“Earth to Jane.”

She looked up into Detective Thompson’s concerned face. Only then did she realize she’d stopped right in the middle of the lot, blocking traffic.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I—I think I remembered something. But it was more like a feeling than an actual memory.”

“What did it feel like.”

“I felt…alone.”

“You’re not alone.”

“Not yet.”

If she saw a flash of guilt in his eyes, it was gone almost instantly. “Let’s go inside.”

They stepped through the automatic door, and she once again felt that sudden and brief surge of adrenaline.

“I think I remember being here,” she said, excitement and hope erupting inside her like a geyser. Maybe it would all start to come back now. Maybe this nightmare was almost over.

Or maybe it was only beginning.

Running on Empty
Michelle Celmer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MICHELLE CELMER

lives in southeastern Michigan with her husband, their three children, two dogs and two cats. When she’s not writing or busy being a mom, you can find her in the garden or curled up with a romance novel. And if you twist her arm real hard, you can usually persuade her into a day of power shopping.

Michelle loves to hear from readers. Visit her Web site at www.michellecelmer.com, or write her at P.O. Box 300, Clawson, MI 48017.

For Steve

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Prologue

It would be so easy to kill her.

So easy to wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze until the life drained from her body. To plant the barrel of his gun to her temple and pull the trigger.

Only that wasn’t part of the game.

He liked to see them suffer. To know that for the rest of their lives they would live in fear. Fear of him. And this one, she would suffer. She would learn her place. She stuck her nose in where it didn’t belong, took what was rightfully his.

But when he got what he was looking for, when he no longer needed her and the game was over, she would pay.

With her life.

Chapter 1

Running across a body in a cordoned-off crime scene was rare enough in a community the size of Twin Oaks, but the odds of running over one in the toy department of the local Save Mart had to be about a million to one.

Making this his lucky day.

Cursing a blue streak, Detective Mitch Thompson swerved his cart and narrowly missed rolling over a denim-clad leg. The woman lay sprawled on her back, looking, as far as he could tell, unharmed. And breathing. She was definitely pulling in a sufficient amount of air. He crouched down beside her and pressed two fingers to her throat, finding a strong pulse.

Okay, so what was the deal?

He tapped her cheek lightly, finding her skin warm and soft beneath his fingers. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”

She didn’t respond. Then he noticed the blood. It soaked through the back of her hair, transforming it from honey-colored to crimson.

Well, that would explain it. Damn, he really didn’t need this tonight. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911. He gave the operator his badge number and the location of the store. “I have a woman down, twenty-five to thirty years old, with a head injury.”

After the operator assured him help was on the way, he disconnected and shoved the phone back into his pocket. Thinking she might have passed out and hit her head on the way down, he unzipped her jacket to look for a medic-alert necklace, searched her wrists, shoving up one sleeve, then the other. No bracelets, no rings. Nothing to indicate a chronic medical condition.

He noticed bruises forming on her forearms and elbows. Odd, considering she was flat on her back. When a person fell backward, they didn’t typically land on their arms. Could she have fallen forward and rolled over?

The pool of blood under her head began to spread, and though he didn’t want to move her, he had to stop the bleeding. He searched his pockets for something to press against the wound but came up empty. Out of desperation, he grabbed a beanbag animal from the bin above him and eased it under her head, doing his best not to move her neck. He doubted it was sterile, but it would have to suffice.

“Ma’am, can you hear me?” he tried again. “Open your eyes.”

She mumbled something incoherent.

He scanned the area for a purse or wallet, something to identify her. He checked the pockets of her jacket, finding a few wadded tissues in one, a folded receipt with no store name on it in the other. He was about to check the pockets of her jeans when he heard a gasp behind him.

“What did you do to her?” A young girl with a nametag identifying her as Becky stood several feet away, gaping at the scene on the floor. Her eyes locked on the blood and all the color leeched from her face. The plastic basket of items she was holding clattered to the floor.

“Twin Oaks Police,” he said, producing his badge.

She slapped a hand over her mouth, asking through her fingers, “Is she d-dead?”

“No, Becky, but I need to get her to a hospital.” And he needed to get the clerk moving before he had two unconscious, bleeding women on his hands. “Go to the front entrance and flag down the emergency personnel when they pull up and lead them back to me. Can you do that?”

“S-sure.” She backed up a few steps, eyes riveted on the woman, then turned and scurried away.

He stuck his badge back in his jacket and yawned so deeply his eyes teared. Christ, he was tired. He should be home in bed right now. It was after midnight, which meant it was Saturday and officially his day off. If he hadn’t let his sister Lisa talk him into stopping at the store for her, in bed is where he would probably be.

It had been a long, hellish week that resulted in the arrest of a man allegedly responsible for the brutal rape of five women. Mitch’s arrest, thanks to an anonymous tip. Now all he wanted—what he desperately needed—was a few days off. God knows he’d earned it. Between work and helping care for their mother while she recovered from back surgery, he was running himself ragged. After he dropped the groceries off he had planned to go home, unplug the phone, crawl into bed and sleep straight through until Sunday. Now he’d have to go into the station and file a report.

The woman on the floor moaned, wincing when she tried to move her head.

“Ma’am, can you hear me? You need to lie still. Help is on the way.” He braced one hand under her head and cupped the other over her cheek to hold her immobile. Her delicately boned face felt fragile and looked small cradled in his palm.

She reached up in a vain attempt to pry his hand away. “Hurts.”

“I know it hurts, but you could make it worse by moving.”

Her lids fluttered open and she looked up at him, eyes unfocused and bleary—eyes a spectrum of speckled gray, like the stones he used to collect on the beach at Lake Superior when he was a kid. For several seconds, he found himself suspended in their depths.

“Please,” she murmured. “Please, don’t let him—” She grimaced, as if the effort to speak was too painful. Her eyes rolled up, and he could tell she was sinking back into unconsciousness.

“Don’t let him what?” he urged. “Did someone hurt you?”

In a surprising burst of strength, she reached out and clutched the front of his leather jacket, her eyes clear and wild with fear. “Don’t let him kill me.”

Mitch watched, feeling an uncharacteristic surge of empathy as the paramedics wheeled the woman away. She looked so small and helpless on the gurney, her skin ashen in contrast to the stark white bandages on the gash at the base of her skull. Since those brief seconds when she’d pleaded for her life, she hadn’t regained consciousness, but her single utterance told him everything he needed to know to get an investigation started.

This had been no accident.

As a result, the store was crawling with Twin Oaks’ finest. If the suspect was ballsy enough to attack a woman in a well-lit store, who knew what else he might be capable of.

“Detective?”

Mitch turned to Officer Greene, one of the uniforms dispatched to the scene. Greene was new to the force, six months out of the academy, but what he lacked in experience he made up for in enthusiasm. He reminded Mitch of himself ten years ago. “Find anything?”

“We combed the area but we didn’t find a purse or anything else that might identify her. We’ve got two men searching the parking lot, and another two in the alley, in case the perp slipped out the back.”

“What about her cart?”

He nodded to the left. “At the end of the aisle. No purse or any identification.”

Mitch followed him to the cart abandoned a few feet from where he’d found the victim.

“Looks like she was on a budget,” Greene said.

The cart contained generic brand vegetables by the case—six of them altogether. There were also diapers and disposable wipes, and a couple dozen jars of baby food. It would be a safe bet that their Jane Doe had a family, although she hadn’t been wearing a wedding ring. Divorced maybe? A single mother? Or maybe she just happened to take her jewelry off and had forgotten to put it back on when she left the house.

Sighing, he dragged a hand through his hair and massaged away the knots from the back of his neck. “There are probably a couple kids out there wondering why Mommy hasn’t come home yet.”

“How bad was she?”

“Blunt force trauma to the back of the head. Too severe to be from a fall. From the bruising on her arms, I’m guessing she was hit from behind and thrown forward, then rolled over onto her back.” He gestured to the tinted dome overhead that housed a security camera. “What about surveillance?”

“The store is old, so it’s not exactly a state-of-the-art system. Picture quality couldn’t be much worse. Maybe if the victim knows him, she could identify him from the tapes.”

Her words echoed in his head—don’t let him kill me. She could still be in danger. They needed to find out who she was and if she knew who had done this to her. They meaning him. Which also meant that sleep would have to wait. Though he wasn’t sure why, he didn’t trust this case to anyone else. It was as if, in those few seconds she’d looked up at him, they’d bonded somehow.

Bonded? Christ, he must be delirious from exhaustion. If he told anyone at the station his theory, they would tell him he needed his head examined.

“Make sure someone takes down the plates of all the cars in the lot,” he told Greene. “With all this food, I doubt she was walking.”

Greene followed him to his cart. “It’s a good thing you found her. Who knows how long she would have lain there bleeding. The store is practically deserted this time of night.”

“Yeah, my lucky day.” Not.

“You seem to be having a lot of those lately. That was some arrest. Did you get a confession?” Greene had what could only be described as hero worship in his eyes.

Mitch didn’t deserve the recognition. He’d been completely stumped until an anonymous letter had been dropped on his desk. It named the suspect, gave his address, and even disclosed where the evidence—trinkets taken from each of the victims—could be found. The entire arrest had been unbelievably easy.

Too easy.

“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?”

“We?”

“Yeah, we. I assume you’re the one investigating my attack. I’m not going to sit around doing nothing. I want to help.”

“Ms.—”

“Don’t tell me that put in the same situation you would want to sit around twiddling your thumbs, waiting for your memory to magically reappear.”

“No, I wouldn’t, but—”

“The doctor told me that seeing something familiar could trigger a memory. It only makes sense that I get out and try to find something familiar. If I have to, I’ll do it alone.”

“I wouldn’t advise that,” Detective Thompson said. “You have no money, no identification, no transportation. And we have no idea who attacked you, or why.”

“You think I’m in danger?”

“I’m not ready to make any assumptions at this point.” He sighed, leaning forward and raking a hand through his tousled hair. Hair the same warm brown as his eyes and just long enough to cover the tops of his ears and brush the collar of his jacket. And soft looking. She imagined what it would feel like to run her fingers through it.

Oh, yeah, like that would ever happen. He was probably married. Or at least attached. For that matter, maybe she was, too.

“So when do we start?” she asked.

“We don’t do anything. First off, I don’t even know if I’ll be the one investigating. And second, I don’t make it a habit of dragging victims along with me while I work a case.”

“My case. Also, there’s the slight problem of me not knowing where I live. Where do you plan to put me?”

“A halfway house. You should be safe there until we figure out who you are and who did this. As long as you stay put,” he added.

No way. No way was he dumping her off at some crummy halfway house. If he expected her to agree to that, he was in for a big surprise. “But the sooner I get my memory back, the sooner you solve the case, right?”

“You can call the precinct if you remember anything.”

Was he joking? Did he honestly expect her to sit around doing nothing?

Fat chance.

She dug through the clothes bag, wondering how something that belonged to her could look so completely foreign. “They’re all cut up,” she said, pulling out a mutilated pair of jeans and T-shirt. The only thing left intact was a dark blue jacket.

“They cut your clothes off in the E.R. It’s standard procedure.”

She looked up at him, aghast. “What am I supposed to do, walk out of here naked?”

“I’m sure the hospital will give you some clothes, and the halfway house will have things for you.” Detective Thompson stood, pulling his jacket on. “I’m going to try to find the doctor to see when they’re letting you out of here, then I’m going to make a few phone calls and set things up.”

She was pretty sure, from the determined set of his jaw, that arguing would get her nowhere, so she nodded. She’d think of something, some way to make him see things her way. And if that didn’t work, she’d have to take matters into her own hands. She had rights. He couldn’t force her to do anything she didn’t want to do.

She stuffed the jeans and shirt in the bag and looked the jacket over. Searching the pockets, she found wadded tissues in one and a faded receipt in the other. There was no store name, just a few random numbers. Then she turned it over to check the other side and gasped at the note scrawled there.

Detective Thompson stopped halfway to the door. “What’s wrong?”

“Did you put this in my jacket?” she asked, holding the paper up.

“No. Is it familiar?”

“Sort of,” she said, holding it out to him. On the back of the receipt written very lightly in pencil was a name: Detective Mitch Tompson.

Chapter 3

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Mitch said. “What are you doing with my name in your pocket?”

She shrugged, looking equally baffled. “How should I know? Have we met?”

No, a man didn’t forget a woman like her. The wide, silvery eyes alone were enough to snag his attention. Had he met her in a social situation he would have noticed, and he’d have been interested. “I’m sure we haven’t. I would have remembered.”

“Maybe the person who hit me stuck it in there.”

“I know a good way to find out.” He pulled a pen and notepad out of his jacket, opening it to a blank page. He handed them both to her. “Write my name.”

She penned his name across the paper and handed it back to him. After comparing the two, there was no doubt in his mind. They were identical. She’d even left the h out of his last name both times.

“It was definitely you,” he said, holding it up for her to see. “But why?”

She shrugged, looking genuinely bewildered.

Damn. What had started out as a simple attack had just become a lot more complicated.

It couldn’t be a coincidence that they’d been in the same store and she had his name. It also meant he wouldn’t be passing this case off to anyone. Not until he knew why and how he was involved. Not after the last time he found himself involved in a case. That had nearly cost him his career.

So much for his weekend off.

In his pocket, his pager vibrated. He pulled it out and checked the display. “I have to make a call,” he told her. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“What, I’m gonna sneak away with my rear end hanging out the back of my gown?” she called after him.

With an amused shake of his head, he headed to the elevator bay, where he could safely use his cell phone. She didn’t pull any punches. He had to admire her for that. And he couldn’t deny that he liked her. So why did he feel this impending sense of doom?

Maybe he liked her too much. He felt an urge to protect and shelter her that he didn’t typically get. Well, not since…a long time ago.

Shrugging off the unpleasant memory, he dialed the precinct.

“We’ve got your guy on the security tape following the victim through the store,” Greene said. “He’s wearing a hooded jacket, so we can’t get a look at his face and the picture quality sucks. Maybe the victim will recognize him.”

It was a long shot. Seeing her attacker might be enough to snap her out of it. “I’ll bring her by as soon as they discharge her. If she can’t ID him from the tape, we can sit her down with the mug books.”

“I’m off in five minutes. I’ll leave everything with Marco.”

Mitch called halfway houses next, until he found her a vacant room. It wouldn’t be the Marriott, but it would be safe enough until someone claimed her. With any luck, her memory would return after watching the tape and he’d be taking her home instead.

When he got back to her room, the doctor was there.

Ms. Doe looked up at him and smiled, and it washed over him like sunshine. Ribbons of golden hair fanned out across the pillow framing her delicate face like a halo. Her skin was milky white and smooth—fragile looking, like the porcelain figurines his mother collected. He recalled how soft her skin had felt against his fingers when he’d touched her face back in the store. The sudden, intense pull of lust the memory evoked nearly floored him.

What the hell was he doing? Fantasizing about her? Real smart, Mitch. Like she didn’t already have enough problems.

His pager vibrated and he wasn’t surprised to see that it was his sister. She would hound him relentlessly until he picked up her groceries. He erased the number and stuck it back in his pocket.

“They’re cutting me loose,” Jane said. “I’m a free woman.”

“I’ll sign her release and have the nurse find her some clothes,” the doctor said. “She’ll need to come back in a week to have the stitches removed.”

“And the amnesia?” Mitch asked. “Can you do anything for that?”

“Give it a little time. Try taking her back to the scene of her attack if she’s comfortable with that. When she’s ready to deal with the incident, I think her memory will come back on it’s own.”

“But you think she should try to find something familiar?”

“As long as she’s okay with that, I think it’s a good idea,” the doctor said.

Ms. Doe shot Mitch an I-told-you-so look. Christ, she had attitude. She was going to be a major pain in the behind, he could just tell.

“And if her memory doesn’t come back?” Mitch asked.

“If her condition hasn’t improved in a week we’ll schedule an appointment with a neurologist.” The doctor hooked her chart on the foot of the bed. “Ibuprofen every four to six hours should ease any discomfort.”

“I’ll be right back,” Mitch told her, and followed the doctor into the hall. “Did you find anyone with injuries matching hers?”

“Not yet. It could take a day or two.”

Mitch pulled a business card out of his jacket pocket. “Call me if you find anything.”

When he stepped back into the room, Ms. Doe was out of bed, her back to him, gazing out the window. Her height surprised him. Based on tenacity alone, he’d expected her to be taller. He guessed now that the top of her head would barely reach his chin. She was slight, delicate-looking even, until she opened her mouth and all of that attitude spilled out. It was obvious, if it weren’t for the amnesia—assuming she really did have it—she was the kind of woman who looked out for herself.

It was hard to imagine someone physically abusing her—or her allowing it.

She leaned forward to look out the window, the edges of her gown pulling open and—whoa! He got an eyeful of smooth, rounded, ivory flesh. Something hot and carnal flickered to life inside of him. Something he hadn’t let himself feel in an awfully long time. Apparently, too long. Try as he might, he had a hell of a time looking away.

He forced himself to speak. “Recognize anything?”

She spun around, startled. As if realizing the view she’d just given him, she reached back to hold her gown closed. “No, I don’t. And I just want to say for the record, I don’t appreciate you talking about me behind my back.”

He folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorjamb. “Who says we were talking about you?”

“Oh, please. I have amnesia, I’m not brain-dead. Who else would you be talking about? If you have information about me, I want to hear it. I may remember something.”

There were certain things he didn’t really want to tell her yet, things he wasn’t sure she was ready to hear, but she was right, anything could trigger a memory. “We were talking about healed injuries he found in your X rays.”

She frowned, her pale brows pulling together. “What kinds of injuries?”

“Bone fractures. Eleven that he can see. He seems to think it was domestic abuse.”

“Domestic abuse?” Her eyes widened, shimmering like beach stones resting just below the surface of the water. “Does that mean I’m married?”

“You weren’t wearing a wedding band. But when I found you, you had diapers and baby food in your cart.”

“Diapers?” She backed toward the window clinging to the sill. “I have a baby?”

“It’s possible,” he said, noting that she’d paled several shades. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe it was too much all at once.

She shook her head. “No, if I had children I would remember. I couldn’t forget something like that.”

“You could if you had amnesia.”

“You don’t understand. I just have this feeling, deep down, that I don’t have kids. I can’t explain it. It’s not that I remember not having kids. But I feel like I would know in my heart if I did, even if I couldn’t specifically remember them.” She puffed out a long breath, stirring the hair on her forehead. “Does that make any sense?”

“It doesn’t explain the items in your cart.”

“Maybe I was picking them up for someone else. A friend or relative?”

“If that’s the case, maybe they’ll report you missing.”

“Maybe,” she said, gnawing her bottom lip with her front teeth. She glanced toward the bathroom door, then back at him. “I, um, need to use the bathroom.”

“Okay.”

She just stood there, adjusting her weight from one foot to the other.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked, amused to see her cheeks flush a vibrant pink. He didn’t figure her as the type of woman who would embarrass easily. Though she did seem to wear all of her emotions right out on her sleeve.

“Actually, I’m kind of afraid to go in there.”

He gestured over his shoulder. “You want me to get a nurse to help you.”

“No! I don’t need help, I just…this is going to sound so lame. I’m afraid of what I’m going to see when I look in the mirror.”

“You’re afraid you won’t recognize yourself?”

“Well, that, too. But I have no idea what I look like.”

He frowned. “I’m not following you.”

She blew out an exasperated breath. “I could be a troll. I could be hideous looking.”

He fought the smile tugging at his lips. Just like a woman to worry about beauty. In the looks department, she had nothing to worry about. “You’re not a troll.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Oh, yeah? How do I know you’re not just saying that to be nice?”

“Because I’m not that nice. Besides, maybe when you look at yourself, you’ll remember who you are.”

She pressed a hand to her chest, accentuating the swell of two perky breasts under the thin gown. “My heart is pounding like crazy.”

Yeah, mine, too, he thought, trying like hell to keep his eyes above her neckline. Which was even worse, because then he had to look at those eyes. Round, innocent and full of uncertainty, they made him want to pull her into his arms and soothe away her fear. It was against his better judgment, and unprofessional, and wrong for about a dozen other reasons he didn’t even want to consider, but darn it, he couldn’t shake this irrational desire to protect her. He couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Want me to go with you?”

With her free arm, she hugged herself. “You think I’m a flake, don’t you?”

The truth was, he admired her spirit. She was tough, but not afraid to show her vulnerabilities. And if she was faking her apprehension, she was one hell of an actress. “You’ve been through a lot. You’re holding up better than most people would in your situation.” He nodded toward the bathroom, holding out a hand to her. “C’mon. We’ll do it together.”

She looked at his hand, then over to the bathroom door. “If I pass out, do you promise not to look at my butt? I mean…I don’t know what it looks like yet.”

It looked okay to me. He caught himself before the words tumbled out of his mouth. He had no right to be talking about her butt. Or looking at it for that matter. She could be someone’s wife, someone’s mother.

“I promise.” He walked to the bathroom and switched on the light. “You’ll feel better if you just get it over with.”

She shuffled over in bare feet, her face twisting into a grimace as she neared the doorway. He extended his hand, startled by the zing of awareness he experienced when she slipped her cold fingers into his. His first reaction was to yank his hand away, but it was too late to back out now.

Her fingers trembled in his. He tightened his grip, pulling her into the room. “You won’t see much with your eyes closed.”

“I’m working on it. Just give me a second.” She took a long, deep breath, blew it out, and opened her eyes.

She stared at her reflection for the longest time, while Mitch waited for recognition to set in, for a flood of memories to erase the uncertainty so clearly written in her eyes. With her free hand, she reached up and touched her cheek, ran a hand through her disheveled hair.

If he hadn’t believed her amnesia story before, it would be tough to refute it now. There was no doubt, she was looking at a total stranger.

“Well?” he asked.

“If it weren’t for the fact that you’re standing behind me, and I recognize you, I wouldn’t know this was me in the mirror. This is so…weird.” She frowned at her reflection, sticking her tongue out. “At least I’m not a troll. If I had to deal with losing my memory, having an abusive husband, giving birth to children I don’t remember and being ugly, it would be too much. Oh, and the fact that someone tried to kill me. Can’t forget that.”

He gave her hand another reassuring squeeze. “We’ll figure out who did this.”

She looked up at him in the mirror, then down at their clasped hands. “We?”

Poor choice of words. The glimmer of hope in her eyes hit him like a sucker punch. “We as in, the Twin Oaks P.D.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “Still planning on dumping me somewhere, eh?”

Christ, could she make him feel a little more guilty? He was only doing his job. “I do need to take you to the precinct to get your prints, and I’ll take you back to the scene if you feel up to it. Maybe it’ll jog your memory.”

“Hate to break up the party,” someone said from behind them.

They simultaneously jerked their hands free and spun around to see a nurse standing there with a pile of clothes in her arms.

“The doctor signed your release. Try these and see which ones fit. I’ll send an orderly in to take you downstairs.” She walked over and dropped the clothes on the bed, glancing with unmasked curiosity one last time before she left the room. Mitch was sure he looked guilty as hell. What had possessed him to take Ms. Doe’s hand, and even worse, to keep holding it?

Okay, it’s not like he didn’t have a distant history of this, of letting himself get sucked in emotionally. He had to keep reminding himself, she could be married. Never in a million years would he consciously consider touching another man’s wife.

Never again. But it hadn’t been a conscious decision then, either, had it?

“I’ll wait while you get dressed,” Mitch said, when the nurse was gone. He walked over to the window, leaving a reasonable distance between them. He looked down at the already crowded parking lot. The rising sun cast a golden glow over the city streets, warming his face through the glass. It would be a beautiful weekend, a weekend he would much rather spend fishing, or working on his yard. And sleeping. God knows he could use a few more hours of uninterrupted sleep.

“Detective?” Ms. Doe said softly.

He turned. She was standing in the bathroom doorway, the clothes stacked in her arms.

“I just wanted to say thanks, you know, for everything. You’ve been really sweet.”

Sweet? He nearly cringed. “I’m only doing my job.”

She smiled. She seemed to know as well as he did, he’d gone far above the call of duty.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

Mitch watched the video monitor with a deep sense of unease as the man in the hooded jacket stalked Ms. Doe through the store. He carried a basket, taking items from the shelves every so often to appear less suspicious, never getting close enough to be discovered, yet always keeping her in his line of sight. “He keeps his head down, so the camera never gets a shot of his face.”

“He knows what he’s doing,” Marco, the video tech, said.

This was no crime of opportunity. As Mitch had suspected, this had been a cold and calculated attack. But why? “How long does he follow her?”

“About twenty minutes. I spliced the tapes together so we could track their movements.” Marco fast-forwarded the tape. “When she leaves the grocery area, he’s right behind her. When he’s getting ready to strike, he puts the basket down in the middle of the aisle.”

“Because he knows we’ll eventually be watching the tape, and if he stashes it on a shelf somewhere we’ll find it.”

“So why not wear gloves? Then he wouldn’t have to worry about leaving prints.”

“Why attack her in a well-lit store when he could have done it in a dark parking lot? He’s arrogant. He’s showing us how cunning he is. He knows that if he puts the stuff in plain sight, some employee will probably see it, pick it up and put the stuff back on the shelves, thus removing any fingerprint evidence.”

“And one did. But I’ll get to that in a minute. First we have our victim walking down the toy aisle, our suspect is right behind her. Now look, see what he pulls out of his jacket?”

The fluorescent lights glinted off the object in his hand, making its shape clear for several seconds. Mitch mumbled a curse under his breath. “A gun.”

He watched as Ms. Doe stopped to pick up a toy. With her back turned, she didn’t see the suspect behind her. In a flash of movement, the man coldcocked her in the back of the head, sending her reeling forward. With swift efficiency, he checked her back pockets, then rolled her over to search her jacket. Within seconds, he’d searched her, shoved her small purse in his jacket, and disappeared through a stockroom door.

This was no robbery. He was looking for something specific. And something about the way he searched her disturbed Mitch. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“This isn’t good news.” He rubbed at a kink in the back of his neck. This was going to be a really long weekend.

“It’s about to get worse. Remember your basket theory?” Marco turned to a different monitor, running a second tape. “Here’s your basket, sitting there minding its own business, and here’s your reliable employee picking it up.”

“Tell me she takes it and drops it on a shelf somewhere where we can find it and get prints.”

“She drops it all right. Along with any evidence you might have had.”

Chapter 4

Mitch watched the monitor as the store employee carried the basket by the toy section, stopped dead in her tracks at the doll aisle, and seconds later dropped the basket on the floor. To the right of the screen he could see his own cart, and himself where he knelt beside Jane Doe.

Aw, hell, the basket she’d dropped had belonged to the suspect. Not half an hour later he’d told Greene it wasn’t part of the crime scene, which meant someone had probably picked it up and put all the evidence back on the shelves. “Son of a—”

“There’s more.”

Mitch sunk lower in his chair. “Great.”

“He was following her—” Marco paused as he stuck in a different tape “—and she was following you.”

Mitch leaned forward, watching himself enter the store, then Ms. Doe only minutes behind him. So it wasn’t a coincidence. But what had she wanted from him? What connection could he have to a woman he’d never seen?

“A couple of times she looked like she might approach you, then backed off at the last minute. When you went by the greeting cards, she broke off and went by the toys.”

Hell of a detective he was. He hadn’t even known he was being followed. He’d been so blasted tired at the time, he could think of nothing but getting home and climbing into bed.

“Kinda weird you ended up on the same aisle as her,” Marco said. It wasn’t a blatant accusation, but Mitch didn’t miss the implication.

“I was looking for a present for Jessica, Darren’s little girl. Her fourth birthday party is next weekend.”

“Party’s been postponed,” someone said from behind him. Mitch turned to see Darren Waite, his best friend and fellow detective, leaning casually in the doorway nursing a diet soda. “Heard you caught a case last night.”

“She was bashed in the back of the head with a piece by an unknown assailant. And not only can she not ID her attacker, she can’t ID herself. She has amnesia.”

Darren gestured down the hall. “Was that her in the squad room looking at mugs?”

“Yeah, I’m hoping something might trigger a memory. After I’m finished here, I’m taking her back to the scene.”

“I thought this was your weekend off.”

“Yeah,” he grumbled, “so did I.”

“So pass this off to someone else.”

“She was following me. She had my name in her pocket. I’m involved somehow and I need to know why.”

Darren didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His wary expression said it all.

To circumvent the inevitable lecture he knew was coming, Mitch asked, “So why has the party been postponed?”

“My mother-in-law had a mild heart attack last night. Diane took the girls and flew to Seattle to help out, until she’s back on her feet.”

“Man, I’m sorry. How long will she be gone?”

“A week or two. Maybe less.” Darren downed the last of the soda and tossed the plastic bottle into the trash. “I taped the Tigers game. If you’re not busy later, why don’t you come by?”

“Honestly, this case is probably going to keep me tied up most of the weekend.” Mitch glanced at his watch. It was already close to 11:00 a.m. He had to get back to the store and pick up that stuff for Lisa and his mom, before Lisa had a cow.

“I thought when the rape case broke you were going to take some time off,” Darren said.

“I was.” Mitch turned to Marco. “Could you print me out a few stills of the suspect?”

“Sure thing.” Marco keyed a few commands into the computer and the printer spit out two grainy shots.

Odds were, she wouldn’t be able to ID her attacker. But it didn’t hurt to maybe show the pictures around, see if anything turned up. The guy could have been anywhere from his early twenties to late forties, was medium height and build, wore grungy clothing. He could be one of ten thousand different men.

“Why don’t you pass this case off to Michaels or Petroski?” Darren asked, following Mitch to the squad room. “You haven’t had a day off in weeks.”

Mitch stopped in the doorway. Ms. Doe was sitting just where he’d left her, a pile of mug books on one side of the desk, a box of doughnuts on the other. The clothes they’d given her at the hospital were acceptable considering they were free, but far from flattering. The shirt was several sizes too big and the threadbare jeans would be down around her ankles if she hadn’t taken the tie from her jacket hood and knotted it through the belt loops. Still, there was something about her….

She chose that moment to look up and flash him a thousand-watt smile. After everything she’d been through, she was in surprisingly good spirits. He couldn’t deny that he was drawn to her. What man wouldn’t be? He also couldn’t escape the feeling that she was hiding something.

“She’s a doll,” Darren said.

Mitch shrugged. “I guess.”

“Aw, hell.” Darren glanced from Ms. Doe, whose nose was once again buried in the mug book, to Mitch. “You’ve got a thing for her, don’t you?”

“It’s not like that.”

Darren wasn’t buying it. On more than one occasion in the past ten years he’d claimed to know Mitch better than Mitch knew himself. And who knows, maybe he did. They’d gone through the academy together, rode shotgun for two years in uniform, and made detective within a few months of each other. Mitch had been the best man at Darren’s wedding, paced anxiously in the waiting room during the birth of his two daughters, Jessica and Lauren, and spent more Sundays than he could remember watching football in the Waites’ living room.

In turn, Darren had set him up with just about every one of his wife Diane’s single friends. He’d held vigil with him those last few days when Mitch’s father had lost his battle with stomach cancer. He was the brother Mitch never had.

“It’s not like that,” Darren mimicked. “That’s what you said before the Kim incident.”

Mitch did his best not to shudder at the memory. That isolated lapse in judgment would haunt him the rest of his damn life. “This is different. I don’t even know who she is. We have reason to believe she’s married and has kids. You know I would never get involved with a married woman.”

Again. The word hung between them unspoken, but there all the same.

“I’m telling you, don’t get yourself mixed up with this one. She’s got trouble written all over her. She could be anyone. That guy who attacked her could be her pimp, or her bookie. She could be dealing drugs.”

The suspect had seemed anxious to find something. Mitch tried to imagine Ms. Doe pushing drugs, or selling her body on a street corner. She looked more like a kindergarten teacher than a criminal.

“She could be faking the amnesia,” Darren said. “Jerking you around.”

“Yeah, I considered that. Every now and then she’ll say something and, I don’t know, it makes me wonder if she’s not just making it up. But then there are times when she seems genuinely scared and confused. You should have seen her expression when she looked in the mirror. Not to mention that she puked on me when she realized she didn’t know her own name.”

In his pocket, his pager vibrated. He pulled it out and looked at the display. “It’s Lisa. She’s already paged me five times this morning. She probably left fifty messages on my voice mail.”

“How’s your mom doing? She and Lisa kill each other yet?”

“Not yet. Of course, I haven’t talked to her today.”

“Well, I’m outta here. I figure I’ll get some stuff done around the house while Diane is gone.” He laid a hand on Mitch’s shoulder. “Watch yourself with Jane Doe. I have a bad feeling about this one.”

So did Mitch. But not bad enough to scare him off the case. He needed to know what possible connection they could have to each other. “As soon as we revisit the crime scene, I’m going to get her settled in a halfway house.”

“Using the one on Lexington?” Darren asked, and Mitch nodded. “That place isn’t so bad. Besides, someone will probably report her missing when she doesn’t show up for work Monday, right?”

“That’s what I’m hoping.” But deep down, something told him he wouldn’t be getting off that easily.

Undetected, he watched as she thumbed through the pages of the mug book. She was wasting her time. She wouldn’t find him in there. He was a master of the game, beyond detection or retribution. Minutes ago, she’d looked right at him, made eye contact even, and there wasn’t the slightest reaction.

After leaving the store, he’d searched her house for hours last night, tearing through one room after another. He’d found nothing to tell him where she kept them. She was smart for a woman.

But not smart enough.

He did find something else. Something that might come in handy later when his possessions were safely returned. He’d found the perfect way to put her in her place, to show her who was in charge.

The perfect conclusion to the game.

Jane glanced over at Detective Thompson. He’d changed into jeans and a flannel shirt, and though the denim hugged his long, lean legs and the shirt accentuated those strong, sturdy shoulders, she would miss the hospital scrubs.

He stood by the door, deep in conversation with the Arnold Palmer wanna-be. Though Arnold looked like he should be out on the fairway chasing golf balls, the ease and authority with which he carried himself in the station told her that he was another cop. They spoke quietly to one another, looking over at her every so often.

For police detectives they weren’t terribly subtle in their exchange. She would have to be a complete moron not to realize she was the topic of conversation. Or maybe they just didn’t care if she knew. Maybe it was some kind of “good cop/bad cop” routine.

She watched as Detective Thompson yawned and scratched his unshaven chin. He couldn’t have gotten much sleep last night, and like her, he looked as if he could use a long hot shower.

Hmm. Now, there was an interesting visual: Detective Thompson in the shower…

Shame on you, she scolded herself. You could be married. Yeah, to a wife-beater. Wouldn’t that be great. She just couldn’t believe she would let a man push her around that way. She had to believe that if what the doctors said was true and she’d suffered domestic abuse, she’d left the jerk a long time ago. If not, what reason did she have to get her memory back? What kind of life would she have to go back to?

Her children—if they really existed. That was another thing that just didn’t feel right to her. What mother could forget her kids?

Her stomach rumbled, and she looked over at the box of doughnuts Detective Thompson had set there. They just weren’t cutting it. Maybe she could talk him into springing for lunch before he dumped her. Until she figured out who she was, she was at the mercy of the Twin Oaks Police department. Having no money, no clothing that fit right—no identity—drove her nuts with frustration.

She felt Detective Thompson’s presence beside her before he made a sound. The air crackled with energy whenever he was near, raising the hair on her arms. She looked up and was instantly caught in his liquid brown eyes. She sizzled like fire from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair and everywhere in between.

He was definitely the good cop in this scenario.

“Any luck?” he asked, pulling up a chair. He spun it around and straddled the seat, resting his arms on the back. He’d rolled his sleeves to the elbows, exposing muscular, sun-bronzed forearms. His hands were large, his fingers long and graceful-looking. She could just imagine what those hands could do to a woman. What they could do to her.

Swallowing hard, she closed the book. “Sorry, nothing.”

“Think you’re ready to go back to the scene?”

Her stomach contracted with a sudden stab of fear. “I—I think so.”

“If you’re scared, or you’re just not ready, we don’t have to go today.”

Did he have to be so understanding, so…sweet? If he forced her, if he made her go, she wouldn’t have a choice. She would have to face her fear.

She took a deep, fortifying breath. Forced or not, she needed to do this. The answers were locked away somewhere in her traumatized brain. Maybe that store would be the key.

“I want to go,” she said, infusing her voice with confidence. “Does this little excursion possibly include lunch? If I have to face my demons, I probably shouldn’t do it on an empty stomach.”

He gestured to the box beside her. “What, you don’t like doughnuts?”

“I’m sure it’s a staple item for you, but I need something a little more substantial. Preferably something that mooed in a former life.”

He flashed her an easy grin. He didn’t smile often, but when he did…wow. “I guess it’s safe to assume you’re not a vegetarian.”

“I’m thinking that I’m probably not.”

“Any place in particular you’d like to go?”

Good question. Did she have a favorite restaurant? Did she prefer fast food? Fine dining? Ethnic or American?

She gave it some thought, her mind colliding with that infuriating brick wall. She shrugged, hating the words even before they left her mouth. “I guess I’ll have to trust your judgment.”

Mitch watched with fascination as Ms. Doe popped the last bite of the double cheeseburger in her mouth. For someone so petite, she sure could put away the food.

She gestured to his French fries. “You planning to finish those?”

He slid his plate across the table.

She squeezed out a glob of ketchup and dipped one in. “So what if I get to the store and don’t remember anything? What’s our next move?” She noticed his wary look and corrected herself. “I mean your next move. Can’t you run my picture on the news or in the paper? Maybe someone will recognize me.”

“Not a good idea. Not until we figure who’s behind this. They could use the amnesia to get to you.”

“Oh. I didn’t think of that.”

“It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. Any official missing-person report wouldn’t be filed for at least forty-eight. Don’t give up hope. We could have you back with your family soon.”

She frowned, shaking her head lightly.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s this whole family thing. It just doesn’t feel right. I keep thinking I would know if I had children.”

“I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Stretch marks,” she said, pointing a ketchup-soaked fry in his direction. “If I had children, wouldn’t I have stretch marks? Because I checked every inch of my body when I was getting dressed and I couldn’t find any. My skin is practically flawless.”

Every inch, huh? And all of it flawless. He’d been doing his best not to think about her in those terms, or imagine seeing all of that flawless skin firsthand—the parts he hadn’t already seen, that is. And here she had to go and bring it up, putting all sorts of improper thoughts into his head.

“I know that probably sounds arrogant,” she added, “but it is very nice skin.”

He nodded. “Hmm.”

“I have a nice butt, too,” she said, popping the fry in her mouth. “Not spectacular, mind you, but I don’t feel so bad about you seeing it back in the hospital.”

He nearly choked on his coffee. “I didn’t—”

“Of course you did. My gown was hanging open, and you were standing behind me. How could you not look? If our roles had been reversed and it was your butt hanging out I would have looked.”

He leaned back in the booth. “Is that so?”

“Back at the station, when they were fingerprinting me, you bent over to pick up something and I looked at your butt then.”

He stifled a grin. The woman was shameless. It was one of the things he liked most about her. And the thing that was probably going to get him into trouble. “Did you?”

“It’s human nature to look.” She waved a hand in the air. “Hormones or pheromones or something.” She paused, her brow furrowing. “What was my point?”

“Stretch marks?”

“Exactly. So if I had ever been pregnant, I would have at least a few stretch marks. Therefore we can safely deduce that I don’t have children.”

“What about adoption?”

She popped the last fry in her mouth looking thoughtful. “Darn, I never thought of that. You know, you’re pretty good at this detective stuff.”

“That’s what they tell me.” He took a long swallow of coffee then signaled the waitress for the check. His pager began to tremble and he pulled it from his pocket, cursing when he read the display. “We’d better get going.”

“Pressing business?”

He tossed change on the table for a tip. “You could say that.”

He paid the bill and she followed him out to the unmarked, run-of-the-mill blue sedan they’d driven over from the station. As badly as she wanted this to be over, as much as she wanted her life back, the possibilities frightened her. Suppose she was married to a wife-beater, or someone even worse. Something too horrible to put into words.

“You okay?” Detective Thompson was holding the door, waiting for her to get in.

She plastered a smile on her face. “Fine.”

She could tell he didn’t believe her. He touched her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Though she was sure the gesture was meant only to comfort, the weight of his hand made the skin beneath tingle.

“We won’t do more than what you’re ready for,” he said.

Could the guy be any nicer? He waited until she was in, then closed the door.

“I don’t suppose I could talk you into loaning me the money for some new clothes,” she said when he climbed in the driver’s side. “I’m good for it…I think.”

“Buckle up.” He waited until she fastened her seat belt then started the car and pulled out of the lot. “What’s wrong with the clothes you have on?”

“You’re joking, right?”

A grin flirted at the corner of his mouth. “I’m sure they’ll have something more suitable for you at the halfway house.”

They drove along in silence for a minute, then Mitch reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. “I’d like you to look at something. It’s a still shot from the security tape.”

Tentatively, she took the photo. “So this is the man who attacked me?”

“I know the picture quality is poor, but does he look familiar?”

“No. Not at all.” She felt relieved and disappointed all at once. She handed the picture back. “Sorry.”

He folded it up and shoved it into his pocket. “It was worth a shot.”

He made a sharp right into a parking lot, and when she looked at the Save Mart sign looming above, her heart began to pound wildly in her chest. She gasped, clutching the edge of the seat.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

As quickly as the sensation had gripped her, it disappeared. “I don’t know. For a second there, I thought my heart was going to jump out of my chest. I think I may have remembered something.”

He pulled into a spot close to the door, threw the car into Park and turned to her. “Does the store look familiar?”

She peered out the side window at the aging brick building. “Yes and no. When I look at it, I instinctively know what kind of store it is, but I can’t say that I’ve ever been here.”

“So it does look familiar?”

“Sort of, but…” She paused, searching for the words to explain. It was difficult to describe something she barely understood. “If you took me to a gas station I’d never been to before, I would still know it was a gas station. This store is familiar, but only in the sense that I know what type of store it is.”

“Do you want to try going inside?”

“We’re here. I may as well give it a shot.”

She waited for him to walk around and open her door, delaying the inevitable for a few precious seconds. Not only was she afraid of what she may or may not discover about her past, but her time with Detective Thompson had nearly expired. If she didn’t get her memory back now, he would dump her at some halfway house. Then she would really be alone.

She swallowed back the fear crawling up from her belly.

Her door swung open and, steeling herself for what was to come—good or bad—she climbed out. The sun had disappeared behind a line of ominous dark clouds and a chilling dampness skittered the length of her spine. Was it some divine warning? Did she even believe in God? Was she Catholic, Jewish, Muslim?

So many questions and still no answers.

“You sure you’re okay with this?” Detective Thompson asked once again.

“I’m sure,” she said, feeling anything but. Feeling instead as if she’d like to run in the opposite direction, back to the car. Or better yet, into Detective Thompson’s arms. She was reasonably sure she would feel safe there. However, if she planned to get through this ordeal in one piece, she could rely on only one person.

Herself. Wasn’t that the way it had always been?

She stopped dead in her tracks, struggling to hold on to the thought, but it was already slipping away. That had been a memory, she was sure of it. But what did it mean?

A car horn blared and a hand wrapped around her upper arm, yanking her out of the way. “Earth to Jane.”

She looked up into Detective Thompson’s concerned face. Only then did she realize she’d stopped right in the middle of the lot, blocking traffic.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I…I think I remembered something. But it was more like a feeling than an actual memory.”

“What did it feel like.”

“I felt…alone.”

“You’re not alone.”

“Not yet.”

If she saw a flash of guilt in his eyes, it was gone almost instantly. “Let’s go inside.”

They stepped through the automatic door and she once again felt that sudden and brief surge of adrenaline.

“I think I remember being here,” she said, excitement and hope erupting inside of her like a geyser. Maybe it would all start to come back now. Maybe this nightmare was almost over.

Or maybe it was just beginning.

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