.

  People wandered past her on the sidewalk, many with bags clutched in both hands. According to the book she’d bought, Elora was a popular place for tourists in the summer. Even now, weeks from spring, the quaint shops and pubs that lined the street on both sides appeared to be doing a steady business.

  Which boded well for her and her job prospects. Summer grasped the handle and pushed open the car door. If she was going to stay here for awhile, it would be good to acquaint herself with the town, maybe see if any of the stores or coffee shops were hiring. She climbed out and closed the door, absently reaching behind her and hitting the lock button on her key fob as she started across the street. On her way to the Mill, she slowed, gazing at windows filled with high-end kitchen supplies and breathtaking artwork. After meandering to the end of the street, she reached the long stone wall that enclosed the towering limestone mill. The wall, covered in dry, brittle vines, extended past the building, and she wandered along it, letting her palm brush against the cool surface.

  When the wall curved around the back of the building, she traipsed along the small footpath running beside it into a strand of trees. Once in the shade, she stopped and zipped her jacket up a little higher. Probably should have worn the gloves she’d taken off and tossed onto the seat with the map book while she was driving, but it was too late now. Fifty feet ahead, the path swung to the right. Summer stopped at the curve and leaned against the stone wall that followed the shape of the path, this section of it clearly designed to keep children and wayward tourists from venturing too close to the edge of the riverbank. Her head throbbed and her feet felt as though they were weighted down with bags of sand. In addition to the head trauma, a month of lying in a hospital bed had weakened her to the point where every step was an effort.

  The sound of rushing water filled the air, and she gazed over the wall at the small waterfall she’d seen in the picture. Chunks of ice clung to rocks and tree limbs, and thirty feet past the waterfall the river had frozen over completely, the ice glistening in the thin February sun. A wonderland. What was it about this place? It felt familiar, somehow. Had she been here before?

  She couldn’t remember ever setting foot in this town, but somehow, as she gazed out over the rooftops of the houses on the far side of the river, she was filled with a sense of something she couldn’t quite identify. Home, maybe? Perhaps the place reminded her of somewhere else she had been. Or maybe—she pressed a hand to her chest—maybe she had been here in the last few years and the memory of the town was one of the countless others that had been erased from her mind. She turned and sagged against the stone. If she had been here, did she know anyone in town? Would someone recognize her? If so, maybe she wasn’t as safe as she’d hoped.

  Summer lowered her hand and pushed herself away from the wall. She was here now and, for reasons she couldn’t explain, she felt safe. Unless something happened to make her feel otherwise, she was going to stay put.

  An acrid smell wafted on the air. Summer looked down and frowned. Someone had tossed a cigarette butt into a cleared area beneath a tree. A dry, rust-brown leaf curled beneath the still-burning butt, tendrils of smoke winding up around its edges. She frowned. The tree could have caught on fire. How could anyone be so careless? She strode over and stomped on the leaf and the cigarette, grinding both deep into the ground until she was certain any chance of a flare-up had passed. Summer glanced around. She hadn’t noticed anyone else on the pathway, but someone had clearly been in the area in the last few minutes. A cool breeze skimmed her cheeks and she shivered. Get a grip, Summer. No one knows you’re here. The news the police detective had given her had rattled her more than she’d realized. If she was going to hide away in this town and concentrate on getting her memories back, she’d have to get over it, stop jumping at every noise and looking for danger where none existed.

  Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, she retraced her steps out of the trees and back to the row of little shops, searching each window she passed by to see if any were advertising for help. At the end of the first block, she sank down on a picnic table set up outside an ice cream shop. What was she doing? First, she needed a place to stay. Even if someone was hiring, and she hadn’t seen any signs yet, no one was likely to give her a second look if she didn’t have an address or phone number to give them. Bad enough she didn’t have a resume and couldn’t tell them about her work experience.

  She frowned. What was her work experience? She was 28 years old—surely she’d been working the last few years. But at what? What kind of skills did she have? She’d waited tables to put herself through university, she did remember that much. Her final year was a bit fuzzy though, and she couldn’t remember anything after that. What had she done with her education? What did one do with a degree in political science? Politics seemed like a good bet, or some kind of diplomatic job. Summer clenched her fist and pounded it lightly against her forehead. Piensa. Think. Who are you and what do you do? As Dr. Lopez had warned, straining to remember did nothing but intensify the throbbing in her head.

  Why hadn’t she asked her mother and father? The last week had been so filled with tests and conversations with her doctor and with thoughts of leaving the hospital that it hadn’t occurred to her to think much beyond that. Until last night, she’d assumed she would have all the time in the world to talk to her parents and get them to fill in at least part of the gaping black hole that was the last few years of her life. Especially since she’d thought she would b
e living with them for a while.

  And speaking of her identity, was it safe to give out her real name while she was here? What if a prospective employee Googled her or somehow put it online that she was here in town? She bit her lip. Googling herself was actually a good idea. As soon as she could get to a computer, she would do that, maybe get some answers about who she was and what she did.

  In the meantime, what name should she give herself? Something a little more Spanish than Summer would be believable. She had asked her mother once where her name had come from, as it wasn’t a common one in Mexico. Her mother had told her that she and her dad had been looking for something different, so they’d settled on Summer, her mother’s favorite season and the time of year Summer had been born, since her birthday was in August. Valid reasons that made sense. At least growing up she didn’t have any other girls in the class with her name.

  Summer’s best friend all through grade school was Ana. Summer had loved her friend’s name and often wished it had been hers. Maybe it could be—temporarily, anyway. It was an interesting concept, naming yourself. How many people got to do that? She managed a wry grin. There had to be one or two upsides to the situation she found herself in, didn’t there?

  What about a last name? Garcia was one of the most common surnames in Mexico. If she went with Garcia, maybe whoever Googled her would give up before making it through the long list of names that popped up. Summer tapped her nails on the table. Or maybe she should make it a little easier than that for someone to find her alter-ego. An idea formed slowly in her head and she opened her bag to retrieve her phone. Maybe she didn’t have a paper resume, but she might be able to produce something every bit as good—better, even—if asked by a prospective employer. All she had to do was create a LinkedIn profile with the name she chose for herself and a few years of manufactured work experience and she’d be all set.