“May I?”
She nodded and he settled himself, folded his arms across his chest, and jumped right in.
“Your identity has been confirmed. You are Sloane Maxwell. Your prints were found in a DMV nationwide database. You’re thirty-one years old. You don’t have a permanent residence in Georgia, but you do have a six-month lease on an apartment in Savannah. Your license lists your place of residence in Seattle. You work for a company based in South Carolina. Apparently, you’re here on business—”
“What kind of business?”
“A cursory review indicates that it’s an import-export business that trades in antiquities.”
She frowned, trying to remember anything about working for such a company. Nothing. She must have money, or at least she thought so. If not, how could she afford to keep a permanent residence in Seattle and rent an apartment in Savannah? “What else?”
“You live alone. You’re not married. You make a decent enough living, according to your tax records.”
“What else?” The woman he described was a total stranger and yet it was her life.
“That’s it so far.”
“I can go home?” Home. Home to Seattle or to Savannah? And how would she get there? How could she go home when she didn’t know what kind of job she had, who her boss was, her friends . . . did she have any friends? Was anyone looking for her? Was she a loner or a social butterfly? She glanced once again toward the closet, looking at the clothes. Was she a fashionista or was she more comfortable in jeans and a flannel shirt? A sound bubbled up in her throat. Tears warmed her eyes and she quickly turned away from the detective. God, she had no sense of self. She’d lost herself in that fire, except she was still living.
“Do you know if you drove down here, took the train, or flew? Perhaps rented a car?”
Sloane shook her head. She had no idea how she had gotten there or why she was in Georgia. Was it work, as the detective indicated, or was she visiting family or friends? She looked at the detective. “Do you know when I came here? Anything?”
“Not at this point, Miss Maxwell. We’re still looking into it. We’re not sure how long you’ve been here in Monroe. We’ve checked the system, but nobody has listed a missing person fitting your description.”
If she had died in that building, would anyone have missed her? A cold chill ran through her and she turned to the detective. “You don’t have any idea what I was doing in that building?”
“We don’t know, Miss Maxwell,” he admitted. “But I will tell you one thing. That abandoned auto shop is not in a good part of town. It’s been vacant for quite a while and is used by transients and drug dealers manufacturing meth or God knows what else. We do know the fire was started on purpose.”
Meth. Transients. Drug dealers. She felt sick to her stomach and her head pounded anew. She gently shook her head, dumbfounded. Was she involved—maybe she had been trapped in the fire of her own making—or had someone she knew done it? Maybe she or someone else had set fire to the place for some reason—insurance fraud? Maybe the person, if it wasn’t her, hadn’t realized she was in the building. Who the hell knew? She certainly didn’t.
“Until we can figure this all out, I would strongly urge you to stay in Monroe—”
“I’m not staying at a homeless shelter,” she replied firmly. But where was she supposed to go? “I’d stay at a motel, but I don’t have any money, or at least I don’t have any I.D., no wallet, no debit card . . . not that I could remember my passcode anyway—”
“You could stay at my place.”
Both she and Detective Bascom turned toward the voice that came from the doorway. The firefighter who had visited earlier was standing in the doorway. The one who’d known her name. She frowned. “You know me.”
He slowly nodded. “From a long time ago. Anyway, I have an apartment on the edge of town. I’m gone most of the time, but you’re welcome to stay there until you regain your memory or the detectives can resolve the situation—”
“I’m not sure I feel comfortable about staying with a perfect stranger. While you may know me, I don’t know you from Adam.”
“Understood. You can have the bedroom. I’ll sleep on the couch.” He raised his right hand, three fingers extended, his thumb and pinky touching in front of his palm. “You’re perfectly safe with me. Scout’s honor.”
While Sloane definitely didn’t want to stay at a homeless shelter, she didn’t know if this option was any better. She turned to the lieutenant. “You can’t put me anywhere? A safe house or something?”
He shrugged. “To be honest, Miss Maxwell, at this point, we don’t know if you’re a victim or . . . or if you’re involved in the arson.”
“I would never—”
“Are you sure about that?” He shook his head. “Look, Miss Maxwell. I can vouch for Rawlings here. Known him for years. He’s a standup guy. I wouldn’t suggest or even condone this if I didn’t know his reputation. And just so you know, I’ve checked his background. No arrests, no warrants, no drugs, kidnapping, sexual assault—”
“Okay, okay, enough.” She glanced from the detective to the firefighter. It wasn’t that she felt uncomfortable staying in the man’s apartment. Not exactly. It was the feelings his physical appearance elicited deep within her. She felt a mysterious pull toward him. Her nipples tingled and heat blossomed in her core when she found her gaze meeting his. She had no conscious memory of any relationship between them, but it seemed her body remembered him. She was definitely attracted to him, anyway, whether that was an old feeling reignited or something new. He had a distinct advantage. His home or a homeless shelter—she wasn’t thrilled about either option, but one at least would be quieter, and probably safer.
Perhaps she could shelter in place at the firefighter’s apartment for a day or two, or at least until the detectives found out more about her history. She didn’t think she was a criminal, but at this point she didn’t know a damned thing.
“Detective Bascom, will you give us a moment of privacy?”
She watched as the firefighter—what was his name? Mason Rawlings—stepped into the room, exuding masculinity out the wazoo. Why did he have to be so damned handsome? Why such a nice head of black hair, looking so silky that her fingers itched to thread through it? Why did that day-old stubble on his cheeks give him such a rugged, down-to-earth, masculine appearance that oozed sexuality? The arms crossed over his chest made his shoulders appear even broader. The T-shirt he wore only emphasized his pecs and the bulge of his biceps straining at the sleeves. Her gaze trailed along the veins that traveled their way along those biceps and down his forearms.
Dangerous. That’s what he was. And she had known him in the past? Surely she would remember someone as attractive and charismatic as Mason Rawlings? Had they been friends? Business acquaintances? Lovers? The thought elicited a wave of heat that warmed her cheeks and she quickly glanced down, picking at an imaginary piece of lint on her hospital gown.
As Detective Bascom left the room, Mason took the chair he had just vacated.
“Look, Sloane . . . can I call you that?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “I know you’re uncomfortable. I know you’re confused. I want to assure you that you’ll be safe at my place. I promise not to take advantage of you or our past history.”
“What kind of history?”
“That’s not important right now. What is important is that one question has been clarified. Your identity. It’s up to the cops to figure out what happened in that building and what brought you here. Someone obviously tried to hurt you.”
“Why are you so sure of that?”
“That knock on your head for one,” he said, gesturing. “For two, someone set fire to the building with you still inside.”
“I still don’t feel comfortable—”
“Would you feel more comfortable at a homeless shelter, then? I heard what you said earlier. I could loan you money to stay at a motel, but to be brutally honest, I don’t think you’re saf
e alone. Especially since you have no memory of why you’re here in Georgia.”
Damn it, he was right. She was extremely vulnerable. “Why can’t I remember?”
“I’m sure it’ll come back to you. You should try to relax, not push too hard. Sometimes the more you try to remember, the harder it gets.”
“And you would know that how?”
He shrugged. “Experience.” He didn’t elaborate and she didn’t ask.
“Why don’t you sleep on it?” he suggested, rising from the chair. “The nurse told me that you’ll be discharged in the morning. Why don’t I come back then? In the meantime, get something to eat and try to sleep, okay?”
She frowned. “Why are you being so nice to me? Why do you even care?”
He said nothing, but offered a smile and abruptly left the room.
She stared at the empty doorway long after he’d gone. Who the hell was he and what had they meant to each other, if anything? Should she take him up on his offer? Before she could consider any further, Detective Bascom and the social services lady returned to the room. They picked up where they left off, both talking to her about what she could expect within the next twenty-four hours until her head felt like it was going to explode and she asked them both to leave.
5
Mason
Mason moved around the one-bedroom apartment quietly, not wanting to disturb Sloane. She was resting in his bedroom. Earlier that morning, he hadn’t been sure whether she was going to take him up on his offer to come stay at his place, but she had. Just for a few days, she’d said, until the dust settled. He’d rushed home to prepare the apartment: changed the sheets, cleaned, and stocked the fridge and pantry. He’d started in the produce section and worked his way through the store, choosing items he hadn’t purchased in years.
After so many years, Sloane had stopped being a part of his daily thoughts, and now in just one day her presence was evoking memory after memory as he meandered up one aisle and down another, grabbing her favorites. He definitely remembered her affinity for comfort foods and down-home cooking.
She hadn’t been much for restaurants or fancy dates. To her a perfect date was an afternoon spent in the park watching the mallards swim across the pond. A movie. Hiking in the nearby wilderness park, and on occasion, overnight camping in the woods.
When he’d gotten home from the store, his fridge had been full to bursting and things fell out of the cupboard when he opened one. Okay, he wasn’t the best grocery packer, but he didn’t exactly get a lot of practice living on takeout. At least, if she decided not to come at the last moment, he’d be eating healthier for a couple of weeks. That would probably be a good thing. He felt a tug of disappointment again over their failed relationship. If only . . . life was full of “if onlys.” Still, he hadn’t been ready to jump into an engagement in his early twenties. Whether Sloane had wanted to admit it at the time or not, neither of them had a solid foundation in life; not financially, not in regard to their education, not in their career aspirations. He wanted to be able to provide for her, to give her everything she wanted, before he proposed. He still wanted that, but he had regretted that choice dearly after she’d left.
And now, by accident, she was back in his life. Why had she been in Monroe, of all places? Though they had gone to school and dated in Savannah, she knew that he’d been born and raised here. At least, she had known. They often made trips to Monroe to visit his family before the tragedy. He’d made no secret about the fact that after he was done with college he wanted to come back—someday.
Had she been keeping track of him over the years? It wouldn’t be that difficult. He didn’t have much of a social media presence, but he was sure he could be found online somewhere, even just as a member of the city fire department. Yet another question with no answer. Curiosity gnawed at him. He wouldn’t be getting any answers from Sloane, at least not yet.
When he’d arrived at the hospital earlier he hadn’t known what to expect, but the lost look in her eyes, the half-fearful gaze she sent his way when he appeared in the doorway hadn’t been it. It made sense, though, he supposed. He couldn’t expect her to look at him in any other way. He was a stranger. Seeing her sitting up in bed in borrowed street clothes that most likely came from one of the nurses had knocked the breath out of him. He didn’t want to force her memories, but geez, telling her nothing was painful, too.
The words, “I’ll stay at your place for a day or two” had settled it. That’s all she said, but he’d felt relieved. And that got him thinking. Why? She had been out of his life for a long time. Was he expecting their relationship to just pick up where they had left off? Impossible. Besides, she might be engaged, or married, or . . . or anything.
As the nurses went over her discharge papers, he heard a man’s voice and turned to look over his shoulder. Sloane’s doctor at the nurses’ station. He stepped toward the counter to let the doc know that Sloane was coming to stay with him for a few days. When the doctor looked mildly startled, he quickly clarified that they’d known each other in the past. And the police were okay with it, too.
“Physically she’s on the mend, but her mental state is tenuous. You used to date?”
“About ten years ago.”
“Was it amicable?”
“Pardon me?”
“The split. Was it amicable?”
“Sure,” he shrugged. “We were in college. I haven’t seen her since.”
The doctor eyed him. “I don’t need details, but don’t push it. Don’t try to rush her into remembering. It will only lead to frustration, maybe for both of you.”
Mason was about to protest that he wasn’t interested in rekindling a relationship with Sloane, but the doctor had already moved on. He was concerned for his soon-to-be ex-patient’s welfare, but apparently not interested in the finer details.
“I would suggest gradually and gently reminding her of incidents in her past. If you have any photographs from back then, you might consider showing them to her . . . gauge her reaction—and reception—to your old relationship.” The doctor turned to leave, gesturing toward Sloane’s hospital room. “A lot can happen to change a person in ten years. The Sloane you knew then might be completely different from the person in there right now.”
That was the truth. He’d changed a lot in the past ten years. Certainly Sloane had as well.
Despite her mumbled protestations, he had wheeled her out to the entrance of the hospital in a wheelchair as per hospital regulations. His five-year-old dark blue Jeep was already parked in the loading zone near the hospital entrance. Grasping her discharge papers in one hand and her dirty clothes, some toiletries, and a prescription for pain killers encased in a plastic drawstring bag in the other, she had wordlessly climbed into the Jeep without waiting for him to open the door. The ride back to his apartment had been quiet, awkward.
He darted surreptitious glances her way. He wanted to stare at her, to assess the changes in her appearance, to gain an indication of her thoughts, but he couldn’t think of a way do that without being obvious. He kept his eyes on the road and resisted the temptation, not wanting to come across as a creep.
“You’ll have the place to yourself tonight,” he said. “I generally have a three-day-on, four-day-off schedule, but I switched places with one of my buddies. I’ll leave after you get settled and be gone overnight for the night shift. I’ll be back in the morning, probably before you even wake up.”
She said nothing, staring out the passenger-side window.
“You won’t have to worry about security. I’m on the second floor, and this time of year the windows stay closed and locked. It’s a corner unit, so generally really quiet. My next-door neighbor is an older woman who rarely ventures out. There’s a guy about my age who lives directly below, but he’s gone a lot. Some kind of financial consultant who’s often overseas.”
Shit. He was babbling. Sloane didn’t move her head or acknowledge he’d spoken, and so he said nothing more the rest of the way
to his apartment. He pulled up in his regular parking spot and by the time he shut off the engine, she was already reaching for the door, the plastic bag clutched in her hands. “Wait, Sloane . . . you’re going to need some clothes and stuff . . . you want to run to the store real quick and pick up a few things?”
She shook her head. “Got a toothbrush and toothpaste in here, and these clothes will be fine for a day or two.”
She sounded the same and looked the same, but she was devoid of any emotion. She was probably still in shock over recent events. If he had been in her position, would he have accepted an invitation to stay with someone who claimed to have known him before? Would he have believed it? Hard to tell.
It was midafternoon, the woods surrounding his ten-unit apartment building quiet, the only noise distant chattering birds, the hum of a cicada, and off in the distance, someone using a power saw. The air was still, warm, and muggy, usual for this time of year. Sloane waited for him by the passenger-side door and he gestured toward the outside stairway, barely stopping himself from draping an arm around her waist.
How many times had they walked with their arms wrapped around each other’s waists? Holding hands, or just lightly bumping hips? Always touching. Clutching her plastic bag close to her chest, Sloane quickly took the stairs and then paused at the top. He stepped in front of her and led the way along the balcony until he came to the last apartment, separating the key from the others on his key ring. He unlocked his door, pushed it open, and gestured for her to go in. After a moment of hesitation, she did. She quickly glanced around the living area, still devoid of emotion.
He tried to look at the apartment as if it belonged to a stranger. What did it say about him? Wood framed sofa, chocolate brown corduroy fabric. Wood and glass coffee table. Nothing fancy, everything serviceable. Across from the sofa sat a low cabinet with a 52-inch flat screen TV and below, his cable box and DVR. No video games, no stereo, no CDs. By the time he got home off work or had a day off, he wanted nothing more than peace, quiet, and solitude.
From the Ashes (Southern Heat Book 1) Page 4
