The Night in Question. Kelsey Roberts

why I should risk my medical license.”

      Her head was spinning with images that wouldn’t stop long enough for her to actually collate the fractured memories. She had no idea why, just that she couldn’t let Matt or Dr. Revell call the authorities. “Reporting it won’t do any good. I don’t remember being shot.” In unison, Matt and Dr. Revell gave her a yeah-right kind of sneer. “I’m telling the truth. I don’t remember any of it.”

      “Then I guess you can’t explain this, either,” Matt said, holding up a strip of something textured, twisted and gunmetal gray.

      “What is it?”

      “Duct tape.”

      She pressed her fingers to her temple. “No, I can’t explain it. Where did it come from?”

      “It was wrapped around your rib cage. Or at least it was once,” Matt explained. “I’m guessing the salt water got to whatever you had taped to yourself beneath your dress. And you don’t remember that part, either?”

      “Sorry,” she mumbled.

      “Then we’ll start with what you do know,” Matt said, his tone forceful, demanding and definitely intimidating as he came around so she didn’t have to look at him upside down. “What’s your name?”

      She lowered her gaze, fixing it on the triangle shape formed by her feet beneath the sheet. “I can’t help you with that, either.”

      “What?” Matt practically barked.

      She started to shake and tears welled in her eyes. In a voice that managed to be vulnerable and agitated at the same time, she said, “I don’t know how I ended up in the ocean wearing that gown. I have no idea how I cut my hand. Until a few minutes ago, I didn’t even know I’d been shot. I have no clue who I am.” She wiped at the tears as they tumbled down her cheeks

      Matt asked, “What exactly is the last thing you remember?”

      “Waking up on the beach and seeing your face.”

      Chapter Two

      She cried tears of frustration with a healthy dose of fear. The frustration stemmed from the obvious—why couldn’t she remember her own name? The fear was a little less pellucid. For some God-only-knew reason, she kept hearing a woman’s voice in her head saying, ‘Trust no one.’ She didn’t recognize the voice nor did her mind’s eye bring forth an image.

      She was shaking, trying hard to remember something, hell, anything: an address, her name, her favorite color. Anything.

      “I’m going to give you an injection,” Dr. Revell said, holding a syringe and squirting a quick stream of colorless liquid out of the hollow needle. “It will calm you down,” she explained.

      “Dr. Revell, I—”

      “Call me Kendall,” she insisted as she brought the needle closer. “This may hurt, I’m a little bit out of practice,” the woman said with a kind smile.

      She felt a pinch, then almost instantly her nerves calmed. “Why would someone shoot me?” She heard her own words slur slightly. She tried to lift her wounded hand but it felt like it weighed about three hundred pounds, so she gave up. “Or cut me?” Next she tried to sit but couldn’t manage it. “I need to leave,” she said.

      “Why?” Matt asked.

      Slowly, she shook her head. “I don’t know why, just that I can’t go to the authorities.”

      Reaching into his back pocket, Matt flipped open a soggy wallet. “Too late,” he said. “I’m with the FBI.”

      She felt a wave of terror crash down on her. “Am I a criminal or a fugitive?”

      “Let’s roll your fingerprints and see,” he said almost conversationally.

      Kendall then inked each of her fingers onto a card. She handed the card to Matt. “We can use the computer in my office,” Kendall said. Patting her charge on the shoulder, the doctor said, “You rest. Sometimes it takes a good long while for IAFIS.”

      “I…A—”

      Kendall gave her a reassuring smile. “Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System. Put your head back and rest.”

      Easy for her to say. The doctor wasn’t the one with the bullet hole and the knife wound. She bent her arm and covered her eyes from the harsh glare from the light. “Think,” she demanded of her foggy brain. A face blinked into focus for a nanosecond. A tall brunette, impeccably dressed, with short hair. Her sister? Her neighbor? Her victim? She felt hot tears in the corners of her eyes.

      An FBI agent? What were the chances? If only I’d been found by an old lady out shelling or an old man sweeping the beach with headphones and a metal detector? Nope, I have to get an FBI agent. “Matt DeMarco,” she whispered.

      As her hand went to her throat, an image came back with crystal clarity. Two boats, far enough away that their searchlights couldn’t reach her as she clung to the barnacle-encrusted buoy. She remembered the wide arc of the beams reflecting off the small swells. And strobing red. The latter part made no sense.

      Neither did not remembering her own name. Or where she lived. Or if someone loved her or vice versa. What could have happened to erase her memory? It had to be big. Major. And based on her new terror of authority figures, bad.

      “KRESLEY HAYES,” Matt said before they headed for his Jeep sometime later.

      “I’m sorry,” she said as she concentrated on not swaying as she walked. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

      “It’s your name.”

      Matt was smiling. She stopped suddenly and looked up into his gray-blue eyes. They were rimmed with inky lashes that matched his black hair.

      “Hungry?”

      “I’m not exactly presentable,” she said, lifting the top edge of the surgical scrubs Kendall had been kind enough to supply. The doctor had also provided a sports bra and some Crocs. The only problem was Kendall was two inches taller and a size smaller. The pants, which were rolled up at the hem, and the top were like a second skin.

      “What?” she demanded.

      “You really don’t know who you are, do you?”

      “I’ve been telling you that for hours and it’s only now sinking in? How did you find out my name so quickly?” she asked. And why doesn’t it sound at all familiar?

      “I hit the national databases. Nothing. So I had a friend run your prints locally.”

      Her heart skipped. “My prints are in the system? Am I a felon or something?”

      He chuckled. “No, you’re a teacher. Or at least you were. Second grade. A police background check with fingerprints is standard procedure for everyone dealing with children. You would have undergone that before you were hired.”

      “What did I do? Fail someone so they shot me and stabbed me?”

      “You haven’t been a classroom teacher for a couple of years. So I think we can safely rule out an unhappy second grader. Currently, you’re working toward a graduate degree in child psychology.”

      “You have no idea how maddening this is,” she said, her voice cracking. “You got all that information from my fingerprints?”

      “And my secret decoder ring.”

      “Very funny. Where do I live?” Kresley asked, waiting, praying for something that sounded familiar.

      “You’ve got an apartment on Isle of Palms,” he said.

      “Thank you for taking me home,” she said.

      “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve got to make a stop first.”

      She