Fearless Pursuit (Off The Grid: FBI Series Book 8)

by Barbara Freethy

  "It’s morning," the doctor replied. "You were brought in around nine o’clock last night."

  Almost ten hours ago. So much time had passed. "Do you know what happened to me?"

  "I’m afraid I don’t know the details, but from what I understand, you were in a serious car accident."

  Before she could ask another question, the nurse returned to the room and handed her a small compact mirror.

  She opened the compact with shaky fingers, almost afraid of what she would see. She stared at her face for a long minute. Her eyes were light blue, framed by thick black lashes. Her hair was a dull dark brown, long, tangled, and curly, dropping past her shoulders. There were dark circles under her eyes, as well as purple bruises that were accentuated by the pallor of her skin. A white bandage was taped across her temple. Multiple tiny cuts covered her cheekbones. Her face was thin, drawn. She looked like a ghost. Even her eyes were haunted by shadows.

  "Oh, God," she whispered, feeling as if she were looking at a complete stranger. Who was she?

  "The cuts will heal," the nurse said. "Don’t worry. You’ll have your pretty face back before you know it."

  It wasn’t the bruises on her face that filled her heart with terror; it was the fact that she didn’t recognize anything about herself. She felt absolutely no connection to the woman in the mirror. She slammed the compact shut, afraid to look any longer. Her pulse raced, and her heart beat in triple time as the reality of her situation sank in. She felt completely vulnerable, and she wanted to run and hide until she figured everything out. She would have jumped out of bed if Dr. Carmichael hadn’t put his hand on her shoulder, perhaps sensing her desperation.

  "You’re going to be all right," he said firmly, meeting her gaze. "The answers will come. Don’t push too hard. Just rest and let your body recuperate from the trauma."

  "What if the answers don’t come?" she whispered. "What if I’m like this forever?"

  He frowned, unable to hide the concern in his eyes. "Let’s take it one step at a time. There’s a deputy from the sheriff’s office down the hall. He’d like to speak to you."

  A police officer wanted to talk to her? That didn’t sound good. She swallowed back another lump of fear. "Why? Why does he want to talk to me?"

  "Something to do with your accident. I’ll let him know you’re awake."

  As the doctor left the room, Rosie stepped forward. "Can I get you anything—water, juice, an extra blanket? The mornings are still so cold. I can’t wait until April. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of the rain. I’m ready for the sun to come out."

  That meant it was March, the end of a long, cold winter, spring on the nearby horizon. Images ran through her mind of windy afternoons, flowers beginning to bloom, someone flying a kite, a beautiful red-and-gold kite that tangled in the branches of a tall tree. The laughter of a young girl filled her head—was it her laughter or someone else’s? She saw two other girls and a boy running across the grass. She wanted to catch up to them, but they were too far away, and then they were gone, leaving her with nothing but a disturbing sense of loss and a thick curtain of blackness in her head.

  Why couldn’t she remember? Why had her brain locked her out of her own life?

  "What day is it?" she asked, determined to gather as many details as she possibly could.

  "It’s Thursday, March twenty-second," Rosie replied with another sympathetic smile.

  "Thursday," she murmured, feeling relieved to have a new fact to file away, even if it was something as inconsequential as the day of the week.

  "Try not to worry. You’ll be back to normal before you know it," Rosie added.

  "I don’t even know what normal is. Where are my things?" she asked abruptly, looking for more answers. Maybe if she had something of her own to hold in her hand, everything would come back to her.

  Rosie tipped her head toward a neat pile of clothes on a nearby chair. "That’s what you were wearing when they brought you in. You didn’t have a purse with you, nor were you wearing any jewelry."

  "Could you hand me my clothes, please? "

  "Sure. They’re a bit bloodied," Rosie said, as she gathered up the clothes and laid them on the bed. "I’ll check on you in a while. Just push the call button if you need anything."

  She stared at the pair of blue jeans, which were ripped at the knees, the light blue camisole top, the navy sweater, and the gray jacket dotted with dark spots of blood or dirt, she wasn’t sure which. Glancing across the room she saw a pair of Nike tennis shoes on the floor. They looked worn-out, as if she’d done a lot of running in them.

  Another memory flashed in her brain. She could almost feel herself running, the wind in her hair, her heart pounding, the breath tight in her chest. But she wasn’t out for a jog. She wasn’t dressed right. She was wearing a heavy coat, a dress, and high stiletto heels. She tried to hang on to the image floating vaguely in her head, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come. She supposed she should feel grateful she’d remembered something, but the teasing bit only frustrated her more.

  She dug her hands into the pockets of her jeans and jacket, searching for some clue as to who she was, but there was nothing there. She was about to put the jacket aside when she noticed an odd lump in the inner back lining. She ran her fingers across the material, surprised to find a flap covering a hidden zipper. She pulled on the zipper and felt inside, shocked when she pulled out a wad of twenty-dollar bills. There had to be at least fifteen hundred dollars. Why on earth had she stashed so much cash in her jacket? Obviously she’d taken great care to hide it, as someone would have had to examine the jacket carefully in order to find the money. Whoever had undressed her had not discovered the cash.

  A knock came at her door, and she hurriedly stuffed the money back into her jacket and set it on the end of her bed just seconds before a uniformed police officer entered the room. Her pulse jumped at the sight of him, and it wasn’t with relief but with fear. Her instincts were screaming at her to be cautious, that he could be trouble.

  The officer was on the stocky side, with a military haircut, and appeared to be in his mid-forties. His forehead was lined, his skin a ruddy red and weatherbeaten, his gaze extremely serious.

  "I’m Tom Manning," he said briskly. "I’m a deputy with the county sheriff’s department. I’m investigating your car accident."

  "Okay," she said warily. "I should tell you that I don’t remember what happened. In fact, I don’t remember anything about myself."

  "Yeah, the doc says you have some kind of amnesia."

  His words were filled with suspicion, and skepticism ran through his dark eyes. Why was he suspicious? What reason could she possibly have for pretending not to remember? Had something bad occurred during the accident? Had she done something wrong? Had someone else been hurt? Her stomach turned over at the thought.

  "Can you tell me what happened?" she said, almost afraid to ask.

  "Your car went off the side of the road in the Santa Ynez Mountains, not far from San Marcos Pass. You plunged down a steep embankment and landed in a ravine about two hundred yards from the road. Fortunately, you ran into a tree."

  "Fortunately?" she echoed.

  "Otherwise you would have ended up in a boulder-filled, high-running creek," he told her. "The front end of your Honda Civic was smashed, and the windshield was shattered."

  Which explained the cuts and bruises on her face.

  "You’re a very lucky woman," the deputy added.

  "Who found me?" she asked.

  "A witness saw your car go over the side and called nine-one-one. Does any of this sound familiar?"

  The part about going off the side of the road sounded a lot like the dream she’d been having. "I’m not sure."

  "Were you alone in the car?"

  His question surprised her. "I think so." She thought back to her dream. Had she been alone in the car? She didn’t remember anyone else. "If I wasn’t alone, wouldn’t that other person be here at the hospital?" she asked.


  "The back door of your car was open. There was a child’s car seat strapped in the middle of the backseat, a bottle half-filled with milk, and this shoe." Officer Manning held up a clear plastic bag through which she could see a shoe so small it would fit into the palm of her hand. Her heart began to race. She had the sudden urge to call for a time-out, to make him leave before he said something else, something terrifying, something to do with that shoe. "Oh, God. Stop. I can’t do this."

  "I’m sorry, but I need to know. Do you have a baby?" he asked. "Was your child with you in the car?"

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  About the Author

  Barbara Freethy is a #1 New York Times Bestselling Author of 68 novels ranging from contemporary romance to romantic suspense and women's fiction. With over 14 million copies sold, twenty-seven of Barbara’s books have appeared on the New York Times and USA Today Bestseller Lists, including SUMMER SECRETS which hit #1 on the New York Times and DON’T SAY A WORD, which spent 12 weeks on the list!

  Known for her emotional and compelling stories of love, family, mystery and romance, Barbara enjoys writing about ordinary people caught up in extraordinary adventures. She is currently writing two ongoing series: The romantic suspense series OFF THE GRID: FBI SERIES and the contemporary romance series WHISPER LAKE.

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