Stolen Memories. Liz Johnson

the creases of his gray slacks.

      “I can’t see you.”

      He jumped up like her words had set the seat on fire and leaned over her bed, staring into her open eye. “Better?”

      The muscles in her neck relaxed, and even the steady beat of her carotid artery seemed to settle from a frantic rhythm. She patted at her mattress until her fingers found his hand resting close by. She didn’t exactly hold his hand. But she seemed to need the touch to confirm his proximity.

      He didn’t mind so much. Whatever he could do to help this girl. She sure needed it, and he felt somehow responsible for her. Of course, it wasn’t his fault that she’d been attacked. But since rescuing her, he’d kept an eye out for any word of a missing person matching her description. Nothing yet.

      Never taking her wary eye off of him, she said, “We don’t know each other. I mean, we didn’t know each other. Before. Right?”

      “That’s right.”

      She coughed, the sound low and raspy like her throat was retaliating after not being used for so many days. Grabbing the pink plastic cup from the table, he pressed the straw to her lips, and she drank greedily.

      When her gulps began to slow, he pulled the cup away and set it back on the rolling table. “Better?”

      Only her eye moved to look in his direction. “No. I still can’t remember my name.” Her words were soft but filled to the brim with a pain he couldn’t even imagine. She didn’t sound bitter, just betrayed. Her mind refused to do what she needed it to—give her the information stored in it.

      “It’ll be okay.” Another useless phrase. It promised something he couldn’t back up. But there wasn’t anything else to say, so he patted her hand.

      “How did I end up here? What happened?”

      He looked down at the spot where her fingers curled into his. She was clinging to anything that felt stable, and he didn’t blame her. The nurse had told him to take it easy on Julie. Telling her the whole truth wasn’t fair to her in this condition. It could send her reeling like a roller coaster. She didn’t know that she’d been some lunatic’s punching bag, that her face, covered with long, narrow bruises, suggested he’d used a pipe or other weapon. At least the doctor had confirmed that she hadn’t been sexually assaulted, and all her internal organs—except her brain—were in good shape. It was her mind he was worried about, so he picked his words carefully. “I was kind of hoping you could tell me.” He chuckled halfway, but she didn’t respond in kind. She wasn’t ready for that yet. “It looks like you got a pretty good knock on the head first. The doctor says you don’t have any defensive wounds, so you were probably knocked unconscious right away.”

      She raised a hand to her cheek, covering one of her bruises, unspoken questions brimming in her eyes.

      He nodded, confirming her injury. “But I’m not really sure what happened. We found you in Webster Park. Does that mean anything to you?”

      She closed her eyes, finally offering only a tiny shake of her head.

      He gave her fingers a little squeeze. “All right. We’ll figure it out.”

      “We?” Her tone rose, laced with hope.

      “You’re my case. I’ll see it through until it’s solved, which means figuring out your name and where you belong.”

      “Thank you.” Her words didn’t make much of a sound, but he had no problem reading her lips. They weren’t quite as white as they had been when he’d first laid eyes on her. In fact her whole face had gained some color, if not quite enough.

      Well, he’d been hoping to start with her real name. But that wasn’t going to happen today. Maybe there would be some good news back at the station. After seeing her safely to the E.R. on the night she’d been discovered, he’d immediately requested the footage from security cameras near the park. If those were in, maybe they’d have something telling. Or at least something to point him to the next step.

      There were other ways of finding out her name. Like canvassing both of the Twin Cities with her picture. No. That was impractical. There had to be a better way to show her picture to thousands of people. Like in a newspaper. Or online. Or both.

      He was about to ask if she’d be open to running a story in the paper when a booming voice filled the room. “Well, well. Look who finally decided to wake up.”

      Julie cringed at the noise, her hand balling into a fist. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “Just the doctor.” Who had no bedside manner.

      Zach kept that last part to himself.

      The silver-haired man in the white lab coat marched across the tiled floor, the nurse right behind him. The doctor didn’t bother to introduce himself. He just started giving orders instead. “You need to go. You’ve waited around long enough, and now you’re just adding to her stress. She doesn’t need any of that right now.”

      Nodding, Zach pulled his hand away from hers. In a movement faster than he’d seen from her thus far, she scrambled her fingers until they clutched his.

      “Will you come back?”

      He paused just before stepping away, taking in the panic building in Julie’s eye. He didn’t begrudge her the fear. Even he couldn’t be sure exactly how much danger she was in. By the light of day, he’d been able to make out the marks in the grass at the park, where she’d been dragged away from the street and into the shadow of the trees. Someone had wanted her permanently out of the picture.

      Bending over so that she could clearly see his face, he gave her a slow wink. “Count on it.”

      * * *

      Letting the door to the station swing closed behind him, Zach walked to his desk, falling into his chair, which rolled away from his computer under his weight. He walked his feet forward, until he was right where he needed to be—staring at a blank screen and wondering if that’s what Julie felt like every waking minute.

      He grabbed the phone and jabbed in the number he knew by heart.

      “This is Tabby.”

      “It’s Zach.”

      Tabitha let out a deep, throaty laugh. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Detective Jones?”

      When people first met Tabby, they generally had a hard time believing that the sixty-year-old firecracker with a shock of white hair was the Tabitha Guster, Pulitzer-Prize-winning reporter for the Star Tribune.

      Zach didn’t have any trouble believing it, though. Tabby had been his mom’s best friend since they were roommates at the University of Minnesota forty years ago. Tabby had become more family than friend, and as the reporter covering the police beat, she and Zach had spent plenty of family dinners talking cases.

      But the last time they’d talked, he hadn’t been able to give her any information about an ongoing investigation, and she’d been none too happy with him for it. Would she be willing to do him a favor now?

      Better to start off easy than dive in headfirst. Every Minnesota boy raised in the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes knew to jump feetfirst the first time. This situation was no different. “How’re you doing?”

      “Just fine. And your mom and the family?” She was playing along. Tabby had almost certainly spoken to his mother more recently than he had.

      “We’re all doing very well.”

      “Glad to hear it.” She paused, waiting for him to speak. When he didn’t hop right in, she continued, “I have to interview the police chief in twenty minutes. Want to tell me what this is about? Or should I call you back later?”

      He leaned an elbow on the desk and rested his chin in his hand. “I need your help.”

      “Oh?” Her voice jumped an octave. “Work or pleasure?”

      “Work.”