From the Ashes (Southern Heat Book 1)

by Jamie Garrett

  “Hey, Jennifer,” he said as he approached the waist-high counter of the station. She didn’t respond. He supposed she was still angry with him, but that wasn’t his problem. He had told her the first time they went out that he wasn’t interested in a long-term relationship. Nevertheless, she had held such expectations. He glanced down at the other nurse, not recognizing her. Her name tag said Deena.

  “Hello, Deena,” he said politely. “My name is Mason Rawlings. I’m a firefighter attached to Engine Company 81. I was at a fire scene earlier today. We rescued a woman and I believe I know her. I’d like to know her condition, or if she’s—”

  “Are you family?” Jennifer interrupted, leaning casually against the countertop, one hand clutching an iPad for digital medical records.

  “No,” he sighed. “But I think I know who she is—”

  “As of now, she’s a Jane Doe,” Jennifer said. “Cops are coming over to interview her in just a few minutes. And you know very well that you can’t—”

  The ding of the elevator announced new visitors to the floor. Mason glanced over his shoulder and watched two guys in suits emerge. He recognized one of them. Like he had only moments earlier, they headed toward the nurse’s station. One of the men, a large, well-built, middle-aged man with the slightly receding hairline, nodded in recognition.

  “Hey, Mason, what’re you doing here?”

  “Good to see you again, Joe. Came to see about the woman we brought in earlier.”

  He extended his hand and Detective Joe Bascom shook it and then gestured with his head toward his partner. “Don’t think you’ve met my new partner, Detective Larry Williams. Just transferred over from Philly.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Mason said, shaking the other detective’s hand.

  “You referring to our Jane Doe?”

  Mason shook his head. “I think I recognize her, from way back.”

  Detective Williams pulled a small spiral notebook from his pocket. “You got a name?”

  “Sloane Maxwell, but I was just coming over to see if I was right.”

  Bascom nodded and glanced at Jennifer. “She awake? Can she talk to us?”

  Jennifer glanced at Mason, scowled briefly, and then turned to the detectives. “She is, but she’s still very confused.”

  “Room number?”

  “Two-ten.” She gestured at Mason. “But he can’t go with you—”

  “He can come to the doorway and make an identification from there,” Bascom said. “Don’t worry, we won’t let him into the room unless the lady grants permission.”

  Without another word, the detectives turned and headed down the hallway. Mason followed, torn between relief and some other weird emotion. Regret? Hesitation? Was he opening a new can of worms? He just wanted to make sure she was okay. That was all. Nothing more, nothing less.

  The detectives paused in front of the open doorway to Room 210. Bascom knocked gently on the varnished wood door with his knuckles. Mason hung back.

  “Miss? We’re detectives with the Monroe Police Department. Can we come in and ask you a couple of questions?”

  “Yes,” came the soft, feminine reply.

  Mason was surprised that just the sound of her voice caused his balls to clench. Could it really be her or was his imagination going into overdrive? Suddenly uncertain, he didn’t follow the detectives into the room, but hovered in the doorway, leaning against the door jamb, waiting for the detectives to get the hell out of the way so that he could see the woman lying in the bed.

  “There’s a gentleman here, a firefighter, who says he might know you. Would you mind if he came in the room?”

  Silence, then after a few moments, the response.

  “Yes, he can come in.”

  As Mason entered the room, the detectives shifted position. He froze halfway between the doorway and the bed. His heart dropped to the pit of his stomach and then back up again, settling into a steady beat as he viewed the woman lying on the bed. “Sloane.” She stared up at him with wide eyes. A flash of recognition, but not the recognition he thought.

  “You’re the firefighter who pulled me from the building, right?”

  Though her voice sounded hesitant and hoarse from inhaling soot and chemicals, he recognized it instantly and confirmed his suspicions with a nod toward the detectives. “Her name’s Sloane Maxwell.”

  His eyes never left her face as she stared back at him. “You know who I am?”

  He nodded. He had no idea where she’d been during the past ten years. Other than the fact that her hair was shorter and her face was a bit fuller than it had been a decade ago, she looked much the same. What had brought her back to Georgia? Was she married? Did she live here now?

  “I don’t remember . . .”

  “If you don’t mind, Miss . . . Maxwell, we’ll get your fingerprints to confirm your identity.”

  As Detective Williams pulled a small ink pad and an index card from his pocket, she stared at him, eyes slightly narrowed. She was suspicious of him, probably of all of them. It wasn’t surprising. She looked tense and fearful, but then who wouldn’t after what she had been through? He was intensely curious about her reappearance in Georgia. What had she been doing in an abandoned building surrounded by chemicals used to manufacture meth? She didn’t look like a drug addict. Her skin looked healthy, as did her teeth. No meth mouth. A thought struck Mason and he pulled his gaze from her and to the detectives. “What if she’s not in the system?” Was she in hiding, was that where she’d been for nearly a decade?

  “We’ll worry about that if and when we need to,” Bascom said, but Mason was still worried. Sloane gazed at him with no hint of recognition. He couldn’t help the surge of memories that flitted through his mind; walking hand in hand on the beach, sitting on the quad at school, eating hot dogs and laughing at the antics of a nearby squirrel. Trying to help her study for a test in . . . economics or something, which more often than not ended in intense make-out sessions. The arguments had been few and far between during the early months of their relationship. Then, as spring had transitioned to the hot, steamy, and muggy days of summer, she had begun dropping hints about where their relationship was going. He had pretended he didn’t notice. Summer had gone and the weather cooled. Then, one day in late October, she had come right out and broached the topic, wanting to know his intentions.

  Who said that anymore? “What are your intentions, sir?” She had said it with a smile, as if joking, but he had known that she wasn’t. Far from it. He hadn’t been ready for anything more serious, at least not then. Now, staring down at her, lying there in a hospital bed, her head swathed in bandages, her chin bruised, and her eyes gazing up at him with a combination of fear and desperation, he felt the impact of her stare like a punch to the gut.

  “You know me,” she said. It wasn’t a question, but a statement. “How do you know me? Do I live here? Do you—”

  “Ma’am, we’d like to ask you a few questions,” Lieutenant Bascom said. “If you want Captain Rawlings to leave, just say so.”

  She turned to Bascom. “No, it’s all right if he stays.”

  “Do you remember anything about the fire?” Detective Williams asked, pen poised over his notepad. “You remember how you got there, what you were doing inside?”

  She sighed and gently shook her head, wincing with pain at even that slight movement. “I don’t remember anything before I woke up on the asphalt with him . . .” she gestured lamely toward Mason and then turned to him. “Where am I?”

  Williams answered. “You’re in a hospital, ma’am-—”

  “I know I’m in a hospital. What I meant was where?”

  “You’re in Monroe, Georgia.”

  The color drained from her features. She looked like she was going to be sick.

  “Georgia,” she said softly and then turned to Mason. “Do I live in Georgia?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How do you know me? Are we friends? Do—”

  “Ma’am,”
the lieutenant interrupted. “Let’s confirm your identity first, all right? Can you remember anything about being in that building, what brought you there? Do you remember seeing anybody else there?”

  “I don’t remember anything,” she replied, turning to look out the window behind Bascom’s shoulder. “Why can’t I remember?”

  Bascom glanced at Mason, then his partner, and nodded. Detective Williams opened the ink pad and asked for her right hand, the one that didn’t have the oximeter on her index finger. “Let me do the work, all right? Just keep your fingers together, but not overlapping,” he instructed. He gently took Sloane’s hand, pressed her fingers into the ink and then down against the index card. He repeated the process with her thumb.

  Finished, he glanced at his partner.

  “We’ll let you rest now,” Bascom told her. “We’ll come back later when we know more.”

  Mason hung back for a moment, waiting for the two to leave the room. As soon as the detectives passed through the doorway, Jennifer reappeared, arms crossed over her chest.

  “You have to leave now.”

  He turned toward Jennifer and then back to Sloane. Her face still turned toward the window, he nodded. She didn’t remember him. Not one second of their history. Was he relieved or disappointed by that? Mason wasn’t sure. What had she been doing in that building? Was she involved in drugs? He didn’t think it possible, but what did he know? She had been out of his life for ten years. People changed. He knew he had.

  “I hope you feel better soon,” he said to Sloane, turning to leave the room. He brushed past Jennifer, who made a noise in her throat, but he ignored her. He paused by the nurse’s station, where Deena sat at the counter, tapping on her iPad. He waited until she glanced up at him.

  “What happened to her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is there any way I can speak with her doctor?” He already knew the answer but thought he would ask anyway.

  “You’re not family.” Statement, not question.

  “No, just an old friend.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but that’s something that you have to discuss with her doctor—”

  “Has he been in to see her today?”

  “Sir, I can’t—”

  “Never mind,” he sighed. “I know how it works. I was just curious though . . . if she doesn’t regain her memory and she’s able to be discharged, what’s going to happen to her?”

  The nurse didn’t answer.

  Shit.

  4

  Sloane

  Sloane was again staring out the same small window. The view outside kept changing, but she felt separated from it, almost as if nothing was tethering her to the rest of the world.

  What was she supposed to do now? The doctor had just left her room after informing her that she was being discharged in the morning. Discharged where? She had numerous questions, but the worst day in her life had given way to darkness and he pointedly glanced at his watch and told her that the nurses could answer any question she had regarding follow-up care.

  It’s the only day in your life. Only one you remember, anyway.

  It wasn’t the follow-up care that concerned her. While her head still ached, most especially when she moved it too quickly, and her throat was still sore when she swallowed, she otherwise felt fine. Physically at least. Before the doctor arrived, one of the nurses had come in and removed her IV and mentioned that she could have a regular dinner that evening. Her stomach rumbled. She wasn’t sure when she had eaten last.

  Now that the doctor was gone and she waited for the dinner tray to be delivered, she climbed out of bed and made her way to the bathroom. She flipped the light switch, wincing against the sudden brightness. Sloane stood in the doorway a moment, gazing at the vinyl curtain pulled back over a shower enclosure, a shower chair situated in the middle of the tiled floor. Maybe she would take a shower later on. Heaven only knew when she would get another chance and she wanted to clean off any remnants of soot and . . .

  She groaned. No clothes to change into. What was she supposed to do? Walk out of the hospital in a hospital gown, her ass exposed to anyone who passed? She stepped in front of the mirror over the sink and stared at the woman reflected back at her. She recognized herself, even if her hair was a bit clumpy and on the dirty side, as was some of the skin on her throat. Her face was relatively clean although she saw smudges of soot along her hairline. How could she know her face but nothing else?

  She scowled at the reflection. “Why can’t you remember your name? Think, damn it, think!”

  Try as she might, she couldn’t force a recollection.

  “Miss Maxwell?”

  The voice came from inside her room. She peeked her head out of the bathroom doorway and saw a middle-aged woman standing just inside the doorway. “Are you looking for me?” The words were out of her mouth before she recalled the firefighter who had arrived with the police detectives earlier that afternoon. He told them that her name was Sloane Maxwell.

  The woman glanced her way and nodded. “The nurses told me I could come in. You’re going to be discharged tomorrow.”

  “Yes.” She supposed if people wanted to call her Sloane Maxwell, who was she to argue? She stepped through the bathroom doorway, one hand on the door jamb, the other clasping the ends of the gown firmly behind her, just above her butt cheeks. “Yes, the doctor just came in and told me.” She made her way to the bed without exposing her backside and sat down. “And you are . . . ?”

  “My name is Stephanie Collins,” the woman replied. She gestured toward a chair in the corner of the room. “Would you mind if I pulled the chair up so we could talk?”

  Sloane shrugged as the woman placed her rather large stiff, black handbag on the floor near the bedside table and then turned to situate the chair closer to the bed. She sat down on it, shoes and knees together, hands folded in her lap.

  “I assume that you’ve been told of my memory loss. Do I know you? Have we met before?” Having to ask such questions was embarrassing. While she had tried to press the doctor on what he called traumatic short-term amnesia, he bluntly told her that he didn’t know how long the amnesia would last. When she tried to ask him what he meant by “short-term,” he only shrugged and told her that there was a good chance that within a few days—or weeks—she might begin to experience brief flashes of memory. He stopped short of assuring her that her memories would return completely.

  He had given her a spiel about post-traumatic amnesia, nothing that she hadn’t already recognized in herself. She was disoriented, unable to remember events that occurred prior to the “incident.” He had gone on to rattle off a number of percentages, only a few of which she could remember. In nearly ten percent of cases, post-traumatic amnesia lasted a day or two, though almost twenty-five percent lasted a week or a month. Nearly fifty percent experienced amnesia that lasted longer than a month.

  Apparently, she had what was called retrograde amnesia, which was basically a loss of memories that occurred shortly before an injury. He couldn’t explain why she couldn’t remember anything of her life prior to waking up on the asphalt outside of that burning building, only that perhaps whatever she had been doing was closely tied to her identity or her life as a whole. He could only tell her that if she didn’t regain parts of her past memories within a month’s time to return for a followup—with a psychologist.

  She had bristled when he went on to say that she may never regain all of her memories, which was associated partly to what he called psychological regression, or psychogenic amnesia . . . blah, blah, blah.

  “ . . . about your situation.”

  Sloane pulled herself together and looked at the woman. She’d completely forgotten she was even there. “What about my situation?”

  “As I mentioned, while adult protective services are generally considered for elder abuse, in this situation—”

  “Adult protective services?” she broke in, aghast. “Why would I need—”

  “M
iss Maxwell . . . Sloane, I work in the social services department at the hospital. While your circumstances are quite unique and we haven’t dealt with it before, we’re not quite sure how to . . .” She paused. “To be blunt, because of your memory loss, we can’t just turn you out onto the streets. We do have a place where you can go for a day or two, until the police determine who you are and where you came from, or if you remember anything on your own—”

  Sloane wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. “What kind of place? Are you talking about a halfway house? Or a rehab center?”

  “One of our volunteers works at a homeless shelter—”

  “No, no, I’m not going to a homeless shelter,” she blurted out. “I’m not homeless.” The woman stared at her and lifted an eyebrow. “At least I don’t think I am,” she stammered. “I don’t want to go to a homeless shelter. I’ll . . . I’ll go to a motel or something.”

  “Do you have any money?”

  Did she? She glanced toward the small cupboard in the corner of the room, doors open. It was empty save her neatly folded—and dirty—torn skirt, soot-smudged blouse, and a pair of black pumps. She didn’t see a purse.

  “Look, Miss Maxwell—”

  A knock at the door prompted both to turn toward it, Sloane both irritated and relieved by the interruption. Not a nurse bearing her dinner tray but one of the detectives—Bascom—who had come to see her earlier in the day. His expression was somber as he glanced at her visitor.

  “Missus Collins,” he nodded in greeting. “May we have a minute?”

  The woman nodded and abruptly rose, turning to speak to Sloane. “I’ll come back after the detective has a chance to speak with you. Will that be all right?”

  Sloane didn’t say anything as the woman reached for her purse and moved past Detective Bascom and disappeared. Bascom closed the hospital door and gestured toward the chair.