A Stranger She Can Trust. Regan Black

Sarah. He’d tried everything to forget, to no avail. He understood how the department chaplain and others wanted to help, but that horrible night wouldn’t fade.

      “That house was really my address?” she asked, drawing him away from what had become a familiar slide into despair.

      He cleared his throat and focused on her. His personal problems would be there after her situation was resolved. “According to the records that popped up with your fingerprints.” She sounded stronger with the distance from her apartment. “Maybe the record needs to be updated.”

      “Home isn’t one place,” she whispered a few minutes later.

      “Pardon?”

      “I don’t know, but it feels right. Home isn’t one place,” she repeated. “Home is...” Her voice trailed off, and she groaned. “It was right there, a glimpse of my memory, and I lost it.”

      “For now. I think that’s a good sign you’ll make a full recovery.” He glanced over and saw the frown tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Relax. Paramedic’s orders.”

      He saw the ploy worked when she smiled at him. “Thanks for putting up with me.”

      “No problem.” And it wasn’t. He hadn’t been all that comfortable with the idea at first, concerned that she might need medical attention more than his observation. While he didn’t think she was completely out of the woods yet, he wasn’t worried that they were doing more harm by honoring her wish to avoid hospitals.

      Her panic wouldn’t help her amnesia recovery or anything else. “Let’s go see if my sister came through with the arnica oil, and we’ll just take it easy for the rest of the day.”

      “You can do that?”

      He nodded. “Can and will.” With luck, having Melissa at the house would be enough of a distraction to ward off the loneliness and flashes of Sarah’s voice and face that he dealt with day in and day out.

      * * *

      Melissa found an absurd comfort and sense of peace in her head and her heart when she saw the small, dark bottle of arnica oil on Carson’s kitchen counter. The note from his sister left him shaking his head, and she wondered again if she was an only child. Or maybe she was an orphan. The detective hadn’t mentioned that she had any family in the city, only a job and a friend. A dead friend.

      Swallowing the lump in her throat, she took the oil to the downstairs bathroom and smoothed the oil onto the battered skin. When she finished, she stretched out on the couch to watch television in Carson’s den, again relaxing per paramedic’s orders.

      She learned that resting a brain wasn’t as easy as it should have been, especially for her, with no memories, responsibilities or guilt to get in the way.

      Though she didn’t feel tired, she discovered the afternoon had slipped away and the sun had set when she woke to warm, savory scents drifting on the air. She stretched and sat up, trying to feel like Melissa Baxter. Giving up on that exercise after several wasted minutes, she walked into the kitchen and found Carson hunched over his phone at the island.

      Though he turned and smiled, she caught the shadows of sadness in his hazel eyes. “Something smells fantastic,” she said.

      “It’s Becky’s famous lasagna. She’s the chef in the family.”

      “Did she come by to check on you?” She bit back the query of how much he’d shared about her. Maybe his family was simply trying to make sure his forgetful patient, who was also a possible murderer, hadn’t decided to take a second life in as many days.

      “Yes. They’ve all been hovering more after...after Sarah died.”

      “Oh.” That must have been a nice feeling, to have someone care and hover and check in. “Do you think the detective is keeping me away from my family?”

      “Huh?” Carson tilted his head. “That’s a good question. I don’t see how that would help his case or you, either, but I can double-check with Grant if it bothers you.”

      She studied the label on the bottle of arnica oil. Had someone cared enough to teach her about this trick, or was it something she’d taught herself? “I’m not bothered, exactly. I guess I’m just trying to figure out how much trouble I’m in.”

      “Stop trying to figure out anything and let your mind rest. If Werner had some valid evidence that you killed someone, you’d be in custody, amnesia or not.”

      “Right.”

      At Carson’s direction, she tossed fresh salad greens together with a blue cheese dressing that appealed to her taste buds after tasting the options he had on hand. She set the serving bowl on the table while he served each of them a hearty square of the cheesy lasagna.

      Carson made small talk about the Escape Club and how and why Grant Sullivan had opened the place. It made her sad to hear he’d been wounded in the line of duty, but she smiled at the man’s triumph over the situation. “You should hear him on drums,” Carson said. “He could’ve made a career out of that.”

      “Why didn’t he?”

      “The man is third-generation cop. It’s hardwired into his DNA. If I had to guess, the music is his release valve and serves him better that way.”

      Every conversation she had created more questions about who she was and what might be hardwired into her. Did she have passions and release valves? Generations of family she’d followed into her career at the museum? She liked music, but she didn’t think she played an instrument. She’d had a great time at the zoo with both the animals and people watching. Did that mean she worked with the public?

      “I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.” Carson pointed his fork at her plate. “Focus on the food, just the food for now.”

      She did as he asked, simply in honor of the way he’d upended his life for her. “Is this the house where you grew up?”

      He shook his head. “My parents are too glued to their empty nest to vacate. They finally remodeled after my youngest sister moved out. I got to pitch in because they used a friend of mine in the fire department for the interior updates. They claim the house is now fortified and ready for grandkids to wreck it.”

      “Are there grandkids?”

      “Two so far, courtesy of Renee and her husband. She’s the one who brought over the oil.”

      “Oh, I should thank her for that.”

      Carson chuckled. “Trust me, the fact that I asked for it is all the encouragement and praise she needs.”

      Melissa grinned at him. “You work with a construction company in addition to shifts at the club and your job as a paramedic?”

      He nodded, and something niggled at the edge of her mind, as if that movement should have been familiar.

      “You could say the release valve for me is demo day on a construction site.”

      She studied his face and hands, remembered the strength in his arms when he’d held her during her meltdown in the truck. “I can see that.”

      “Can you?”

      She grinned, as curious about her observation as he seemed to be. “Nothing more objective than a stranger,” she quipped. “Good grief. That sounds like something I heard as a kid.”

      “I think your parents must be unique people.”

      She’d hoped he would toss out more theories so she could see if they fit, but he dug into his meal instead. She did the same, although the silence was companionable and comforting.

      “Your eye is looking better,” he said as they took care of the dishes together. “Not as puffy and definitely not as colorful. Renee won’t let me live it down.”

      When they finished the meal, Melissa covered the lasagna pan with