The man in front of her had broad shoulders. And one arm. If she stood, and he stood, they would probably be close to eye-to-eye, heightwise.
“You’re just going to stare at me?”
Her head felt like it was about to split open. She continued staring at him, letting her eyes flit to the side to quickly assess her surroundings, but there was nothing familiar about this man or what looked like a small cabin where he lived. Where she lived also? She had no idea. No familiar thoughts entered into her head. Her eyes scanned the walls. Curtains were pulled over the windows, but it was dark outside. A cocoon against the world.
She started to speak. Something in her hesitated. After a few seconds, she managed to say, “Who are you?”
If he answered that, then maybe she would have an idea of who she was. And what was happening here.
Why did she know…nothing?
“I’m the one asking the questions.”
She shifted on the couch, then sat up and put her head in her hands. Elbows to her knees. After a few long, steady breaths, she still had no clue. “Who am I?” A million other questions rolled through her head. Where was she? Who was he? What was going on? And the most prominent. “Why does my head hurt so badly?”
Even speaking seemed strange. The words rolled off her tongue in an unfamiliar way she didn’t understand—her accent the same as his. What was the problem? She fought the panic rising in her chest.
“I’ll get you an ice pack.” He stood, but she didn’t look up as he said, “I left a message with my doctor.”
At those words, terror rushed at her like a crazed wolf foaming at the mouth. And this time there was no way to tamp it down. She wasn’t sure if she was reliving a real experience, or if it was just a sensation. But her body acted as though it was real.
She scrambled up onto the couch, legs tucked against her chest, and backed herself into the corner. Every breath came sharp and fast.
“Whoa.” His face swam in front of her. “You okay?”
“No hospital.”
“My doctor doesn’t work at the hospital. He’s freelance.”
She didn’t know what that meant, and when black spots blinked in front of her face, she could no longer speak.
“You’re panicking.” He tugged her hand from the death grip she had on her knee and held it in his. “Take a breath and hold it. Try to slow your breathing.”
Air rushed in her ears.
“Good. Take another one. Hold it. Try to blow it out slowly.”
The gun lay on the coffee table beside him. Regardless of the things about herself she couldn’t remember, she was positive that if she picked it up, she’d be able to eject the magazine. Then she would pull the slide back, and it would kick out the round in the chamber. Just like that, he would be disarmed.
Alternatively, she could shoot him.
Would that evaporate the fear?
She wasn’t sure. What she did know was disarming him would shift the power back into her hands. Did she need it? He seemed strong. Whether that served her or hurt her would depend on how he decided to utilize that strength.
Given his questions so far, he thought she was the enemy. And yet, there was something about him that made her believe he might be a friend.
“There you go.”
She lifted her gaze and realized how close he sat to her. Near enough to touch. To kill. There was a vulnerability to putting his life in her hands. Trusting her the same way she had to trust he wasn’t going to grab her neck and squeeze the life from her.
Still, she didn’t quite get the feeling he thought he was in all that much danger. It was more like a calculated risk. He knew what he was capable of and was confident he could overpower her anytime he wanted.
Again, something in her hesitated before speaking. “Do...do we know each other?”
He shifted back a fraction and sat on the coffee table, rubbing his palm on the leg of his sweats. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
She started to speak and another roll of thunder echoed in her head. She touched her temple below the source. “Ouch.”
“I’ll get you ice.” He took the gun and strode to the kitchen, which was in full view because this cabin was basically one living area/dining room/kitchen. The door at the far end probably led to the bedroom or a bathroom.
“I need to use the bathroom.”
He turned and waved his hand in the direction of the door. “Go ahead. Coffee?”
She stood, and pain rolled through her head. “I don’t like coffee.” Who am I?
His brows lifted.
She froze. “How do I know that?”
“So you remember?”
“Ask me another question.” She was unsteady on her feet, but walked to a recliner and put her hand on the back of it. A gray cat hopped up and lay down. His territory, not hers.
She moved her hand.
“Tea?”
“Yes.” Satisfaction rolled through her. “I like tea.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Tea is very good.”
He chuckled. It sounded rusty. “It’s also good you remember that. Okay, then. Tea it is.” He moved to a cupboard and pulled down a box. “It’ll be ready in a minute. You go ahead.”
She retreated to the bathroom, with its linoleum floor and basic shower curtain. The mirror had a crack in the corner. She took care of pressing business, wondering how she knew, seemingly by instinct, what to do next. Nothing in her pockets. Nothing hidden in her shoes for some purpose. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
The mirror taunted at her peripheral.
She fastened her belt. How did he do that, one-handed? She didn’t want to ask when it seemed like part of him was already angry at her.
Are you here to kill me?
She wanted to ask that, too. Instead, she moved to the sink and gripped the sides of the porcelain. Rust ringed the drain of the old sink.
She had blood under her fingernails.
She wrung her hands together and stared first at the dark skin on the back of them, and then gazed at the lighter tan of her palms. Assessing, as though her hands could tell a story. Of who she was. What she was doing here. Only she didn’t know what any of it meant. There was nothing familiar about her fingers. Trimmed nails, no polish. No indication she wore any kind of jewelry. Or where she’d been before she woke up on this stranger’s couch.
There was nothing.
Still avoiding the mirror, she washed her hands, getting rid of the only thing that might provide an answer. But there was nothing about blood under her nails she wanted to keep.
You’re avoiding the obvious. That know-it-all voice in her head persisted. Until she couldn’t put it off any longer. Afraid or not, she needed to know.
She gulped in some brave breaths and lifted her head, hands back on the sides of the sink for steady support. Her whole world shifted as she met her own gaze and…
Nothing.
She stared more intently at her features while pain ricocheted around in her skull. Dark hair pulled back in a bandana. If she took that off, it would be a mess. Always a mind of its own. Stubborn hair. Stubborn jaw. Stubborn. Someone had said that to her. A long time ago.
The word brought a rush of grief with it.
And yet more nothing.
Dark eyes. Full lips. Strong nose. Objectively she could say she wasn’t terrible looking, though she needed a shower and some makeup. Her own image didn’t bring any strong emotions with it. What struck her was her lack of reaction. Because she was content with the way she looked? This was the face God had given her. Complete with a tiny circular scar in front of her ear.
The knot on her forehead looked nasty and still pounded like thunder rolling in her head.
She tugged open the mirror and found a tiny cabinet. Men’s deodorant. Shaving cream and a razor. A tiny bottle of painkillers. She swallowed a couple with some water from the tap. No sign a woman lived here.
And now she was snooping.
She didn’t even know her own name, let alone his, or if he would let her even live much longer. He was making tea—right after saying he would walk her outside and shoot her. No one would know.
A shiver rolled through her.
She eased the bathroom door open a crack and peeked out. Was he waiting out there to kill her?
The low murmur of someone talking filled the space. A woman’s voice, but she had a low tone.
So he did have a woman living here.
A kettle whistled, and she heard the click as he twisted off the burner. “Tea’s ready!”
Her whole body flinched, causing the door to close on her finger, pinning it between the door and the frame for a second. She stepped out with the pinched finger tight in the grip of her other hand. For some reason, squeezing it made it feel better. If only the same might work for her insane headache.
She stepped to the edge of the kitchen floor where wood planks met linoleum.
He handed her ice wrapped in a towel. “When you’re done icing it, I’d like to put a bandage on.”
She lifted it to her head and winced. “That’s cold.”
“Go have a seat. I’ll bring your tea.”
The woman’s voice came from a tiny radio on the mantel, and then a song played. She’d never heard it before. That she knew of, at least.
She settled back onto the couch, and he set a mug on the table. “A few minutes ago, you said you were going to kill me. Now you’re bringing me tea?”
He pulled a tiny piece of paper from the pocket of his sweats and tossed it beside her mug before he sat on the recliner, at the edge, forearm resting on his knee. She wasn’t fooled that he was in the least bit relaxed, but the gun was on top of the fridge, so she didn’t think she was in immediate danger.
She clumsily unfolded the paper one-handed. He probably made that look easy. On the paper was an address, written in small, curled letters. “What is it?”
“The address for this cabin. It was in your pocket.”
“I was coming here?” Surely that meant they knew each other. And yet, he didn’t seem to know her. Or he was lying? How could she tell?
He shook his head. “You were at the lake. A man chased you, shot twice, and I think you must’ve fallen and hit your head because it doesn’t appear you were shot.”
She stared at the paper until her eyes burned, and she had to blink. Tears blurred the address. Did she write it and then stow the paper in her pocket for some unknown reason she couldn’t remember now?
“He drove off in a truck.”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“I didn’t call the police. I would have, and was about to, when I found that paper.”
“That changes things?”
“No one can know I live up here. You had my address, which means we’re connected.”
“But you don’t know how?” She needed to compose herself. This was all too fast. Too much. And yet at the same time, what she had to grasp onto was a whole bunch of nothing. No answers. No memories.
No name.
Just overwhelming fear and a giant headache.
“I’ve never seen you before in my life. I don’t know your name any more than you do.”
That sense of solidarity was a gift. “Thank you.”
They were in this together. For as long as it was until he followed through on his threat. Unless it had been empty, a way to goad her into revealing too much under duress.
“I called a friend of mine.”
“A cop?”
He shook his head. “He’s local, a private investigator. Tate might be able to tell us who you are. He lives in town, and he gets around. And, he can be discreet.”
Still, fear was ever-present. Like a cloud in the room she couldn’t get rid of. She nodded, though. Otherwise, how else would she get answers?
The song on the radio ended and the female DJ came back on. “Mornings with Megan continues after the news report. Police are out with their new K9 officer, searching for the body of Annabelle Filks. More on this cold case after our commercial break.”
He launched from the recliner and shut off the radio, the line of his shoulders tense like concrete. His frantic movement made the cat jump off the couch.
Who was this guy, and what was he hiding?
And who was she?