A Night Without End. Susan Kearney

lie. I’ll try and help if I can.”

      Lie? She’d told him the truth. The knot tightened another notch. Yet, despite her memory loss she tried to remain calm. Maybe he wasn’t the enemy.

      In the haunting gray light of the cave, she could see a tight expression on his lips, and she realized he’d told her almost nothing about her situation. He seemed tense, a leashed force of taut muscles primed to spring if she made the wrong move. As a frisson of dread swept through her, she fought to keep the rising fear from her voice. “Could I have some water, please?”

      When he didn’t hesitate to pour water from a canteen into a tin cup, she sagged against the sleeping bag, relieved. He didn’t seem to want to mistreat her. And when her numb fingers couldn’t hold the cup, he raised it to her lips with a hand that looked as if it had spent a long time in the wilderness. She’d always noticed a man’s hands. Indicating he worked with them for a living, his hands were large, the palms and pads of his fingers callused, the fingers long and without adornment. But then she didn’t need the lack of a ring to tell her this man wasn’t married. She couldn’t imagine any circumstance where he would share himself with a woman.

      Although he eyed her steadily, he seemed uncomfortable around her, as if unsure whether to treat her with consideration or hostility. Her injury and weakness seemed to irritate him almost as much as it did her.

      The water was cold, surprisingly refreshing, as if it had come straight from the refrigerator. She doubted politeness would soften him up. Still, she tried. “Thanks.”

      Her words had no more effect on him than they had on the rocky walls around her. Still, she was aware of his intense scrutiny, the subtle aura of power he radiated as he completed the ordinary task of screwing the cap back onto the canteen and tossing it onto a pile of camping gear.

      “I need to know what happened here.” His voice echoed darkly in the tomblike chamber. “Why don’t you tell me your real name—for starters.”

      At his words, confusion settled in the pit of her gut. He acted as if he was giving her a test, as if he knew her name and that she’d been lying to him. Had a lunatic taken her captive? He’d said he’d help, had given her water, then sharpened his tone as if she were a habitual liar. For all she remembered, he could have been the one who’d caused the pounding at the base of her skull.

      Her inability to recall her circumstances wasn’t just inconvenient but downright alarming. She didn’t recognize the partially covered body just outside the cave. Most likely, she’d been working a case and ended up here, but she hadn’t an inkling where here was or of how to play out her situation. Worse, her partner might be just around the bend, either hurt or injured, and depending on her to get them out of here.

      Why couldn’t she remember? “I’m not lying. I have identification in my…”

      But she wasn’t in uniform. Wild, speculative thoughts coursed through her. She must have been drugged. Taken somewhere. She reminded herself that Harry must be looking for her. If she could just stay alive, help would arrive. She swallowed hard and forced her gaze to the man looming over her. He looked hard and about two seconds away from doing her bodily harm.

      Dizzy from the pounding headache, she was in no condition to fight. Actually, even if she’d been perfectly healthy, she would have been no match for two-hundred-plus pounds of lean, angry muscle. So she had no intention of provoking his anger.

      Her mouth was still dry, but she was reluctant to ask for more water, preferring that he keep his distance. “What do you want with me?”

      With a don’t-mess-with-me look, he set down the cup beside her and folded his arms across his broad chest. “I want answers.”

      “Don’t we all.”

      He jerked his thumb toward the mouth of the cave, at the body beneath a blanket. A bloody knife lay next to it. “Why did you kill my partner, Jackson?”

      She hadn’t killed anyone. Or at least she didn’t think she had. Her mom had always told her the best defense was a strong offense, so at his accusation, she came out swinging. “How do I know you didn’t kill him?”

      “The man was like a father to me. Besides, I’m not the one with blood on my sleeve.”

      As his words sank in, she glanced down at her sleeve to the dark stain and shivered.

      He was accusing her of…murder. Her mind couldn’t wrap around the thought. Murder? Oh, God. Why couldn’t she remember? If only the pounding behind her eyes would diminish, she might think more clearly.

      Like an expert interrogator, he gave her no time to recuperate from his allegation. “And before you lie and tell me you didn’t kill him, you might want to consider that I saw the bloody knife in your hand.”

      She had to concentrate, but a black hole in her memory seemed to have sucked away every recollection. “I can’t remember.”

      “How convenient, Ms. Brandon.”

      He seemed to emphasize her last name with a mocking tone, then wait for her reaction. But how was she supposed to react? She’d told him the truth. She was born Carlie May Brandon and she’d never married, never gone by another name. Had she been working this case undercover and used an alias? But Carlie didn’t do undercover. She was just a uniformed officer who patrolled the streets. Her gaze strayed to the body and skittered away. What had happened?

      Think.

      The last moment she recalled was stopping a speeder on the causeway connecting Tampa and St. Petersburg. Harry had teased her about letting off the cute guy in the Corvette with just a warning. It had been Tuesday, around 5:00 p.m.

      “What day is this?” she asked.

      Sean didn’t seem surprised she’d lost track of the days; his expression didn’t change one iota. But then, he looked as if he were carved from the same unforgiving rock that formed mountains. Beneath his full-length parka, he wore a black wool shirt, heavy denim pants and sturdy hiking boots. From his heavy clothing, the cold climate and the camping gear in the cave, she guessed they were in the mountains, someplace up north or out west. Colorado or Canada, maybe.

      Wherever she was, time didn’t seem to have much meaning. She didn’t hear the sounds of civilization. No cars, no trains. No police sirens indicating help on the way. Obviously she wasn’t in Florida anymore and could only count on her own resources.

      The man standing over her was a formidable opponent. Yet he didn’t seem the usual street criminal. Intelligence gleamed from his eyes, and the set of his mountainous shoulders warned her of his self-control. She doubted she could incite him into making mistakes.

      At least he was talking to her. “It’s Saturday,” he told her.

      She’d lost four days. Four days. “You’re sure?”

      “Very. It’s October 30.”

      She blinked when he added the year. No way. He had to be trying to trick her. But his words had been so offhand, downright casual. And what reason would he have to lie? She swallowed hard and tried for a normal tone. “Are you sure?”

      He cocked his head, his deep baritone suspicious. “Lose a day?”

      Stunned, she blinked hard, fighting back tears. “Near as I can tell, I’ve lost over two years.”

      Two years gone, vanished as if she’d never lived them. She had to stay calm, in control of her rising panic. The knock on her head could have caused a temporary memory loss. Surely her memory would return if she just concentrated hard enough.

      Ignoring his eyebrows raised in disbelief was easy while thoughts raced through her head like a runaway train. What was wrong with her? It was as if she’d never lived the last two years. Panic surged through her. She had no idea where she was or how she’d gotten here. Suppose her memories never returned? Suppose she had killed Jackson?

      Fear clamped around her chest and squeezed. At least she’d retained most