Running on Empty. Michelle Celmer

      “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.