A Stranger She Can Trust. Regan Black

were testing every new reaction and feeling off that one spark of trust you experienced overnight.”

      “Yes, I trust you.” She sucked in a quick, shallow breath. “I don’t trust myself.” She gripped the seat belt, as if by holding on tightly she could stay in the truck rather than face the unknowns outside. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Nothing makes sense.”

      “Relax and breathe.” He encouraged her as she inhaled deeply and exhaled a few times. “You trusted me by relying on intuition. It’s the same for me. No, I can’t claim to know you, but I’m almost certain you aren’t a criminal or that you brought any of this on yourself.”

      She sent him a sideways glance. “I think that sentence would sound a lot better if you could use my name.”

      He smiled at her and reached over to release her seat belt, easing her grip so it could retract completely. “You’re probably right, but it wouldn’t feel any different saying it.” He waited for her to meet his gaze. “Whatever Grant has or hasn’t learned about you, you won’t have to face it alone.”

      With a single tense bob of her chin, she stopped arguing, and the color seeped back into her face. It was little relief as he replayed his words, hearing the implied promise. He’d committed himself to her cause, despite the nonexistent facts. He dropped his sunglasses back to the bridge of his nose, knowing he’d stand by the promise, at least until her memory returned, if for no other reason than he didn’t have the heart to backpedal now.

      * * *

      “You won’t have to face it alone.” Carson’s comforting promise steadied her as much as his presence while he held open the nightclub’s back door for her. Her body felt like one giant ache from her toes to the top of her head with various sore spots throbbing in between. She felt as if she’d been in a car wreck and realized with a manic laugh inside her head that she might have been.

      The thought caught her off guard. Did she know what a car wreck felt like? “Are my injuries consistent with a car accident?”

      Carson paused as the door swung shut behind him. Behind his sunglasses, she could tell he was giving her a thorough once-over. After a moment, he shook his head. “Unlikely. Or maybe it’s safer to say that if you were in a car wreck, it was after someone beat the hell out of you.”

      “Okay.” She caught back the thank-you that danced at the tip of her tongue, not wanting to make her sole ally in this mess any more uncomfortable. Her intuition told her gratitude was a key part of her personality, but she had to find some of the other missing pieces to go along with it and balance it out.

      Down the hall, she heard a symphony of voices, none of them familiar. Yet something about the noise tickled a memory. Voices raised in agreement or discussion were an important clue to who she was. The sounds rose and fell as they passed the kitchen and walked toward Grant’s office. There were voices there, too. Both male, engaged in a more moderate discussion.

      Carson stepped in front of her, a protective movement she appreciated. “Hi,” he greeted the men inside.

      Grant and the other man stood up, and Grant motioned them forward. “Come on in. Carson, you’ve met Detective Neil Werner, right?”

      “Sure.”

      From her position just behind him, she saw the tension snap across Carson’s shoulders. She cursed her faulty brain, having no way to discern if she was the cause. Grant waved them in, his gaze catching on her, as if he wasn’t sure what he should call her. Suddenly uncomfortable, she wished the floor would swallow her up. Something else she was learning about herself was that she didn’t like being a burden or creating drama.

      The detective stepped forward, offered his hand. His palm dwarfed hers, but his grip was gentle and warm. He was clearly dedicated to fitness as his broad shoulders strained against his suit. The close-cropped dark blond hair, the crow’s feet framing his soft blue eyes and the creases bracketing his mouth created a general sense of friendliness.

      “As you’re surely aware, Grant reached out to me in an attempt to help you. Have a seat.” He gestured her toward the chair he’d just vacated.

      Sitting down, she noticed she was effectively hemmed in. No way out, except through the three men. The knot of fear in her belly loosened as Carson sat down next to her. Catching the quick glance between the detective and Grant, her pulse kicked into overdrive. “You know who I am.”

      The detective’s mouth curved into a faint smile. “Turns out your fingerprints are on file with the police.”

      “I have a criminal record?” Shock coursed through her, cold and hard. She turned to Carson, but before she could release him from his rash promise, the detective waved a hand.

      “No, no,” Werner assured her. “Your, ah, employer keeps fingerprint records as part of their security protocol.”

      That sounded promising. “Who do I work for?”

      The detective leaned back on Grant’s desk and studied his hands for a long moment. “After what Grant told me, I consulted with an expert before I came out here,” he said, finally meeting her gaze. “They think it’s best if I don’t force your memories onto you right now.”

      “That wouldn’t help the amnesia?”

      “So I’m told,” he said. “Your name also popped up in the course of a different investigation this morning.” He looked at Carson, arching his eyebrows. “I’m at a loss. I really don’t know how to proceed here.”

      “Gently,” Carson suggested. “The simpler the better.”

      “All right.” Detective Werner tugged at one ear, his mouth twisting to the side. “Does the name Melissa Baxter ring any bells?”

      She shook her head and glanced at Carson. He only shrugged. “No, sir,” she replied.

      “How about Noelle Anson?”

      “Sorry, another blank.” She repeated the names in her head, willing some reaction or recognition to come forward. “Are either of those names mine?”

      Werner squinted and winced. “Noelle’s body was found just up river early this morning. Her security badge from her place of employment was in her pocket, so we followed the lead, asked questions. Her coworkers and members of the security staff there remember seeing you with Noelle last night. The descriptions and fingerprints on Noelle’s personal belongings match up with you.”

      “You’re saying my name is Melissa?”

      “Melissa Baxter,” he confirmed with a serious nod. “You’re seen several times with Noelle on the security camera records, as well. Anson’s coworkers claim you were close friends.”

      Why couldn’t she remember a detail as simple, as essential as her name? None of this information felt familiar or gave her an intuitive sense of rightness. A thousand questions chased each other through her mind, questions about herself, this friend and her workplace. The detective had the answers, yet she suspected hearing them wouldn’t help.

      She was locked out of herself, and the dread was building. She didn’t feel like a Melissa, couldn’t dredge up any feeling for the dead woman. She stared at her hands as a buzzing sound filled her ears. Were they saying she was a killer? A warm hand covered hers, and she blinked rapidly to find Carson leaning close, watching her. No judgment in his hazel eyes, only a calm and comfort.

      “Take a breath,” he said.

      She tried, hiccuped. “I can’t remember anything about any of this. Have I killed someone? Would I kill a friend?”

      “No.” The absolute confidence in his voice brought a rush of stinging tears to her eyes.

      “You sound so sure,” she whispered.

      “I am.”

      “Carson, we can’t—” Grant began.

      “She is not a killer.” Carson