by Regan Black
At last she pushed back from him, blotting her face with the cuff of her denim jacket. “This isn’t home, Carson.”
“Okay.” Maybe she’d moved and hadn’t updated her information yet. Although it wasn’t a definitive reason to take her to a hospital, he’d have to let Grant know about her panic attack at the sight of her house. “Can you tell me what home looks like?”
“No,” she murmured. She scooted back to the passenger seat and snapped her seat belt. “I’m trying. Can I please abuse your hospitality a little longer? And borrow more clothes from your sisters?”
“Sure thing.” He was thinking he should probably call his sisters in to give her someone else to lean on. It was only a matter of time before he made a mistake and let her down.
She pulled the matchbook from her pocket, then the business card. “I didn’t have a purse. Today every woman I’ve seen has been carrying some kind of purse or tote. What happened to mine?”
He wished he had an answer. Carson pulled away from the converted house and decided to take the long route to his place. Whether it was the scenery, lack of a formal destination or some other reason, being on the move seemed to soothe her. “After an accident or an emergency, a lot of female patients ask that question,” he said after they’d left her neighborhood. “About the purse, I mean. It’s a kind of lifeline. Grant and Werner will already have people on alert for action on your credit cards or identification. You may feel alone and disconnected, but there are people in your corner.”
“People who have no way of knowing if I’m worth their effort,” she said.
He reached over and covered her hand with his. “You’re worth it.”
She just shook her head, her dark hair swaying over her shoulder. “I hope you’re right.”
“It is absolutely normal to be scared, Melissa. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” He was definitely a coward, wishing he could wipe out his final memories of Sarah. He’d tried everything to forget, to no avail. He understood how the department chaplain and others wanted to help, but that horrible night wouldn’t fade.
“That house was really my address?” she asked, drawing him away from what had become a familiar slide into despair.
He cleared his throat and focused on her. His personal problems would be there after her situation was resolved. “According to the records that popped up with your fingerprints.” She sounded stronger with the distance from her apartment. “Maybe the record needs to be updated.”
“Home isn’t one place,” she whispered a few minutes later.
“Pardon?”
“I don’t know, but it feels right. Home isn’t one place,” she repeated. “Home is...” Her voice trailed off, and she groaned. “It was right there, a glimpse of my memory, and I lost it.”
“For now. I think that’s a good sign you’ll make a full recovery.” He glanced over and saw the frown tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Relax. Paramedic’s orders.”
He saw the ploy worked when she smiled at him. “Thanks for putting up with me.”
“No problem.” And it wasn’t. He hadn’t been all that comfortable with the idea at first, concerned that she might need medical attention more than his observation. While he didn’t think she was completely out of the woods yet, he wasn’t worried that they were doing more harm by honoring her wish to avoid hospitals.
Her panic wouldn’t help her amnesia recovery or anything else. “Let’s go see if my sister came through with the arnica oil, and we’ll just take it easy for the rest of the day.”
“You can do that?”
He nodded. “Can and will.” With luck, having Melissa at the house would be enough of a distraction to ward off the loneliness and flashes of Sarah’s voice and face that he dealt with day in and day out.
* * *
Melissa found an absurd comfort and sense of peace in her head and her heart when she saw the small, dark bottle of arnica oil on Carson’s kitchen counter. The note from his sister left him shaking his head, and she wondered again if she was an only child. Or maybe she was an orphan. The detective hadn’t mentioned that she had any family in the city, only a job and a friend. A dead friend.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she took the oil to the downstairs bathroom and smoothed the oil onto the battered skin. When she finished, she stretched out on the couch to watch television in Carson’s den, again relaxing per paramedic’s orders.
She learned that resting a brain wasn’t as easy as it should have been, especially for her, with no memories, responsibilities or guilt to get in the way.
Though she didn’t feel tired, she discovered the afternoon had slipped away and the sun had set when she woke to warm, savory scents drifting on the air. She stretched and sat up, trying to feel like Melissa Baxter. Giving up on that exercise after several wasted minutes, she walked into the kitchen and found Carson hunched over his phone at the island.
Though he turned and smiled, she caught the shadows of sadness in his hazel eyes. “Something smells fantastic,” she said.
“It’s Becky’s famous lasagna. She’s the chef in the family.”
“Did she come by to check on you?” She bit back the query of how much he’d shared about her. Maybe his family was simply trying to make sure his forgetful patient, who was also a possible murderer, hadn’t decided to take a second life in as many days.
“Yes. They’ve all been hovering more after...after Sarah died.”
“Oh.” That must have been a nice feeling, to have someone care and hover and check in. “Do you think the detective is keeping me away from my family?”
“Huh?” Carson tilted his head. “That’s a good question. I don’t see how that would help his case or you, either, but I can double-check with Grant if it bothers you.”
She studied the label on the bottle of arnica oil. Had someone cared enough to teach her about this trick, or was it something she’d taught herself? “I’m not bothered, exactly. I guess I’m just trying to figure out how much trouble I’m in.”
“Stop trying to figure out anything and let your mind rest. If Werner had some valid evidence that you killed someone, you’d be in custody, amnesia or not.”
“Right.”
At Carson’s direction, she tossed fresh salad greens together with a blue cheese dressing that appealed to her taste buds after tasting the options he had on hand. She set the serving bowl on the table while he served each of them a hearty square of the cheesy lasagna.
Carson made small talk about the Escape Club and how and why Grant Sullivan had opened the place. It made her sad to hear he’d been wounded in the line of duty, but she smiled at the man’s triumph over the situation. “You should hear him on drums,” Carson said. “He could’ve made a career out of that.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“The man is third-generation cop. It’s hardwired into his DNA. If I had to guess, the music is his release valve and serves him better that way.”
Every conversation she had created more questions about who she was and what might be hardwired into her. Did she have passions and release valves? Generations of family she’d followed into her career at the museum? She liked music, but she didn’t think she played an instrument. She’d had a great time at the zoo with both the animals and people watching. Did that mean she worked with the public?
“I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.” Carson pointed his fork at her plate. “Focus on the food, just the food for now.”
She did as he asked, simply in honor of the way he’d upended his life for her. “Is this the house where you grew up?”
He shook his head. “My parents are too glued to their empty nest to vacate. They finally remodeled after my youngest sister moved out. I got to pitch in because they used a friend of mine in the fire department for the interior updates. The
y claim the house is now fortified and ready for grandkids to wreck it.”
“Are there grandkids?”
“Two so far, courtesy of Renee and her husband. She’s the one who brought over the oil.”
“Oh, I should thank her for that.”
Carson chuckled. “Trust me, the fact that I asked for it is all the encouragement and praise she needs.”
Melissa grinned at him. “You work with a construction company in addition to shifts at the club and your job as a paramedic?”
He nodded, and something niggled at the edge of her mind, as if that movement should have been familiar.
“You could say the release valve for me is demo day on a construction site.”
She studied his face and hands, remembered the strength in his arms when he’d held her during her meltdown in the truck. “I can see that.”
“Can you?”
She grinned, as curious about her observation as he seemed to be. “Nothing more objective than a stranger,” she quipped. “Good grief. That sounds like something I heard as a kid.”
“I think your parents must be unique people.”
She’d hoped he would toss out more theories so she could see if they fit, but he dug into his meal instead. She did the same, although the silence was companionable and comforting.
“Your eye is looking better,” he said as they took care of the dishes together. “Not as puffy and definitely not as colorful. Renee won’t let me live it down.”
When they finished the meal, Melissa covered the lasagna pan with foil and slid it into the refrigerator while Carson loaded the dishwasher. “Your sister has a gift,” she said, pressing a hand to her stomach. “That was divine.”
“Agreed.” At the sink, Carson dried his hands and folded the towel over one of the hooks at the end of the counter. “Is your headache gone?”
“Yes, thanks to you.”
“See? There’s one more reason I’m sure you’re not the problem child in this equation.”
The remark caught her off guard. “What do you mean?”
“You’re thoughtful, kind and quick to show gratitude.”
“Are you saying that in some subtle effort to encourage my memory?”
He shook his head. “I only want to reinforce that you’re in a safe place when your memory returns.”
She appreciated the gesture and his efforts, so much that she had to blink back a rush of tears. Crying didn’t seem like something she normally indulged in, and it felt as if she’d hit her quota outside what they’d been told was her apartment.
“Feel like a movie?” he asked.
“Sure. As long as you choose.”
“Can’t remember any favorites?” he queried with an easy smile.
“Not so far.” The idea of watching a movie made her feel lighthearted, as if it was some kind of rare treat. That didn’t make much sense if she had her own place, but whatever. She had to let her mind come back online at its own pace.
Carson chose a romantic comedy his sisters loved. The blend of action, romance, laughter and fun held her attention. She relaxed, curled into the corner of his big couch and just let the story wash over her. When the credits rolled, she was smiling and full of good feelings with only the smallest twinge of a headache behind her eyes. “That was a great idea.”
“I’m glad.” He walked over, ejected the DVD and returned it to the case.
His entertainment system switched over to the television broadcast, and she recognized the anchors on the news. Considering that small revelation progress, she begged Carson to let her watch for a few minutes. Suddenly her face filled the screen along with her name. Melissa froze as a picture of Noelle Anson followed, along with overhead views of the place where the body was found. The view changed again, showing a reporter standing outside a hospital where Noelle’s coworkers had created a makeshift memorial.
She heard Carson’s voice, muffled and distant, then closer. The reporter’s voice died and the television screen went black. Carson held her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Melissa! Melissa, breathe.”
Had she stopped breathing? His hands were on her arms, rubbing briskly. She was so cold and trembling again.
“Breathe. Slow and easy,” he said over and over. “Look at me now. Come on.”
She followed the sound of his voice, struggled to cooperate with his requests. Her eyes locked with his, registering the abject worry in his hazel eyes. “What is wrong with me?”
“Trauma. It leaves a ton of wreckage.”
She heard the experience and pure sympathy in his voice. If he could get over what happened to his ambulance partner, she could fight back from this abyss to help her friend.
“Did they say they were looking for leads?”
“Yes.”
“Looking for information on me?”
“They said they were looking for people who saw you together last night.”
She had a sudden fear that this mess would cost her the museum job. On instinct alone she knew that kind of fallout would be awful for her. On the heels of that, she felt dreadful that she’d apparently lost a good friend and was selfish enough to worry about her work rather than a woman’s life. “I’m a terrible person,” she muttered.
“You didn’t hurt your friend.”
“I want to believe you. I almost do. But my friend is dead, and inside—” she tapped her fingers over her heart “—I’m actually worried about my job.” She couldn’t look at him. It was bad enough to say it all out loud. She couldn’t bear to see the judgment in his eyes.
Carson tipped up her face so she had to look at him. “That’s human, Melissa.”
“I don’t even remember what I do.” Her voice cracked on a borderline hysterical laugh. “I don’t—”
She gasped when Carson tugged her to her feet and nudged her along to the kitchen.
“Chocolate. You’ll have something sweet, and then we’re going to bed.”
“What?” The image of being in bed beside his lean, warm body gave her mind something new and tempting to latch onto. An utterly inappropriate choice, but she couldn’t reel it back in.
“I, ah. I didn’t say that quite right. Have a seat.” He guided her to the counter stool. “I have it on good authority, which adds up to pretty much every woman I know, that chocolate fixes everything. So you’ll have chocolate and then you’re going up to your room and sleeping. You don’t have to worry about me interrupting you at all tonight.”
“Okay.” Sleeping alone in the twin bed didn’t hold as much appeal as sleeping beside him, but it was the smart solution. He was taking care of her, and she’d have been crazy to give in to the attraction pulsing through her blood at the moment. “Chocolate sounds perfect,” she managed.
A slice of cake appeared in front of her. It was airy and nearly black, and the aroma alone eased her frayed nerves.
“Ice cream?” Carson had a small pint of ice cream in one hand, scoop ready in the other.
“No, thank you.”
“More for me,” he said with an easy shrug. He topped his slice of the dark cake with a generous scoop of ice cream and then returned the remaining ice cream to the freezer. He raised his fork in a dessert version of a toast, and they dug in.
The cake was amazing, the rich cocoa flavor melting in her mouth. “Your sister again?”
“Yes,” he said. “But this is a family recipe. My mom used to make this all the time because it’s so fast and easy.”
“This?” She turned her plate, wondering how something so intense and delicious could be easy. “If we find out I like to cook, I want the recipe.”
“Deal.”
She believed he’d honor that deal, just as he kept his word and insisted she head straight up to the bedroom as soon as she finished her cak
e. He refused her offer to take care of the dishes, practically pushing her up the stairs.
In the bathroom, she washed her face, brushed her hair and teeth, and changed into the T-shirt he’d brought in for her last night. So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours.
This time she pulled back the covers and slipped between the sheets, but sleep eluded her. Staring up at the dark ceiling, she thought about Carson’s confidence in her, even without her memories. She prayed her mind would cooperate soon. The police needed to know who had killed her friend and beaten her up. She had to remember, no matter what those memories revealed about who she was and how she was involved.
Chapter 4
When he heard the guest room door close with a quiet click, Carson picked up his phone and called Grant. He had to leave a message, no surprise this close to midnight on a Saturday. The Escape Club had become one of Philly’s hottest spots for great music.
Less than ten minutes later, his phone hummed with an incoming call, and a picture of the neon-blue club logo filled the screen. “You guys okay?” Grant asked as soon as Carson picked up. “Has she remembered anything?”
“Nothing helpful. We drove around a little and spent some time at the zoo as a distraction.”
“Yeah, Detective Werner mentioned that.”
“What?” Carson asked. “You’re saying Werner put a tail on her? On us?” And Carson had been oblivious. While he wasn’t exactly Melissa’s bodyguard, he felt responsible for her, and the discovery unsettled him.
“I assumed he’d have someone keeping track of her,” Grant pointed out. “She’s the best connection to the victim. Werner pestered me with questions about how being a tourist would repair her brain. I told him you knew what you were doing.”
Carson wished he had that much confidence in himself. “Thanks for standing up for both of us. Forcing her to a hospital or doctor would’ve been the worst move.”
“What happened that you’re so sure?”
Leave it to Grant’s cop instincts to pick up on every nuance. “Hang on.” Carson had heard a creaky floorboard overhead and paused to listen. Satisfied she wasn’t coming back downstairs, he told Grant about the panic attack near her apartment. “She’s really struggling to remember. It’s obvious she wants to help, but this kind of thing can’t be forced.”