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“The interrogation went on for twelve hours and he didn’t crack,” Mitch said. “But the D.A. thinks we have enough physical evidence to convict.”
“This your stuff?” Greene asked, motioning to his groceries.
“Yeah.” Mitch glanced down at his cart. No time to pay for it now. Besides, the death-by-chocolate ice cream was oozing out and creating a brown puddle on the floor. He’d just have to stop somewhere on the way home, which by the looks of things, wouldn’t be until morning.
Greene gestured to the basket the employee had dropped. “What about that stuff?”
“It’s not part of the crime scene. You find anything else, page me.”
“Where are you headed?”
“I’m going over to the hospital to get an ID on her,” Mitch said. “With any luck, I’ll have this case wrapped up by morning.”
Pain, sharp and relentless, lanced the back of her head, pounded through her brain like a jackhammer and wrapped itself around her eyeballs. She tried to lift her lids, but piercing white light seared her retinas.
“That’s it,” a voice said. It sounded distant, muffled. “Open your eyes.”
“Too bright,” she muttered, nearly choking on her own words. Her mouth felt funny, as if it had been stuffed with cotton.
“Why don’t we try sitting you up a little.” There was a humming sound, and she felt herself rising, as if some invisible force held her suspended in midair. Maybe she was dead. There had been a bright light.
Nah. Heaven wouldn’t smell like rubbing alcohol. And it wouldn’t be so loud. All around her she heard the drone of muffled voices, odd beeps and bleeps, the thud of footsteps. Did people in heaven even have feet?
She tried to swallow, but her tongue felt thick and sticky. “Water?” she croaked, her voice sounding coarse and unfamiliar.
A straw touched her lips but she sucked a bit too enthusiastically. The shock of the cold liquid made her gag and choke. Water spewed from her mouth and dribbled down her chin.
That must have been attractive. When she was able to speak, she would have to apologize to whoever it was she’d just sprayed. With caution, she forced her lids open, blinking several times to clear her vision, and found herself gazing into a pair of deep-set, chocolate brown eyes.
“Want to try that again?” he asked, holding up a plastic cup. His deep voice enfolded her like soft flannel, and any apprehension she’d been feeling melted away.
Entranced, she nodded and he lifted the cup, holding the straw to her lips.
“Take it slow this time.”
She sucked in a few drops, rolling it around on her tongue before letting it slide down her throat. Much better. She sipped slowly on the straw, and all the while he kept those dark, watchful eyes trained on her. When she’d had enough, he set the cup on the tray beside her bed.
Bed? The haze in her peripheral vision cleared and her surroundings came into focus. “Where am I?”
“In the hospital. You were attacked. Do you remember what happened?”
“Attacked?” She tried to lean forward and was stopped short by a stab of pain at the base of her skull. She winced, squeezing her lids together.
He curled one large hand over her shoulder and pressed her back against the mattress. “Relax, you’ve got a pretty good lump on the back of your head.”
That would explain the excruciating pain. She reached up to touch it, but tangled herself in her IV lines instead.
“Here, let me.” Though his voice held a note of irritation and his eyes mirrored the emotion, his touch was undeniably gentle as he unwrapped the tubes from her fingers. When she was free, she reached up, grazing the small bandage taped to the back of her head. Considering the pain, she’d expected to find half her skull gone. This didn’t seem so bad.
“Did you see who hit you?”
She shook her head, regretting the move instantly, as another wave of nauseating pain swept through her. “I don’t remember being hit.”
His face grim, he perched on the edge of her bed, and produced a small notepad out of the dark leather jacket he wore. Everything about him was dark. Dark clothes, dark hair, dark eyes. Even his expression was dark. “You were found with no identification. If you give me your name and number I’ll call your family.”
She must have looked confused, because he added, “I’m Detective Mitch Thompson. Twin Oaks P.D.”
“Twin Oaks?” she asked and he flashed her a badge. Twin Oaks, Michigan. Why didn’t that sound familiar?
“If you’ll just give me your name.”
“My name?”
“Yes, your name,” he said. “I need to contact your family. They’re probably worried about you.”
“Right.” Her family would be worried, wouldn’t they? She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing happened. No name popped out.
She tried again, but still, nothing.
She looked down at the band on her wrist. Jane Doe. No, that wasn’t right. She swallowed hard, a cold, itchy panic churning her belly. She tried again to summon a name, a mental picture of herself, but there was nothing there. No names, no familiar faces. No family.
Nothing.
This was all wrong. She clutched the thin blanket, willing her brain to work harder, to concentrate past the frantic thumping of her heart. The rush of blood echoed in her ears like static on a radio. If she could just turn the dial, adjust the frequency…
But there was nothing. It was as if a hole had been punched in her memory and her identity had just…leaked out.
“Are you okay?” Detective Thompson was on his feet. “Maybe I should get a doctor.”
She thrust her arm out, clutching the sleeve of his jacket, oblivious to the pain the action induced. He was the only thing familiar, the only thing that felt real. “Don’t leave me alone.”
“Relax.” He eased himself down, covering her hand with his own, prying it from his sleeve. His hand was warm and soft, comforting to the smallest degree. “If you tell me who you are, I can call your family.”
“Family?” The panic rose, filling her throat with bile and gagging her. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. Did she have a family? Wouldn’t she remember them?
A frown darkened his face even more. “Who are you afraid of? Did someone you know hurt you?”
Someone she knew? But, she didn’t know anyone.
“Do you know who did this? Don’t be afraid. I can protect you.”
“I—I can’t tell you,” she said. Hearing the words, in a voice so foreign it should have belonged to a stranger, sent an icy chill up her spine. Bile surged up, until she had to fight to keep it down.
“Why can’t you tell me?”
“Because, I—I don’t know who I am.”
Chapter 2
Mitch pulled on the hospital scrubs the nurse had given him and shoved his soiled clothes into a plastic bag. In the span of about four hours he’d been bled on, spit on and puked on. It was all a part of the job, although he didn’t typically encounter such a variety of bodily functions in one night. And he still had no identity on Jane Doe or the slightest clue who attacked her. No evidence had been found at the crime scene and no one shopping or working in the store had seen or heard a thing. As Greene had predicted, the security tape quality was very poor so they doubted a positive ID would be possible. It didn’t look like the victim was going to be much help, either.
He strapped on his holster and shrugged into his jacket.
With a weary sigh, he pushed open the bathroom door and walked back to Jane Doe’s cubicle. The doctor in charge of her care stood beside the bed checking her pulse. She was asleep now, probably all worn out from that Exorcist routine she’d pulled earlier.
The doctor checked her IV then motioned for Mitch to follow him, sliding the curtain closed on his way out.
“So,” Mitch asked. “How is she?”
“Mild concussion. We’d like to keep her overnight, just in case.”
“And the amnesia?”
“Temporary, I’m sure. The blow to the head wasn’t that severe. Her memory loss was probably brought on by the psychological trauma. It could last days or weeks. Typically something will trigger a memory, a familiar name or face. I don’t think she’ll suffer any permanent damage.”
“Could she be faking it?”
“Of course it’s possible. There is something I’d like to show you.” He led Mitch past the nurses’ station to a wall of X rays. “Due to the nature of her injuries, we checked for possible skull fractures and broken bones in the arms and hands.”
Mitch gazed up at the films spanning half the wall. “What am I looking for?”
“See these?” He indicated several areas in the X ray. “They’re healed fractures. I counted seven altogether. Two in the skull, four fingers, her right arm. She also has an appendectomy scar, so I had films taken of her torso, as well.”
“She had her appendix removed?”
He led him down to another set of films. “That, and I found four healed rib fractures. I didn’t X-ray the legs, so there could be more.”
“Christ.” Gazing up at the films, he shook his head, disgust roiling his stomach. It looked as if someone had used her as a punching bag. “Can you tell when they happened?”
“I would guess that they all occurred after the bones were fully developed.”
“Could it be from some kind of accident?”
“Unlikely. You can see in the fingers here that the bone was never set properly. For most of these injuries, I’d guess she was never seen by a doctor. It looks to me like a classic case of domestic abuse.”
Mitch scrubbed a hand across his rough jaw. He’d seen the aftermath of domestic abuse as a patrolman and a detective, and it turned his stomach every time. Only now, as he pictured Jane Doe looking so fragile, IV lines crisscrossing the head of the bed, her silvery eyes wide and trusting, the sensation multiplied.
However, as innocent as those eyes appeared, the cop in him had to consider the possibility that she didn’t really have amnesia. That she was hiding from someone. “If she was treated here for her injuries, could that be traced?”
The doctor nodded. “I thought of that, too. I’ve got someone working on it. But if it is abuse, odds are the abuser wouldn’t bring her to the same hospital every time. It would begin to look suspicious.”
“Look into it anyway. We may need the information to identify her.” In his jacket pocket his phone began to ring. He thanked the doctor for his help and headed for the emergency room doors, checking the digital display. It was someone from the precinct.
“Thompson,” Mitch answered.
“It’s Greene. So far we’ve got nothing useable from security, but it’ll take some time to go over all the tapes. We never found a purse or car and there were a couple thousand sets of prints in the general area. Basically, we got nada.”
“Keep checking the security tapes,” Mitch said. “Maybe we’ll get a break.”
“Any luck getting an ID on Jane Doe?”
“Not yet. She’s got some kind of temporary amnesia.” He leaned against the brick wall outside the emergency room door, his body sagging with fatigue. Through gritty, tired eyes, he could see the faintest glow of dawn shimmering on the horizon. He looked at his watch. It was now officially twenty-three hours since he’d dragged himself out of bed. “I’m going to hang out here until she wakes up and see if any of her memory has come back. When the hospital releases her I’ll bring her by the precinct for prints. Maybe she’s in the database.”
“And if she’s not? What will you do then?”
“I’m supposed to be off this weekend. If nothing pans out by then, she’ll officially be someone else’s problem.
Detective Thompson looked like a different man when he slept. The sharp planes of his face softened and he lost that look of quiet intensity that both soothed and unsettled her. He dozed in the chair by her window, his head propped in one big hand, long thick lashes fanning out across his cheeks.
Jane lay watching him, memorizing his features, for fear that the next time she closed her eyes he would vanish from her memory. Vaguely she recalled being moved to a private room. She still felt a little groggy and slightly disoriented and her head ached something fierce. All things considered though, she didn’t seem to have been too badly damaged. Not physically, anyway. It would be awfully nice to know her own name, to know where she lived. She didn’t like being trapped here in the hospital, playing the role of the victim. Somewhere, deep down, she knew she wasn’t accustomed to feeling this way, and at the same time, it was hauntingly familiar.
This is temporary, she reminded herself. The doctor said her memory would return soon and she would be good as new.
From the chair across the room, Detective Thompson stirred. His eyes opened, focused on her, and he sat up. “You’re awake.”
“More or less. I’m feeling a little woozy.” She rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. The detective was cute in the morning, in a rough, disheveled sort of way. Thick beard stubble shadowed his jaw and his voice had a husky quality that sent shivers down her spine. And the way he looked at her was so measured and deliberate. Like he could read her thoughts. Which at this point wouldn’t get him far. There wasn’t much left up there to think about. “You were here all night?”
He looked up, squinting against the sunlight pouring in the window, then down at his watch. “Looks that way. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
He yawned and stretched, the green hospital scrubs he wore pulling taut across his chest and biceps. They didn’t burst at the seams from hulking muscle mass. He was more the slim and athletic type. She couldn’t say with any certainty if he was the type of man she was normally attracted to, but from where she sat now, she wouldn’t kick him out of bed for getting crumbs on the sheets.
It occurred to her suddenly that he was dressed like a doctor—save for the holster and gun strapped at his side—and she wondered what happened to the clothes he’d been wearing. Then she recalled, with a stark clarity that made her cringe, what she’d done. “Sorry about your clothes,” she said. “It wasn’t one of my finer moments.”
One eyebrow quirked up. “No?”
“At least, I don’t think it was.” She paused, chewing her lower lip.
“You still don’t remember who you are?”
She shook her head, noting that the action didn’t induce the same paralyzing pain as before. It had since reduced to a persistent, dull ache. The nausea had ebbed, as well and she actually felt hungry. “I think I may have also, um, spit water at you.”
“You bled on me, too. But I won’t hold it against you.” A grin teased the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t even a real smile and her stomach still did a half-gainer straight down to her toes. Was he trying to look adorable, or did it just come naturally?
“What else do you remember?” he asked.
“I remember waking up in the hospital.”
“That’s it?”
“Everything before that is gone. It’s the weirdest feeling, like opening a book and finding blank pages. I know something is supposed to be there, but it’s as if all the words are written in invisible ink.” She sat up, pulling the light blanket up to her neck, feeling self-conscious in the flimsy hospital gown. “Where are my clothes?”
“I think there’s a bag of stuff in the drawer next to the bed. You didn’t have a purse or any identification when I found you.”
She slid the drawer open and found a plastic bag marked “personal belongings.” “I don’t suppose you know when they’re letting me out of here.”
“Today, I think. Why? You’ve got plans?”
She swore she detected a note of suspicion in his voice. “We have to try and find out who I am, don’t we?”
