by Lisa Childs
As they walked down the hall, she studied the building—the dark wood walls and terrazzo floors. The building was old and dark, but it wasn’t run-down. It wasn’t even dated. It was fairly ageless.
But the man who opened the door at Agent Reyes’s knock wasn’t ageless. His body was stooped with arthritis, so that his head barely came to Dalton’s chest. His face was heavily lined, his eyes clouded with cataracts.
“Mr. Schultz?” Dalton asked.
The older man nodded. “Who are you? I hope not salesmen. I have no money or time for your pitch.” He shuffled back a step as if getting ready to slam shut his door.
Dalton held out his badge. “I’m FBI—Special Agent Reyes,” he introduced himself.
“An FBI agent?” the old man asked. He pulled Dalton’s badge closer to his face and studied it through narrowed eyes. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He chuckled. “Tell me what I’ve done.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong, Mr. Schultz,” Dalton assured the elderly man.
Mr. Schultz chuckled again. “Depending on what kind of day my wife is having, she might tell you differently.” He stepped back and gestured for them to step inside his apartment.
She glanced around, hoping to see something familiar. But nothing struck a chord. Like the hallway, his apartment was classic—polished hardwood floors and smooth plaster walls. It looked familiar in that she could have seen it on TV or in a movie or even a magazine.
Magazines and photo albums were piled atop a coffee table. Mr. Schultz gestured them to the floral sofa behind the table. “Take a seat. Would you like some coffee or tea?”
Initially unwelcoming, the elderly man now seemed grateful for company.
“We don’t want you to go to any trouble,” she told him.
“No trouble at all,” he assured her. “I’m the chief cook and bottle washer around here.” With that, he waved them down onto the couch before he disappeared through an arched doorway into what must have been the kitchen.
“Does he know?” she asked.
Dalton shook his head. “I don’t know. He never reported the car missing.”
“Who are you?” a woman asked. She stood in the doorway of what must have been a bedroom off the living room. Her hair was white and neatly combed, her face not quite as heavily lined as her husband’s...if she were Mrs. Schultz.
They both stood as she stepped out of the room to join them.
“I’m FBI Special Agent Dalton Reyes,” he introduced himself but hesitated when he turned to her.
She hesitated, too. What should she call herself? Jane Doe? Mercedes, as Agent Reyes had suggested with a morbid sense of humor, since that was the kind of car she’d been found in? Mr. Schultz’s car.
“You’re Sybil,” the woman answered for her.
And hope had her heart swelling. “You know who I am?”
The woman laughed. “Of course I do.” She reached her arms around her and pulled her into a surprisingly strong embrace despite her fragile build. “You’re my daughter...”
Mr. Schultz stepped back into the room, a tray clutched in his gnarled hands. Reyes quickly took the tray from him, but just held it when he realized there was no place to put it on the table.
“I’m sorry,” the elderly man said as he tugged the older woman away. “My wife often gets confused.”
“So I’m not...Sybil?” she asked.
The old man stared at her with the same pity with which he regarded his wife. “You don’t know who you are?”
She shook her head. “I have a concussion that’s caused memory loss.”
Mr. Schultz offered her a pitying sigh. “And you’re so young.” He helped his wife into a chair near the couch. “Rose was seventy when she first started having problems remembering...”
She didn’t even know how old she was. Possibly late twenties? Maybe thirty? Not much younger than Dalton Reyes, she would bet.
“Does she have Alzheimer’s?” Dalton asked quietly as if worried that he might upset Mrs. Schultz. Maybe his edges weren’t that rough since he could be sensitive, too.
Mr. Schultz nodded.
“My grandma had it,” Dalton said.
“Everyone has someone in their life who’s been affected by it,” Mr. Schultz said with no self-pity, just resignation. He turned back to her. “But you’re too young to be losing your memory. Do the doctors think it will come back?”
She shrugged. “They don’t know.”
“They don’t know nearly enough about the mind.” He took the tray from Dalton and found an end table to put it on and then he handed them each a cup of coffee. “And I don’t know yet why you’re here.”
“Did you recently loan your car to someone?” Dalton asked before taking a gulp of the strong black coffee.
She sipped it with a grimace before reaching for the sugar Mr. Schultz handed her.
The older man settled into a chair next to his wife. She’d fallen silent now and withdrawn into her own little world inside what was left of her mind. He patted her hand reassuringly, lovingly, and Mrs. Schultz glanced up at him with confusion and absolutely no recognition.
She didn’t even know her husband.
Was her mind the same? Had she passed her apartment and not even recognized it? Had she passed her fiancé and not even recognized him?
“I don’t have anyone to loan my car to,” Mr. Schultz answered Dalton’s question.
“What about Sybil?” she asked. “And her husband or her kids?”
“Sybil died of leukemia in her teens,” Mr. Schultz said, “before she even had a serious boyfriend. So no husband. No kids. And she was our only child.” Again there was no self-pity in his voice. But there was pain now—pain that seemed fresh even though Sybil must have died many years ago.
“I’m sorry,” she said—in unison with Dalton as he expressed his sympathy, as well.
Maybe Mrs. Schultz was better off than her husband. Since she didn’t remember her daughter dying, she didn’t suffer like Mr. Schultz. The poor man had lost his child, and now he was losing his wife.
“You wouldn’t have loaned your car to a neighbor?” Dalton asked. “A friend?”
“No. I have the keys in the kitchen,” answered Mr. Schultz, “both sets. I can prove to you that I have the car.”
Dalton shook his car. “I have the car—at an FBI garage. It was stolen.”
Mr. Schultz shook his head. “No, that’s not possible.”
“When did you use it last?”
The old man gestured toward his eyes. “Not since my doctor told me I couldn’t drive anymore until I get my cataracts removed. So, months...”
The car could have been taken a while ago, and he wouldn’t have even noticed.
“And you don’t recognize me?” she asked. “You haven’t seen me in the building or anywhere?”
He peered through narrowed eyes, studying her face and hair. “I would have remembered a redhead.” He shook his head. “No, honey, I’m sorry.”
“I know you...” the older woman murmured. “I know you...”
She shivered, uncertain to whom Mrs. Schultz was speaking—her or herself. Would she wind up like that—murmuring to herself—if her memory never returned?
* * *
DAMN IT! HE was still furious that he had been duped. He should have known better than to think Agent Reyes would have left the woman to the protection of the inept state trooper. But he hadn’t lost much time, because he’d guessed where they were going. Reyes had obviously traced the car back to the owner—in Chicago.
That was his city. So it would be even easier for him to take care of them—especially given what he’d learned at the hospital. It hadn’t been a total waste of time.
He had managed to eavesdrop on some nurses’ conversation. And he’d found out why the only ones coming to see her in the hospital had been law enforcement officers.
She had no idea who she was.
Too bad that she would be dead before she even had a chance to rem
ember...
Chapter Seven
She leaned over the railing, staring at the water below as if she was contemplating jumping into the cold depths. Dalton shouldn’t have brought her walking around the city—especially not out here on Navy Pier.
He kept his gaze on her as he stepped away to take a call. His phone had been vibrating in his pocket, but he hadn’t dared to take it at the Schultzes’ apartment. He’d kept hoping that they would actually recognize her. But with Mrs. Schultz’s dementia and Mr. Schultz’s cataracts, they probably wouldn’t have recognized her even if she had actually been their daughter.
“Agent Reyes,” he identified himself to the number who’d kept dialing him. Hopefully, someone else had come up with a lead to the attacker and to her identity since he had come up empty-handed.
“Reyes? This is Agent Bell.”
He swallowed a groan. He wanted a lead, but he would have preferred to get one from someone else—because he suspected Bell’s would lead him back to the Bride Butcher serial killer. But at this point, he didn’t care; he had to have something to follow because Mr. Schultz had given him nothing. “Do you have something for me?”
“Are you all right? You and the woman?” Bell asked, his voice full of concern.
“Yeah, we’re fine.” He was only speaking for himself, though. She wasn’t fine. She had pushed herself too hard in the hopes of finding something familiar, but those hopes had been dashed. By bringing her along to follow a dead-end lead, he had dashed her hopes of learning her identity. “Why wouldn’t we be fine?”
“Someone ambushed Trooper Littlefield in the hospital restroom and stole his uniform.”
He cursed. “Is he okay?”
“No.”
He cursed again—loud enough that he drew her attention from the water to him. He took a deep breath, controlling his anger. He didn’t want to upset her any more than she already was.
So he pitched his voice low and asked, “Is he dead?”
“He’s in a medically induced coma,” Bell replied. “He took a helluva blow to the head. They’re not sure he’s going to make it.”
“I should drive back to Michigan.” He had brought the state trooper into this case with that damn bulletin he’d put out for leads to his car theft ring.
“No,” Bell replied. “Keep her away from here. Keep her safe.”
He was afraid that he had already put her at risk just bringing her here. He clicked off his cell and slid it back into his pocket just as she slowly approached him.
Her legs looked shaky; she looked shaky, as if she was totally exhausted. But before he could ask her, she asked him, “Is everything all right?”
He had promised not to keep anything from her. But he wasn’t sure she could handle knowing that Trooper Littlefield might not be as lucky as she’d been. He might lose more than his memory.
“No, it’s not,” he answered her honestly. “We need to leave here. All this walking and trying to remember has been too much for you.”
She didn’t argue with him, so she must have been exhausted—so exhausted that she swayed on her feet. He reached out and slid his arm around her shoulders—for support and protection. He started walking along the pier, toward the parking area. But she stopped and clutched at his arm. Her fingers were cold against his skin, but still her touch heated his blood.
“I don’t want to leave,” she said.
“Why?” he asked. “Does this area seem familiar?” He’d already asked her, but he didn’t know how amnesia worked. Would something just click in her mind and all of her memories would come rushing back?
She shook her head, tumbling her hair around her shoulders. The setting sun shimmered on the shiny tresses, making the red glow like fire. “No. It’s just...”
She sounded so lost that sympathy and concern clutched his heart.
“What is it?” he asked.
She turned her face to his, tears glimmering in her pale gray eyes. “I—I don’t want to leave here because...”
Maybe it was because she was so strong that her tears affected him so much—as if she’d crawled inside him, and her pain had become his. He tightened his arm around her and pulled her against his chest.
Her breath tickled his throat when she murmured, “I have no place to go.”
* * *
SHE CRINGED THINKING of how pathetic she must have sounded. Of everything she had been through, it shouldn’t have hit her so hard that she had no place to go. She had been released from the hospital, so she couldn’t go back there.
Where else could she go?
She didn’t know who she was, let alone where she lived.
Dalton hadn’t said anything in reply to her pathetic comment. He had just whisked her out to the parking lot and into his SUV. Then he’d driven her here—to another apartment complex near River North.
“Where are we?” she asked as he led her through the parking garage to an elevator. “Do you have another lead?”
She’d hoped that was what his phone call had been about, but he had seemed too upset for it to have been good news.
“No,” he said. “But it’s too late and you’re too exhausted to do any more running around or driving around. You need to rest.”
So why hadn’t he brought her to a hotel? Or to a holding cell for protective custody?
“Where are we?” she asked again.
But he didn’t answer her. He pressed a button for the twentieth floor. They rode the elevator in silence, the only sound the swoosh of air as the car quickly rose. This building was newer than the Schultzes’, or at least it had been recently renovated—probably converted from a warehouse or factory into pricey urban lofts. As they stepped off the elevator, she could see that the ceiling was high and exposed even in the hallway—the boards painted black, the walls all exposed brick. He stopped at a door and punched in a code, and then the metal door slid open like a barn door along the wall.
He stepped back and gestured her inside in front of him. “We’re home,” he said.
Hope flickered in her heart and must have shone on her face because he clarified, “My home.”
She stepped into his place and stared in awe at the tall windows looking out over the river. Like the hall, it was all exposed brick and timber and metal ductwork.
“How much do FBI agents make?” she murmured. “Maybe I should become one.”
With another punch of the console by the door, it slid closed again. And suddenly she felt very isolated and alone with a man she really barely knew.
Sure, he had saved her life. But what else did she know about him?
He had been in a gang. He’d grown up on the streets. Had he really given up that life? Or was he using it to finance his lifestyle?
He looked around him with a strange mix of pride and sadness in his dark eyes. “I have my grandma to thank for this place.”
“She lived here?”
“No, we lived in South Side.”
“We?”
He nodded. “She raised me...in a tiny little studio apartment above a convenience store. She worked three jobs and barely spent a dime—saving it all for me to go to college someday. I used that money to buy this condo.”
“You didn’t go to college?”
“I’ve got my bachelor’s in criminal justice,” he confirmed, “but my work as a gang informant and a couple scholarships paid for my tuition. I didn’t use any of her savings or life insurance money until I bought this place.”
Maybe it was because she knew nothing about her own life that she was so interested in his—or maybe it was just that she was interested in him. “When did she die?”
“Before I graduated high school,” he said. “She got confused...” His usually grinning face contorted with a grimace of pain. “And she got into it with some gang members...”
Now the pain was in his voice. Like the pounding in her head, she could feel it, too. She reached for him, clutching his hand as he had so often clutched hers to offer comfort an
d support.
His voice cracked with emotion when he continued, “She died...”
She gasped in horror. “They killed her?”
His head jerked in a sharp nod. “A confused old lady. And they showed her no mercy.”
“That’s when,” she said with sudden realization, “that’s when you figured out what was right and what was wrong.”
“What?”
“It was something your friend Claire said—that you weren’t like Agents Campbell and Stryker, who always knew right from wrong,” she explained. “She said that you had to figure it out for yourself.”
He shook his head. “No, Grandma taught me right from wrong,” he said. “I just hadn’t paid any attention to her—I hadn’t listened to her—until she was gone.”
She didn’t realize she was crying until she felt the dampness on her face. “I’m so sorry.”
He shrugged off her sympathy. “That was a long time ago.”
But like Mr. Schultz, he wasn’t over the loss or the pain. For Dalton, it was what motivated him to be such a good agent. That motivation had saved her life.
“Don’t cry,” he said as he lifted his free hand to her face and wiped away her tears. “Don’t cry...”
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I shouldn’t be crying —”
“Oh, you should,” he said. “You have every right to cry, but for yourself, for everything you’ve lost. You shouldn’t be crying for my loss.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know what I lost. Maybe I should be happy I don’t remember.” She glanced down at that ring on her hand—the hand that was holding Dalton’s. “Especially if my fiancé is the person who put me in that trunk.”
Dalton sighed. “You don’t know that.”
“Why hasn’t he filed a report that I’m missing, then?” she asked.
He spoke slowly, almost reluctantly, when he said, “There could be another reason.”
That reluctance had her stomach flipping with dread. “Another reason.”
“You already considered it,” he reminded her. “That he could have been with you when you were attacked. That was why you asked about other DNA in the trunk.”