Identity Crisis. Laura Scott

things through a stranger’s eyes.

       Bone-weary, she fought off an encroaching wave of fatigue. She blinked and forced her eyes to stay open. There had to be something here that could make her remember who she was. Or why she continued to feel an overwhelming sense of doom. Hoping to find more personal items, she headed down the hall, toward the bedroom.

       On the dresser she found a framed snapshot of her and Alyssa. She picked up the photo, surprised to realize just how much they looked alike physically. Alyssa was easy to identify, since she was conservatively dressed and wore her long blond hair pulled back in a French braid. Alyssa’s expression was full of joy, and she proudly wore a modest diamond on the third finger of her left hand.

       In contrast, Mallory wore a slinky rose-colored dress, and despite the bright smile on her face, there was a certain sadness reflected in her eyes.

       Who’d taken their picture? A man? Gage?

       Mallory set the photo down with a grimace. This unhealthy fascination with her sister’s boyfriend had to stop. She needed to focus her attention on filling the cavernous blanks in her memory. On searching for the person whose blood stained her jeans.

       Alyssa’s boyfriend was definitely off-limits.

       The huge bed was softly inviting, but she refused to simply go to sleep when she had no idea what was going on. Or why she might be sad in contrast to her sister’s happiness.

       Her control slipped and suddenly she couldn’t stand wearing the uncomfortable and blood-splattered clothes another minute. She stripped everything off as quickly as humanly possible.

       After a good hour in the bathroom, scrubbing her skin until it was almost raw, she felt much better. But finding something appropriate and comfortable to wear wasn’t easy. She rooted through drawers, searching until she found a clean T-shirt that didn’t fit too snuggly and a comfortable pair of yoga pants.

       On the opposite side of the bed, a bundle of rose-colored silk on the floor caught her eye. Intrigued, she leaned down and picked up the garment, fingering the fabric thoughtfully. It was a gown, cut daringly low. She had no memory of wearing it, or of leaving it lying crumpled on the floor, as if she’d changed in a hurry. She lifted the dress and glanced around the otherwise neat room. From what she could tell, she wasn’t normally a slob.

       Had she worn the gown recently? She spread the rose silk on a nearby chair, wishing the simple item of clothing would spark some sort of memory. If not the gown, something else, then? She opened the closet door and rifled through the hanging garments. Only, nothing looked familiar. Her gaze landed on two boxes sitting on the closet floor.

       Wincing against the swelling in her ankle, she kneeled beside the boxes and opened the flap of the top one. She found winter clothing, mainly turtlenecks and cashmere sweaters. She shoved that box aside and grabbed the second. This one held more clothes. Men’s clothes.

       The sick feeling in her stomach intensified as she stared at the contents of the box. Had she lived with someone? Been married? She wasn’t wearing a ring. Divorced, then? And if so, from whom? She really should have asked Gage more questions.

       Digging beneath the clothes, she found expensive dress shoes and a leather shaving case. Nothing else. Nothing to give a clue as to the identity of the owner.

       Dazed, she stumbled to her feet. Limping over to the dresser, she opened every single drawer, relieved to find only female items of clothing. She couldn’t explain why the thought that she may have actually lived with a man so bothersome. Except that it didn’t seem like something she’d agree to do.

       In the bottom drawer, beneath more sweaters—really, how many sweaters did one person need?—she found a buttery-soft, brown suede box.

       Expecting to find jewelry, she was surprised to discover it empty except for a glossy photo lying inside. Hesitantly, she picked up the picture.

       This time, she was dressed in yet another evening gown, this one in brilliant blue. But she wasn’t alone. A man held her possessively in his arms. She swallowed hard, her stomach gurgling with tension as she studied the picture. The guy looked older than her, maybe in his mid- to late thirties, and was dressed in an expensive suit. His handsome face held a note of triumph, but she looked less than thrilled. A faint hint of distaste shadowed her gaze.

       Who was he? The owner of the clothing she’d found in the box? Staring at the background behind them, she could see they were standing in some hotel, with linen-covered tables and an orchestra behind them. How many hotels were there in Milwaukee? Or even worse, how many hotels were in the entire United States? No way to know where the photo had been taken.

       She put the glossy photo back inside the box, hoping, praying that the men’s clothing belonged to some sort of ex-husband rather than just some guy she’d decided to live with. She didn’t want to believe she was that sort of woman. But the slinky evening gowns and the revealing clothes, not to mention the rose and dagger tattoo she’d discovered just below her collarbone, told a different story.

       She closed her eyes on a wave of helplessness.

       Please, Lord, help me remember!

       Loud pounding on her door startled her. She spun from the dresser, nearly falling on her face when her ankle screamed with pain. Her pulse jumped and, despite the T-shirt and yoga pants, she really wanted a robe or something to cover up with.

       Since there didn’t seem to be anything nearby, she yanked the blanket off the bed and wrapped it around her. Gripping the lower hem of the blanket so she wouldn’t trip, she made her way down the hall toward the front door.

       The banging grew insistently louder.

       Nervously, she peered through the peephole. Gage’s face, distorted by the glass, had her sighing in relief.

       Not the guy in the photo or some other stranger. Gage. Gage had come back. A wave of pleasure swelled in her chest, and she quickly squelched it. What was wrong with her? He didn’t belong to her, he belonged to Alyssa!

       “Open up, Mallory,” he called.

       Hanging on to the blanket with one hand, she opened the door. “How did you get in? Isn’t there security here?”

       “I accidently kept your keys. And that’s not important right now. Finding Alyssa is.” He brushed past her, tossing the keys onto the kitchen counter. With a sigh, she closed the door behind him.

       “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.” The sheer agony on his face made her feel bad, as if she should be doing something more to help. “I’m afraid my memory hasn’t returned.”

       He stared at her as if just noticing her for the first time. “What’s with the blanket?”

       She flushed and gripped the edges tighter. “I couldn’t find a robe.”

       Gage gave her an odd look but didn’t say anything. “Hurry up and get ready. Because we’re heading out, together, to find Alyssa.”

       It was on the tip of her tongue to argue, but in the end, she didn’t really want to stay here alone. Going out somewhere, anywhere, would be better than sitting around waiting for her memory to return. “All right, give me a couple of minutes.”

       “A couple of minutes?” The surprise in his tone made her glance back at him over her shoulder. “I’ll hold you to that.”

       Once again, she tried to find clothing that she wouldn’t be embarrassed to wear in public. In the very back of the closet, she found a pair of slacks that weren’t skintight, and she gratefully pulled them on. She found a long-sleeved, somewhat sheer blouse and pulled that over the plain T-shirt and buttoned it all the way up, not caring about the lack of fashion. Running shoes were harder to find, but she finally found a pair that looked almost brand-new in the back of the closet.

       Odd, how there were parts of her that didn’t seem quite right. Did amnesia make a person forget his or her personality? Or maybe a more likely answer was that she put on an act on the outside, hiding her true self within.