EIGHT

CLARE

I pulled the gray hair, separating it from my dark strands, and yanked it out. Then I stared at the reflection in the hospital’s bathroom mirror, searching for more traces of the years I’d lost.

It was a waste of time.

I was still Clare Cosi, as far as I could see, though at the moment I couldn’t see all that much.

My eyes, normally clear and bagless, were so red and puffy from crying, I couldn’t tell if there were any new wrinkles. And I’d been frowning so long and hard, I could find no laugh lines around my lips—not even the ones I remembered.

I did discover more than one gray hair and wondered how I got them. Likely from raising a preteen daughter through the rough road of adolescence all by my lonesome—a daughter who, from my damaged perspective, had grown into her adulthood overnight.

I found it hard to hold that thought, to realize that my “little girl,” Joy, was now a young woman who remembered all the intimate motherly moments I had obviously forgotten. I felt myself wishing I could speak with her now and with Madame, and even—

No! Not him! Not Matt!

I shook my head, trying to shake my volatile feelings. I simply could not reconcile years gone by with the raw pain I suffered at learning of his betrayals. Multiple, almost routine betrayals, from the moment he left me behind in New York for all those sourcing trips abroad.

The humiliation of his cheating felt too new, the cutting wounds of our breakup too fresh. But then—

What did it matter, anyway? Dr. Lorca insisted my recovery required isolation from anyone associated with the part of my life that remained a blank. Moving to new surroundings would help with my recall—at least, that was what the doctor assured me.

But that’s not what you really want, whispered a little voice, deep inside.

“It’s not?” I whispered back.

Why should you be alienated from your family—the people who love you—at a time when you need them the most?

“I don’t know. The doctor said I should.”

Running my hands through my tangled hair, I turned away from the confused madwoman in the mirror.

It’s not that I didn’t trust Lorca. He was so generous, donating his services, and easy to like, such an attractive and interesting man, so polished and charming. Not like that pair of detectives who spoke to me the other day.

The one with the shaved head and leather jacket looked downright dangerous. But it was the sandy-haired detective—the tall one in the wrinkled suit with the blue eyes—who made me the most nervous. I could still see his intense gaze staring at me as if I were guilty of some awful thing.

I shuddered at that memory.

Those female police officers, the ones who conducted the second interview, were far less intimidating. Ultimately, they accepted my testimony that I didn’t remember visiting the Parkview Palace hotel or ever meeting its owner, Annette Brewster. And I certainly didn’t see any sort of crime take place—not that I could recall.

Now I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about that crime.

From their questions, it was clear I had been a witness to Mrs. Brewster’s abduction—or maybe even murder—before I went missing, too.

“I’d like to know more,” I told the policewomen.

They appeared willing to speak further, but Dr. Lorca quickly cut the interview short, and my questions remained unanswered, even by my own mind, which was unbelievably frustrating, especially since I did remember the headlines from the other day—

HOTEL HEIRESS MISSING

MYSTERY AT PARKVIEW PALACE: ABDUCTION OR MURDER?

There was no TV in my room, so I couldn’t learn more from the news. There weren’t any clocks in here, either, and I didn’t have a watch.

Those two female detectives—the friendly blond woman named Lori Soles and her pushier, dark-haired partner, Sue Ellen Bass—were the only outside contact I’d had with anyone since morning. Except the nurses. And Dr. Lorca.

Which means your isolation has already begun.

“Ms. Cosi?”

Hearing my name, I walked out of the bathroom to find my night nurse standing next to the bed, a placid smile on her face and a small white cup in her hand.

“Did you enjoy your dinner?”

“Not really. What’s with the decaf tea? Can’t a person get a decent cup of coffee around here? How about it? Will the nursing staff fix me up?”

“Sorry, Ms. Cosi. No stimulants are permitted.”

“No coffee? Really? Not even a drop?”

“Once you’re moved upstate, you can discuss your menu with Dr. Lorca.”

“When will that be exactly?”

“Soon. Here you go . . .”

The nurse held out that small paper cup. Inside were two pills.

“What are those?”

“Something to help you sleep.”

“No, thanks.”

I climbed into bed and pulled the sheet over my legs.

She pressed the cup toward me again. “Dr. Lorca prescribed these. You’ll have to take them—like you did last night.”

“I’m not a fan of sleeping pills. I’ll be fine without them.”

The nurse lowered her voice. “Ms. Cosi, you can either swallow the prescribed medicine, or . . .”

“Or what?”

“I’ll have to inject it.”

“Over my objection?”

“Come now, Ms. Cosi, you’ve already agreed to the treatment. Now you’ll have to trust the doctor’s orders. Don’t be difficult—”

With a slight turn of her head, she made eye contact with a shadow in the doorway. I hadn’t noticed that shadow before. It belonged to a burly nursing assistant. As he stepped forward, I saw his beefy hands were carrying a small metal tray, and sitting on top, like a sundae’s glistening cherry, was a hypodermic syringe, the sealed bottle of drugs next to it, all ready to go.

I blinked at the nurse. “Did I miss something?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I have a memory-impairment issue. I’m not delusional. What’s with the extra from Cuckoo’s Nest?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand your question, though I like birds, too. Just don’t upset yourself, Ms. Cosi. We don’t want to see you upset—”

She crooked her finger and the ox with the tray moved toward us.

“Hold on! I’ll take your pills. I just have trouble swallowing, that’s all. I’ll need something to wash them down.” I pointed to the plastic pitcher I’d left on the wide windowsill. “May I have some water, please?”

“Oh, yes, of course!”

The nurse dismissed the ox and turned to fill a glass. That’s when I dumped the pills down my neckline. When the nurse approached, I mimed swallowing the cup’s contents and noisily drank the lukewarm water.

“Very good. Now, try to get some rest.” Flipping off the lights, she headed out the door, her singsong voice echoing into the hallway. “Things will look better in the morning!”

Not with decaf tea, they won’t.

After flushing the pills, I got back into bed, and punched my pillows. Then I turned my gaze from the darkened room to the lights of the city. One building was completely black, except for a single glowing window.

Was someone working late? Were they alone, like me?

Somewhere out there, beyond my hospital window, my family and friends were wondering about me. My daughter, Joy, was probably missing me. Madame, too. Maybe even those nice young baristas I met the morning I woke up on that bench—the ones who seemed so happy to see me walk into the Village Blend coffeehouse.

I closed my eyes. Somewhere out there, people cared about me, and a fresh hot pot of “stimulant” was brewing.

God, I’d give anything for a cup of it.