THE FIRST OF Samantha’s senses to return was smell. She breathed in the aroma of freshly laundered sheets, Rocky Mountain columbines, and coffee. She couldn’t remember making coffee. She remembered driving home from work; the garage . . .
“Are you awake yet?”
Bolting upright, Samantha found herself staring into the wide eyes of a little girl. For a moment she could do nothing but gape, dumbfounded. It took a few seconds to take it all in. She was in a strange room. The girl, who seemed to be eight or nine, tucked a rippling strand of long brown hair behind her ear.
“Are you going to get up?”
Samantha blinked.
“Who . . . who are you?” she asked.
She looked around. The mustard-gold curtains, drawn tightly now, and the matching bedspread indicated a motel room. There was no door on the closet, and the hangers were permanently attached. A vase of purple and white columbines had been set on the night stand, as well as a small tray with a cup of coffee, a croissant, and fruit.
The little girl laughed.
“You’re funny when you wake up,” she said. “Look, I went down to the restaurant and brought up breakfast. The coffee has two teaspoons of sugar and a little cream, just like you told me yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
Samantha rubbed her head, feeling a dull ache. Yesterday she had worked a double shift and Barbara Huston had walked her out to her car. She’d driven home, and then something had gone wrong with the garage door, and . . .
“I’m . . . I don’t know what’s happening,” she said. “Where am I?”
“We’re in the Miner’s Hotel, of course,” the child said.
“The what?”
The little girl opened the dresser drawer and pulled out a piece of stationery. Samantha read the letterhead and gasped. It said: “MINER’S HOTEL. EST. 1902, DURANGO, COLORADO.”
“Durango!” she gasped. “But that must be a hundred miles from Ashleigh Creek! How on earth did I get here?”
Panicking, Samantha got out of bed. She was surprised that she was dressed in her own nightgown. A suitcase lay open on the dresser at the opposite side of the room. Samantha recognized her own clothes, folded neatly, as if she’d planned this trip. She turned to the child.
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on here,” she said in a harsh tone, “but if this is someone’s idea of a joke, it isn’t very funny.”
The child backed away from her, genuine fear filling her green eyes.
“Why are you yelling at me?” she asked. “You’re scaring me!”
“I’m scaring you?” Samantha said. “I just woke up in a strange motel room and I don’t know how I got here!”
The little girl moved carefully to the breakfast tray. She picked up the cup of coffee and handed it to Samantha.
“Maybe . . . maybe you’d better drink this,” she said.
Samantha took a sip. The coffee was perfect, just the way she liked it. But she hadn’t told this child how to make it.
“What’s your name?” she asked, trying to calm herself. It was obvious the little girl was as befuddled as she.
“That’s a silly question,” the child said. “You know what my name is.”
Samantha shook her head, cradling the warm cup between her hands to steady them.
“No, no, I don’t,” she said. “Something’s happened to me. Please help me, little girl.”
The child straightened herself. “I’m not little. I’m nine. And my name is Julie.”
“Julie what?”
Julie frowned at her.
“I . . . I can’t . . .”
“You can’t remember?” Samantha prodded. “Julie, how did you come to be here?”
“Mr. Henley brought me,” Julie said. “From the Cliffside Home. You talked to him, signed some papers, and we had a nice day together. Don’t you remember? We took a ride on the Durango and Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad. You bought me a piece of aquamarine from an Indian man.”
Unable to recall any of this, Samantha sat down on the edge of the bed. She didn’t speak for a few moments as she finished her coffee.
“Julie,” she said at last, “how long have we been here?”
“In Durango?” Julie asked. “Just since last night. We met Mr. Henley at the home the day before that.”
“Where’s the home?”
“In Tacoma,” Julie said.
Tacoma. Samantha had never been there.
“Wait a second,” she said. She opened the night-stand and pulled out a phone book. “Cliffside . . . Cliffside . . .”
But there was no listing for a Cliffside Home.
“Did Mr. Henley leave a number?”
Julie shrugged.
“Well, I don’t understand any of this,” Samantha said. “We’ve got to call the police. Maybe they can help me find this Mr. Henley.”
There was a plastic tent-card next to the phone, listing local restaurants, movie theaters, and emergency numbers. No sooner had she dialed two numbers than her hand froze. She felt something like electricity running through her body, as if she were being shocked.
I’ll die if I call the police. I can’t talk to them.
The thought came through loud and clear, like a piece of rote learned to perfection. With a cry, she threw the phone away from herself and stared at the dangling receiver.
“What . . . what’s wrong?” Julie asked.
When Samantha looked up to answer, her face was pale and her voice husky.
“I don’t know,” she croaked. “I got some kind of shock from the line.”
But it was more than that. Samantha felt an overwhelming sense of dread at the thought of trying to call the police again.
“But I’m going to find out,” she went on. “Julie, pack your things. We’re going home. And when we get there, I’m going to find out who you belong to!”
“But I belong to you now!” Julie insisted. “To you!”
Samantha met the child’s gaze. Julie’s green eyes were filling. Samantha felt a sudden urge to run and put her arms around the child. She wanted to hold her close and comfort her and tell her everything was going to be all right.
But it wasn’t all right. And nothing would be all right until she figured out what the hell was going on.