by Regan Black
“All right.” She gathered up the dishes and put them on the counter, systematically scraping each dish into the trash, then setting it in the sink. “What kind of contacts?”
“He was a police officer and is still friends with people all over the city,” Carson explained as he loaded the dishes into the dishwasher. He urged her to have a seat while he finished the cleanup. “I’m sure he has people checking missing person reports or any reported domestic troubles.”
“That sounds smart.”
Hearing the catch in her voice, he glanced over his shoulder, then rushed to her side when she swayed. “You’re pale.” He’d thought it would help her to know Grant and others were working to figure out the mystery of her identity. “I’d feel better if you’d let a doctor look you over.”
“No.”
“Not a hospital, but what about an urgent care office?”
“No.” She lifted her hands to either side of her neck and he watched her dig her fingers into the series of muscle attachments along her spine. “I saw my reflection and I know I look like hell, but a doctor is out of the question. The idea makes my stomach curdle.”
“Arnica oil won’t help the memory issues,” he said.
“According to you, nothing but time will do that.” Her hands trembled when she lowered them, fisted them and shoved them into her jacket pockets once more. “I don’t know why. I just know I can’t ignore this instinct.”
“Okay.” Caught by his own argument, he held up his hands, palms out. “I promise I won’t force the issue without real cause.”
She arched an eyebrow. “That’s a blurry term.”
“Real cause as defined by arterial bleeding or broken bones.” Confident she wouldn’t fall off the counter stool, he went back and closed the dishwasher, then swiped a finger over his heart in an X. “I promise.”
“Thank you,” she said with that unbalanced grin. “I won’t even take that one back.”
Before they set out to drive around the city, he insisted on giving her an ice pack for the eye and lip while he sent Grant a text message outlining their plan. Next he sent a text to his sister Renee, asking where he could pick up some arnica oil. Naturally she was so excited about his interest, she offered to deliver the oil personally before she even asked why he needed it. Thank goodness he and his companion were heading out for a few hours. Even as he thought how typical his sister’s response was, he slid a glance at the woman at the counter, wondering who was out there worrying—or not worrying—about her welfare.
He hoped Grant learned someone was out there searching for her. She struck him as a good person, and when she smiled, he imagined how that expression would light up a family conversation. It would be criminal if she was as alone in the world as she felt right now.
Done with the ice, they stepped out of the house into a gorgeous spring morning that seemed infused with hope and upbeat energy. He caught her taking in every detail and visual cue as they walked to the garage. He could remind her not to tax herself, but what was the point? She was managing the situation better than he’d expected. Whoever she was, he’d bet this ability to adapt and roll with life’s ups and downs was part of her nature.
So what kind of hell had she survived that her brain resorted to amnesia as a self-preservation tactic?
Much as she’d done last night, she peered at the passing neighborhoods and buildings lining the streets as he drove across town. He took his time, avoiding the expressways, but nothing elicited a significant reaction as he meandered around and through the Penn campus. On a hunch, he circled the university hospital. She seemed to stick by that claim of trusting him, because she didn’t bother to remind him she refused testing or an evaluation.
He let her toy with the radio as he doubled back and headed for the club situated at the edge of the Delaware River, this time taking the expressway.
“It’s an interesting city,” she said, studying the view. “I wonder why it doesn’t feel like home.”
“Maybe you’re new.” Or maybe being attacked in her hometown had pushed her mind into a drastic safe place. “You might even be a tourist.”
“Hmm.” She sat quietly, her toe tapping in time with the music on the radio station she’d chosen.
Whoever she was with her memories intact, he was glad she preferred classic rock today. Carson changed his route, thinking about the idea of her being a tourist. It would explain no immediate outcry from friends or family.
He drove past the zoo and the famous steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, then looped back so they could cruise past Liberty Bell Park. Nothing seemed to break anything loose for her, so he gave up and aimed for the club. He’d hoped by now Grant would have found some sort of clue.
Carson’s cell phone rang, interrupting the song on the radio as they passed Independence Hall. Hearing the system tell him it was Grant Sullivan, Carson answered with the hands-free connection in the truck. “Hello, you’re on speaker,” he answered. “We’re only a few minutes away.”
“Good,” Grant said. “How are you both feeling?”
“Tired,” Carson admitted. He motioned for the woman beside him to speak up.
“Calmer,” she replied.
“Have you remembered anything yet?” Grant asked.
“Nothing but arnica oil,” she said.
“I’ll explain when we get there, Boss.”
“Great.” Grant didn’t sound too thrilled. “What’s your ETA?”
“Five minutes,” Carson replied.
“Even better.” Grant ended the call, and the music filled the cab once more.
“He knows something.” She’d pulled the matchbook from her pocket and traced the edges with her fingertips.
“If that’s true, it will only help you,” he said.
“Unless I’m the reason for my troubles,” she murmured as she turned away from the reflection in the side mirror.
“What are you talking about?”
“Maybe I’ve done something horrible. There’s a lump of dread right here, Carson, in the pit of my stomach. You said the brain takes drastic action in terrible situations. What if I’m the real problem?”
“I don’t believe that.” Carson drove down the pier and parked in one of the spaces reserved for deliveries near the kitchen door.
“You don’t know me!” Her voice rose with each word. “I don’t know me.”
He put the truck in Park and pushed his sunglasses up to his hair as he scrambled for the right words. “You told me you were testing every new reaction and feeling off that one spark of trust you experienced overnight.”
“Yes, I trust you.” She sucked in a quick, shallow breath. “I don’t trust myself.” She gripped the seat belt, as if by holding on tightly she could stay in the truck rather than face the unknowns outside. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Nothing makes sense.”
“Relax and breathe.” He encouraged her as she inhaled deeply and exhaled a few times. “You trusted me by relying on intuition. It’s the same for me. No, I can’t claim to know you, but I’m almost certain you aren’t a criminal or that you brought any of this on yourself.”
She sent him a sideways glance. “I think that sentence would sound a lot better if you could use my name.”
He smiled at her and reached over to release her seat belt, easing her grip so it could retract completely. “You’re probably right, but it wouldn’t feel any different saying it.” He waited for her to meet his gaze. “Whatever Grant has or hasn’t learned about you, you won’t have to face it alone.”
With a single tense bob of her chin, she stopped arguing, and the color seeped back into her face. It was little relief as he replayed his words, hearing the implied promise. He’d committed himself to her cause, despite the nonexistent facts. He dropped his sunglasses back to the bridge of his nose, knowi
ng he’d stand by the promise, at least until her memory returned, if for no other reason than he didn’t have the heart to backpedal now.
* * *
“You won’t have to face it alone.” Carson’s comforting promise steadied her as much as his presence while he held open the nightclub’s back door for her. Her body felt like one giant ache from her toes to the top of her head with various sore spots throbbing in between. She felt as if she’d been in a car wreck and realized with a manic laugh inside her head that she might have been.
The thought caught her off guard. Did she know what a car wreck felt like? “Are my injuries consistent with a car accident?”
Carson paused as the door swung shut behind him. Behind his sunglasses, she could tell he was giving her a thorough once-over. After a moment, he shook his head. “Unlikely. Or maybe it’s safer to say that if you were in a car wreck, it was after someone beat the hell out of you.”
“Okay.” She caught back the thank-you that danced at the tip of her tongue, not wanting to make her sole ally in this mess any more uncomfortable. Her intuition told her gratitude was a key part of her personality, but she had to find some of the other missing pieces to go along with it and balance it out.
Down the hall, she heard a symphony of voices, none of them familiar. Yet something about the noise tickled a memory. Voices raised in agreement or discussion were an important clue to who she was. The sounds rose and fell as they passed the kitchen and walked toward Grant’s office. There were voices there, too. Both male, engaged in a more moderate discussion.
Carson stepped in front of her, a protective movement she appreciated. “Hi,” he greeted the men inside.
Grant and the other man stood up, and Grant motioned them forward. “Come on in. Carson, you’ve met Detective Neil Werner, right?”
“Sure.”
From her position just behind him, she saw the tension snap across Carson’s shoulders. She cursed her faulty brain, having no way to discern if she was the cause. Grant waved them in, his gaze catching on her, as if he wasn’t sure what he should call her. Suddenly uncomfortable, she wished the floor would swallow her up. Something else she was learning about herself was that she didn’t like being a burden or creating drama.
The detective stepped forward, offered his hand. His palm dwarfed hers, but his grip was gentle and warm. He was clearly dedicated to fitness as his broad shoulders strained against his suit. The close-cropped dark blond hair, the crow’s feet framing his soft blue eyes and the creases bracketing his mouth created a general sense of friendliness.
“As you’re surely aware, Grant reached out to me in an attempt to help you. Have a seat.” He gestured her toward the chair he’d just vacated.
Sitting down, she noticed she was effectively hemmed in. No way out, except through the three men. The knot of fear in her belly loosened as Carson sat down next to her. Catching the quick glance between the detective and Grant, her pulse kicked into overdrive. “You know who I am.”
The detective’s mouth curved into a faint smile. “Turns out your fingerprints are on file with the police.”
“I have a criminal record?” Shock coursed through her, cold and hard. She turned to Carson, but before she could release him from his rash promise, the detective waved a hand.
“No, no,” Werner assured her. “Your, ah, employer keeps fingerprint records as part of their security protocol.”
That sounded promising. “Who do I work for?”
The detective leaned back on Grant’s desk and studied his hands for a long moment. “After what Grant told me, I consulted with an expert before I came out here,” he said, finally meeting her gaze. “They think it’s best if I don’t force your memories onto you right now.”
“That wouldn’t help the amnesia?”
“So I’m told,” he said. “Your name also popped up in the course of a different investigation this morning.” He looked at Carson, arching his eyebrows. “I’m at a loss. I really don’t know how to proceed here.”
“Gently,” Carson suggested. “The simpler the better.”
“All right.” Detective Werner tugged at one ear, his mouth twisting to the side. “Does the name Melissa Baxter ring any bells?”
She shook her head and glanced at Carson. He only shrugged. “No, sir,” she replied.
“How about Noelle Anson?”
“Sorry, another blank.” She repeated the names in her head, willing some reaction or recognition to come forward. “Are either of those names mine?”
Werner squinted and winced. “Noelle’s body was found just up river early this morning. Her security badge from her place of employment was in her pocket, so we followed the lead, asked questions. Her coworkers and members of the security staff there remember seeing you with Noelle last night. The descriptions and fingerprints on Noelle’s personal belongings match up with you.”
“You’re saying my name is Melissa?”
“Melissa Baxter,” he confirmed with a serious nod. “You’re seen several times with Noelle on the security camera records, as well. Anson’s coworkers claim you were close friends.”
Why couldn’t she remember a detail as simple, as essential as her name? None of this information felt familiar or gave her an intuitive sense of rightness. A thousand questions chased each other through her mind, questions about herself, this friend and her workplace. The detective had the answers, yet she suspected hearing them wouldn’t help.
She was locked out of herself, and the dread was building. She didn’t feel like a Melissa, couldn’t dredge up any feeling for the dead woman. She stared at her hands as a buzzing sound filled her ears. Were they saying she was a killer? A warm hand covered hers, and she blinked rapidly to find Carson leaning close, watching her. No judgment in his hazel eyes, only a calm and comfort.
“Take a breath,” he said.
She tried, hiccuped. “I can’t remember anything about any of this. Have I killed someone? Would I kill a friend?”
“No.” The absolute confidence in his voice brought a rush of stinging tears to her eyes.
“You sound so sure,” she whispered.
“I am.”
“Carson, we can’t—” Grant began.
“She is not a killer.” Carson cut him off emphatically. “If you thought that, you’d be reading her her rights and pulling out the handcuffs.”
Grant’s chair creaked as he rocked back. “What are you thinking here, Werner?”
“I’m thinking Ms. Baxter needs a proper medical evaluation so I can get some real answers about her condition as well as the victim’s. The river took enough evidence already.”
“Look at her,” Carson said. “She’s a victim, too.”
“All the more reason for a doctor to find out what’s up with her memory. You can go along for the ride if you like.” The detective stepped toward the door but didn’t open it.
“No hospitals.” Her heart pounded against her rib cage as desperation and fear swamped her. She clutched Carson’s hand. “I’ll cooperate with the police, I swear it, but no hospitals. Please.”
“Apparently her abject terror at the idea hasn’t changed from last night,” Grant said. “I know you need leads, Werner, but it doesn’t seem as if Ms. Baxter has any to give you right now.”
Carson stood up, tugged her up with him. He kept his body between her and the detective. “I’m taking her home to rest.”
Werner didn’t budge. “Hang on a minute.”
“Do you have cause to hold her?”
“Hell, yes!” The detective folded his arms over his chest. “Best I can tell, she’s the last person to see her friend alive.”
She cringed at his tone, at his insistence that she was somehow linked with a dead body they’d pulled from the river.
“As soon as her memory returns, we
’ll call you,” Carson said. “Pushing her and stressing her out will only delay her recovery and your investigation.”
The detective muttered a curse under his breath. “She’s clearly been through some trauma. I want a doctor, not some washed-out paramedic, to tell me she’s not faking this amnesia thing.”
“Watch it, Werner.” Grant’s voice had dropped to a growl. “You’re in my house,” he added, coming to his feet. “You told me you wanted a conversation and you said you’d go easy with a woman who is more likely an eyewitness than the killer.”
“Come on.” Werner’s hand gripped the doorknob hard. “I need to speak with her alone.”
“No,” Carson and Grant said in unison.
She watched the exchange, fascinated and horrified all at once.
“When you have a weapon with her fingerprints on it or a cause of death Melissa could manage, come on back,” Grant said. “Until then, we’ll keep an eye on her. You have my word. Carson and I will help her through this, and when her memory returns, you’ll be our first call.”
“Damn it, Sullivan. That isn’t good enough.”
“It will have to be for today.” Grant flared his hands. “This is awkward, to be sure.” He moved around to open the office door, adding his stocky body as another obstacle between the detective and her. “You keep working the case on your side, we’ll work it from this side, and I’m sure we’ll find justice for everyone in the middle.”
“That’s a thin line, Grant,” Werner said. “We go way back, but this is pushing the friendship.”
“We’ll get through it.” Grant pulled the door shut behind him as he ushered the detective out of the office. Their voices faded away.
“Am I a killer?” she asked herself in the long silence that followed.
“No.” Carson put his hands on her shoulders and studied her face with his intriguing hazel eyes. “You have a headache.”
The man had a gift for noticing the details and medical assessment. “Could it be a reaction to suppressed guilt?”