by Regan Black
With the trash can loaded, he wheeled it through the back door to the big garbage bins out back. He paused on the way back inside, breathing in the cool spring air rolling off the Delaware River and sighing it out again in an attempt to let go of the past. Up and down the pier, businesses were bustling with customers cutting loose and making the most of Friday night. From this shore and on the far bank of New Jersey, lights sparkled and danced in the reflection of the water. Boats cruised slowly, leaving ghostly trails behind them. From Carson’s vantage point, the traffic on the bridge was little more than a murmur of white noise.
Sarah had died on a hot and humid summer night. He’d survived winter and the holidays without her, made it through Valentine’s Day and St. Patrick’s Day, too. Didn’t people connect hope and fresh starts with springtime? Maybe in this new season he could make Grant’s order work and break the cycle of grief plaguing him.
Glancing up, he searched out the brighter stars in the sky, trying to recall the constellations his dad had taught him. Maybe he should pull out the telescope and set it up. It would be one positive way to pass the dark, lonely hours. “Be in the present,” he said aloud, coaching himself. “Let go and start living.”
The advice didn’t bring an immediate result, so he tried again. Repetition didn’t ease the pain or offer any surge of hope. He supposed it was wishful and absurd to think a deep breath and a few new words would offer instant relief.
He turned around at the sound of an engine, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of headlights as a big car pulled to a stop at the side of the club. He saw a typical white city taxicab with a familiar logo on the back door. Then a slender woman pushed it open and got out, stumbling a little.
“Hey!” The driver jumped out, as well. “You owe me money, lady.”
“I...” The woman frowned at her empty hands. “I don’t have money.” She wobbled, looking around. “Where—”
“Wait right there!” The cabbie rushed around the car to confront her, and the woman cried out as she tried to get away.
Sensing trouble, Carson dashed forward as the woman tripped and started to fall. He caught her, willing his knee to hold up for both of them. “Back off,” he warned the cabbie.
“She owes me the fare.”
“I’ll cover it.” Carson eased the woman down to sit on a discarded pallet. Despite the shadows, he could tell she wasn’t well. Drunk or stoned, the visible fresh scrapes and bruises on her face and arms implied someone had taken a few swipes at her recently. “What happened to her?”
“How the hell do I know? She got in the car that way.”
Carson looked at the woman. “Is that true?” She only stared up at him, then shied away from the cabbie. “Bring me her purse,” he said to the driver.
“No purse.” The driver gestured at the empty backseat. “Just her.”
“Where did you pick her up?”
“Near the Penn campus,” the cabbie answered, and then asked for the fare again.
That wasn’t much help beyond the basic geography. There were a number of reasons for a woman who appeared to be in her midtwenties to be near the University of Pennsylvania campus. Carson reached for his wallet. He handed over enough cash to cover the fare and a tip and sent the cabbie away. When they were alone, he picked up the subtle hitch in her breathing above the muted noises from their surroundings and the occasional raised voices from patrons dawdling in the parking lot.
“Can you stand?”
She stared at him blankly. She had abrasions on her knees and hands, and her left eye was nearly swollen shut. “Escape?”
“Yeah, you made it,” he replied. Pretty clear she was one of the people who sought out the secondary purpose of the club—asking Grant for help out of tight or sticky situations. “What’s your name?”
“Alex-Alexander?” She managed to squeeze out the name through a raspy voice. Laboring, she raised her closed fist toward his hand. When he opened his palm, she dropped a crushed matchbook into it.
Carson stared at the Escape Club logo for a moment, then flipped open the cover. Seeing the name Alexander scrawled on the inside, he pocketed the matchbook. Grant trained all of them to respond swiftly and without question if anyone showed up and asked for Alexander. Carson berated himself for making her wait this long. Her appearance was enough to prove she was in trouble, with or without the matchbook and code name. “Come on.” He reached out a hand to help her up, and she stared at him.
“Escape,” she repeated.
“Yes.” His throat felt raw just listening to her laboring over each word. “You’re safe now.” He needed better light and supplies to administer first aid, which he suspected was the least of her worries. “Come with me.” Grant would know what to do. Carson had to get her inside the building before the staff left for the night.
He knelt down on his good knee, putting him at eye level with her. Her good eye was glassy, and without his penlight, he couldn’t be sure her pupil was properly responsive. She might be high right now, but he didn’t see any typical signs of habitual use on her arms. He resisted making more assumptions. Only the right tools would give him an accurate assessment. “Let’s go inside to see Alexander. You can trust me.”
He held out his hand and waited for her to take it. He helped her stand, but she wobbled with her first step. Exasperated, he scooped her into his arms. Her arms came around his neck automatically, and her head dropped to his shoulder as he carried her the short distance to the back door.
He could feel the toned muscles of her legs under the thin fabric of her skirt. He’d helped his share of addicts on the job, and the safe bet was she wasn’t one. Relieved no one caught him struggling with both her and the door, he called for help once they were inside.
Grant appeared in the hallway first, followed by other members of the staff.
“She asked for Alexander,” Carson said, though it was pretty obvious. “A cab just dropped her off.”
“My office,” Grant said, taking in the details with that penetrating gaze. “Bring us the first aid kit, a blanket and bottled water,” he called out to others.
Carson made it down the hall without dropping the woman. She wasn’t heavy. He situated her in one chair and pulled the second around to face her. He pressed his fingers to her wrist, taking a pulse while he waited for the first aid kit to arrive.
She squinted against the brighter light in the office, but she didn’t fight him while he evaluated her. Every physical indication was she’d been in a fight with someone bigger and stronger than herself.
Her sluggish responses to his questions bothered him. When the first aid kit arrived, he pulled on gloves and took a closer look at her noticeable injuries. The swollen eye was nasty and the color was going to be vivid, but he didn’t think there was a fracture. He used a penlight to test her pupils, being cautious as he manipulated the swollen eye. Both pupils responded but were almost as listless as her speech. With her dark hair and eyes, excellent bone structure and warm golden skin, she’d be lovely under healthy circumstances. There was additional swelling along her jaw, there were bruises on her neck and her wide mouth would be lopsided for at least a day or two. He struggled against a sudden, familiar rush of anger at whoever had used her for a punching bag. Despite answering numerous domestic violence calls, he’d never become immune to the results.
“Who hit you?” he asked.
She tried to shake her head, but he had her face trapped in his hands as he gently prodded again at the black eye.
“Easy. Just take your time,” he said.
“I don’t know.”
He’d expected that answer. Victims rarely outed an abuser at the first opportunity. He reached for antiseptic to clean the split skin above her eyebrow. “Where were you before you got into the cab?”
Her good eye went wide, then clos
ed, her features tightening with pain or shame. “I...I don’t know.”
“No problem. Just relax.” Carson didn’t try to coax more answers out of her. He tended the scrapes on her knees and hands and left the question-and-answer part of the program to Grant. “You’re safe now. That’s what matters.”
She glanced over his shoulder to the doorway with her good eye. “Okay.”
Once her wounds were clean, he really thought the cut above her eye needed stitches more than the glue and small bandages in the first aid kit. Grant came in and offered her a bottle of water and a bag of ice, then retreated. She passed the basic concussion protocol, but he thought she should be evaluated by a physician anyway.
“What’s the word?” Grant asked, stepping into the office again.
“Some good news. Nothing points to a serious concussion,” Carson replied as he peeled off the gloves. “Still, she should probably go to the hospital.”
“No!” The bag of ice landed in her lap, her hands clutching it tightly. “No hospital.” She tried to scoot the chair back out of his reach, but in her weakened state, she didn’t get far.
“Relax.” Grant, perched on the edge of his desk and arched an eyebrow at Carson before turning back to their guest. “Put the ice back on your cheek,” he said, motioning to the ice pack in her lap. “Now take a breath,” he added when she’d done as he instructed. “Why did you come here to the club?”
“No hospital,” she repeated, wincing as she shook her head. “C-can’t go to a hospital.”
Carson signaled Grant to back off. Her breathing had turned rapid and shallow, and her pulse had leapt into overdrive.
“Okay, hospitals are not an option. I get it. Just relax. You’re safe here with us.” Grant’s tone was full of soothing calm. “How did you hear about Alexander?”
Her gaze dropped to the floor, and her eyebrows dipped low over those wide brown eyes.
“I—I don’t remember.” She swallowed.
“That’s not unexpected based on your injuries,” Carson said quietly.
“Carson would know,” Grant added. “He’s a paramedic and I’m a former cop. You don’t know us, but we are trustworthy. Can you tell me how you got hurt?”
She ignored Grant, staring at Carson with her good eye, the other hidden by the ice pack. “You’re Carson?”
“Yes. Carson Lane.” She didn’t look familiar to him, but something in the way she studied him, something about the way she said his name, made him uneasy. “Have we met?”
“I don’t know.” Under the denim jacket and pale blue T-shirt, her shoulders shuddered as she sucked in another breath and tremors set in.
Carson looked around. “I’ll go find a blanket or something.”
“I’ll do it.” Grant moved faster than Carson, leaving him alone with the woman again.
A dozen questions rolled through his mind, but considering her physical and emotional state, he kept them to himself. He wished she would at least give them her name.
Grant returned with a blanket and Carson draped it over the woman’s narrow shoulders, tucking it around her and pulling it down as far as it would go to cover her legs. Her feet were likely still chilled, but it was the best they could do at the moment. She needed real medical attention at a hospital. Was she afraid of one particular hospital or all hospitals?
“Do you have a wallet or purse with you?” Grant asked, settling behind his desk this time rather than on it.
Fat tears spiked her dark lashes and rolled down her cheeks. “I don’t think so. I can’t remember anything.” She clutched the ice pack in her lap again.
“Only the matchbook,” Carson answered, showing it to Grant. Every instinct hammered at him to make this better, but he didn’t know how.
“Hmm.” Grant was doing something on his computer, likely checking for any breaking reports involving a woman of her description. “No missing persons,” he murmured almost to himself. “I could run prints.”
“She’s been through something,” Carson said. “If she doesn’t want to talk about it...” He left the implication hanging out there. He wished there was a woman around who could ask if she’d been raped. He wasn’t comfortable with those questions in this particular setting. “She doesn’t know what day it is, not the year or season.”
“What is the last thing you do remember?”
Grant’s query was met with another fat tear trailing the others. “I remember getting out of the cab. Seeing you.” She turned that good eye to Carson again.
He knew concussions could mess up a person’s memory, but she didn’t have symptoms of that problem. This sounded more as if there had been significantly more emotional trauma involved. Without a battery of tests, there was no way to know the validity, cause or even prognosis of her amnesia.
He reached out and took her hand. “You need to be seen by a doctor.”
“Please. No. I...” She struggled with something and gave up. “I don’t know why. I just know I can’t do that. No doctors, no hospitals. Whatever you’ve done for me is enough. I’ll be okay.”
Carson disagreed. The stark terror in her good eye at the mention of more comprehensive medical care worried him. Had she been attacked at a hospital or possibly escaped a psych ward?
“How about this?” Grant said with infinite calm and patience. “Carson can keep an eye on you for a few hours. Just until morning.”
Carson gawked at his boss. “You can’t be serious. I’m no doctor.”
“A point in your favor based on the patient’s preference. You can handle the observation through the night, right?”
“Anyone here can do that.” Someone else, anyone else, should have done that. Grant’s wife, Katie, had been at the club earlier, and rumor was she always waited up for Grant to get home. The two of them would be a better team to help this woman through the night than Carson.
“You’re the most qualified. You know what symptoms require her to go to the ER.” Grant held up a hand as the woman protested. “Whether you want that or not, I’m not taking a chance you’ll get worse after coming to us for help. Carson is the best person to watch over you tonight.”
She sighed, her lips tight.
“I understand it’s uncomfortable, and I’m open to another option. Would you like us to take you home or call a friend or family member for you?”
* * *
A fresh bolt of panic shot through her like white-hot lightning streaking through a dark sky. The sensation left her gasping. She knew what they were asking. She knew what it meant to call someone. She just couldn’t remember the numbers or names that would connect her to someone familiar. The concept of family made her feel marginally better and a thousand times worse, though the word didn’t induce quite as much dread the way friend did. Alexander was the name on the matchbook, and Grant and Carson were here and had been kind to her. Those three names were the extent of her world.
She fought against the tremors of fear skipping through her body. She wanted answers as much as the men asking the questions.
“No. I guess not.” She studied the man named Grant sitting behind his desk, struggling against the idea that she should know him. The hard jaw and thick build gave off an air of no-nonsense toughness, but his warm brown gaze didn’t induce any fear, and the gray hair salting his temples added a trust factor.
Dropping her gaze to the floor again, she said, “I can’t tell you where I live. I mean, I don’t know the answer.” She fisted her hands in frustration, and her short fingernails bit into her palms. “I don’t know who to call. The names...” Her breath rattled in and out of her chest. How could her head feel so full and empty at the same time? “The names are just gone,” she finished in a hoarse whisper.
The man who’d cleaned the blood from her face scooted closer. “Pushing to remember won’t help. You need to l
et your brain rest and give your body time to recover.”
Carson. His name was Carson. She clung to the new detail as she tried to find something familiar. She didn’t recognize the silver band on her thumb or the soft floral fabric of her skirt skimming her knees. Wiggling her toes inside her scuffed blue ballet flats, she wondered why her feet felt so sore and achy.
They’d asked for her name and information about her circumstances, and she wanted to cooperate. At least she thought she should cooperate. But where the information should have been, she had only a dark, blank canvas.
“I don’t remember getting into the cab. Before that is just a blank.” What the hell had happened to her? “I remember getting out, feeling woozy. The matchbook,” she said, her gaze locking onto the item at the edge of the desk. Something nudged at her mind, like light seeping around the edges of a door. “I don’t think it’s mine. I don’t know why I have it or who gave it to me.”
She pressed the heel of a hand to her temple near her good eye. Her head felt caught in a vise while her pulse throbbed in her lip and over her battered eye. Her raw throat resisted every word she spoke.
Carson’s palm covered her other hand, peeling her fingers off the arm of the chair. “Relax. Don’t fight for it. You’ve clearly been through an ordeal.” He sounded so sure and steady, and his gentle touch calmed her.
“My brain feels like oatmeal.” She could see a pot of oatmeal in her mind, and she could almost smell the homey scent of the dish blended with cinnamon and chunks of warm apples. “How do I know oatmeal and not my own name?”
“There are several things that can cause this situation.” He cleared his throat, his gaze sliding away for a moment. “I’m confident your memory will return soon...” he said, looking her in the eye.
She heard the hesitation where he would have used her name if either of them had known it. “You’re confident?”
“Would you like a second opinion?” he asked with an eager spark in his hazel eyes. “You’d learn more from a full CT scan and workup.”