“How's your memory coming along, sweetie?” she asks gently. “Anything coming back to you?”
They don't use my name. That's because no one – not even me – knows my name. I've searched my brain until it hurt, and I cannot come up with it. They told me there was no ID on me when they found me in the woods. They have nothing to give them any insight into who I am or where I came from.
It's terrifying to be alive and not even remember who you are or how you ended up where you are. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know where I’m from. I don’t even know my own name.
“I still can't remember anything,” I say softly, finally finding my voice.
It comes out cracked and doesn't even sound like it's coming from me, but it's something.
“That's alright,” she says. “You had a pretty bad head injury. Give it a little time, and I bet it all comes back to you.”
She doesn't sound entirely confident. The nurses share a subtle look with each other. They’ve been trying to project confidence, but I can see the worry etched across their brows. Neither of them dares to express any of that concern to me. Not intentionally, anyway. But it's still there, in their faces. Every time they look at me. They can't seem to bury it all completely.
“The police are here, and they have a few questions for you, if you feel up to it,” Annie says. “If not –”
“No, it's fine,” I say. “But I don't think I'll be much help.”
“That's okay,” Annie says, patting my hand. “Just do your best.”
I nod, but I know my best isn't going to be good enough right now. Every time I try to think back to any point before I woke up in this damn hospital bed, my head gets foggy. Small fragments of memory – fleeting images – flash across my eyelids. But, when I blink, I see nothing coherent. Even those small fragments fade away. Nothing makes sense. I close my eyes for a second and try to see something. Anything. Even just knowing my name would be a start.
“Ma’am?” a male voice enters the room softly.
I open my eyes and find myself staring into the face of an older police officer. He looks at me with something like pity, which irritates me. I don't know much right now, but I know I don't like being pitied. A second man – younger – stands a little bit behind and to the right.
“Yes?” I respond.
“I'm Officer Staggs,” he says. “This is my partner Officer Lewis. We were there when the ambulance picked you up earlier today, and we have a few questions for you, if you don't mind.”
“I don't have the answers, I'm afraid,” I say.
“The nurses told us you're experiencing some memory loss,” he says, the pity in his voice matching what I see in his face. This only further irritates me. “But we're hoping there's something – anything – you might remember?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“Do you know your name?” Staggs asks.
I hesitate. Originally, when asked this question, I had no idea. Not an inkling of what it could be.
I fidget with the edge of the scratchy hospital blanket. Tears well up in my eyes. I've tried racking my brain and keep coming up empty. Every time. It's like I'm reaching into a basket, but when I pull my hand out, nothing’s in it.
I take a deep breath and try again. I’ve got to remember, I think to myself. I’ve got to remember. This time, as I really plumb the depths of my mind, I find something.
“Celeste, bella, I'm so sorry,” a man's voice echoes in my head. “I wish it hadn't come to this.”
“I'm not sure, but I think – I think it may be Celeste,” I say.
The younger officer writes it down in the small notepad he's got in his hand.
“Celeste? That's good. That's great,” the older man says. “Now, do you happen to remember your last name?”
I try again but shake my head. I don't hear anything else. No whispered voice. Nothing but deafening silence. The only thing I can hear now is the beeping and buzzing of the hospital equipment around me.
“Do you remember the man who found you?” he asks me.
I close my eyes. I knew someone found me and called for help. As I think back, yes, I knew it was a man. My vision of him is fuzzy. About all I remember is that he seemed nice – and that I might not be alive if not for him.
“I don't remember much of anything about him – other than he saved my life,” I say. “Is there any way I can thank him? Personally?”
The two men exchanged a look, and the younger one – Lewis – says, “I think that can be arranged. As long as he's open to it.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Who knows? Maybe, it'll help me remember more too.”
They ask me a few more questions, none of which I have an answer for. It's like after coming up with my name – if Celeste is, in fact, my name – my brain just tapped out. I can't remember anything else. My eyes begin drooping. Annie comes back in and ushers the two men out.
“Her pain meds often make her sleepy,” she whispers. “She might remember more tomorrow. Come back then.”
The cops look a little disgruntled, but they can't squeeze blood out of a stone, no matter how hard they try. Reluctantly, they shuffle out of the room as the nurse asks, after promising to come back and talk to me a little more later.
My head feels like it's stuffed full of cotton, and I'm suddenly exhausted. My eyes flutter closed, but as they do, a vision flashes before my eyes: a man with shaggy brown hair and a thick beard. His hands are rough against my skin, but his eyes are gentle and reassuring. For some reason, I trust him.
He carries me through the woods, whispering that it'll be okay. It'll all be okay. I fall asleep, dreaming of his beautiful, hazel eyes, feeling safe and secure even though I have no idea who he is.
I just know he's going to protect me, at all costs. I just know he's going to keep me safe.
* * *
“There's someone here to see you, dear,” Annie says softly.
I'm awake, but I'm not. I'm in that dim, in-between state between wakefulness and sleep. I'm still staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of everything going on – but everything I see is hazy and dreamlike.
At the mention of a visitor, I turn my head to the door, and find the man from my dreams – or vision, or whatever it was – standing there. His face is clearer than before, and while it's chiseled and rough, there's also a softness to him. It's something I can't quite define, but while his full beard and sharply planed face exude masculinity, there's still something – sweet – about him. His hazel eyes fill me with warmth, and instantly, I recognize him.
“You're the man who saved me,” I say softly.
“I am,” he says, stepping into the room.
He's wearing jeans, dark work boots, and a red flannel shirt. Even underneath the loose-fitting shirt, I see the strength and power in him. His arms are almost as large as my entire body. He’s got a wide, thick chest, and broad shoulders. Though I can't see it, I can imagine that his body is corded with tight muscle. I seriously doubt there's an ounce of body fat on him.
“Hi. My name is Grant. Grant Williams,” he says, his voice deep and rumbling.
“Celeste,” I say. “I think. I'm pretty sure.”
He gives me a little smile. “I was told you wanted to talk to me?”
“I wanted to say thank you, for one thing,” I say, as I sit up higher in the bed. “And two, I wanted see if you can help me remember anything.”
“You don't remember what happened to you?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No, not really,” I say quietly.
That's an understatement, but I don't feel the need to explain everything to him. He seems nice, and he did save me, but he's still a stranger. Still, as I stare into his hazel eyes, I can't help but feel a connection to him. Something I can't explain, even if I tried. It's nothing quantifiable. Nothing that I can point to. He doesn't feel familiar to me, but it doesn't mean I don't know him.
The way he looks at me tells me that he doesn't seem to know me
either. Unless he's a good actor. Why he'd show up and pretend to not know me, I don't know, but at this point in time, I don't know much of anything.
“I'm really sorry to hear that,” he says, his eyes fall a bit. “You were in pretty rough shape when I found you,” he says. “I'm sure you'd love some answers, and I wish I could give them to you.”
“I would,” I say.
Tears begin welling in my eyes as I realize I have no idea who I am or where I'm from. I don't know if there are people out there who are worried about me – maybe even looking for me. And I worry that if they don't find me, they'll lose hope and stop looking. What if I never get my memories back? What if I'm stuck like this – not knowing who I am or where I'm from – forever?
I wipe away the tears as Grant walks toward me. He grabs a tissue and hands it to me, his eyes filled with nothing but compassion.
“Thank you. I don't know where I'm going to go when I'm released, or what happened,” I say. “Is there someone after me? I just don't know.”
Before I can stop it, the words come flying out of my mouth, and I'm crying so hard my body is convulsing. Grant looks petrified at first, standing beside the bed, stiff as a board.
“I'm scared, Grant. I'm terrified, but I don't know what I'm terrified of. And it's that not knowing that's making it so much worse in my head,” I say. “At least, if I knew what happened, or who was out there waiting for me, I could be on the lookout or let somebody know to have my back. I feel so lost, I just hoped maybe you saw someone or something.”
But as my crying continues, he reaches out and pats my hand gently. The touch is soft and reassuring, reminding me of what it felt like to be in his arms when he carried me through the woods. So strong, sturdy and safe.
“I'm sorry. I really wish I could do something or give you some answers,” he says. “All I saw was you, in the underbrush.”
“No car, nothing? No wallet with my ID in it?”
He shakes his head. “I believe the police searched the site, but no, I didn't see anything,” he says. “I don't think they found anything either.”
“I just don't understand,” I say, dabbing my eyes with the tissue. “It almost seems like to leave me out there the way they did – in the condition I was in – it's almost like someone wanted me dead. But who? And why? I can't even remember if I had a boyfriend or a husband, or someone who’d want to hurt me. None of this makes any sense.”
“We'll figure it out,” he says.
“We?” I arch an eyebrow at him.
“I mean, the police,” he says, running his free hand through his beard. “I'm sure they'll figure it out.”
“I guess so,” I say, sighing to myself. “Until then, I'm stuck here, praying that my memory comes back.”
Grant doesn't say anything for a long moment. He just stares at me with a soft gaze that warms me right to my soul. I may not know much about him, but I know he's a kind man. I can see it in his eyes, and I felt it in his arms when he rescued me.
“Everything will be okay, Celeste. I'm sure of it,” he says.
God, I hope he's right.
Chapter Three
Grant
Every time I close my eyes, I see her. Her black hair sticky and matted with blood. I see her milky white skin, bruised and swollen. I see her face: a mask of crimson. But it's more than just that. Yes, seeing a beautiful, young woman left for dead was disturbing enough in its own right, but that's not all I see.
I see someone else. My fellow Marine. My business partner. My best friend.
A long time ago, I’d found him broken and bloody too. Unlike with Celeste, I’d found him too late. It's been over a year since I lost my friend, but the images stick with me to this day. Seeing someone else on the brink of death only made them even more vivid and brought all those memories rushing back to the surface.
I toss and turn in bed, rolling over, and check the clock on the nightstand. It's a quarter past three in the morning, and I haven't slept a wink. I consider going for a walk, like I did the day I found Celeste but decide against it. Too many reminders of her – which bring me straight back to Sam.
I throw off the covers and sit up, my feet flat on the solid wood floor beneath me. The cabin is pitch black, but my eyes are used to it. I walk from the bedroom into the living room without flipping on a light. I know my way around here pretty well, maneuvering around the furniture like a pro until I reach my workstation tucked away in a corner of the room.
Dropping down in my chair, I flip open my laptop and start it up. The light burns my eyes, but they adjust after a moment. It's not the first time I couldn't sleep and sat down to my computer. Won't be the last either.
This time, as I stare at the screen, I decide not to go with my usual search – Sam's investigation. I know there's nothing new. There hasn't been for months. Though they've never said anything officially, the case has essentially been dropped by the Chicago Police Department. No leads, nothing to go off of – they have nothing, so they're quietly moving on.
Instead of focusing on Sam this time, I decide to pull up another search. One for Celeste. I search a database with missing person information. I plug in her basic information – she's about five-foot-three, black hair, blue eyes – I try to narrow it down then open things up. I wait for a moment for the search box to come back.
Nothing.
No one named Celeste has been reported missing in all of Eastern Colorado. A number of results pop up in a nationwide search, but none of them fit her description. Not sure why I thought I could discover something the police didn't, but it was worth a shot. Especially since I've learned that you can't always trust the cops to do the right thing. Yeah, I don't have much faith in a system I know is broken – sue me.
Without knowing more about her, there's nothing I can do. I stare blankly at the screen for a long time before going back to my normal search.
Sam Frederickson's homicide investigation.
The same results filter through. No new information since December of last year when the one lead the CPD had – a potential burglar – was found to be innocent of all charges. Personally, I believe he was innocent too. He was just a scapegoat they used to cover up what really happened. Or maybe they simply needed someone to point the finger at. Either way, he didn't do it.
After that, the case went cold. Knowing I'm not going to see anything I haven't seen a thousand times before, I click through the links anyway, finding myself staring into the eyes of a man who'd fought beside me through many of life's battles. The business venture that was so wildly successful and had made us both so rich had been his idea. He's the reason I even have this cabin in the middle of nowhere. He's the reason for so much – including why I prefer to be alone. It's easier if you have no one to lose, and no one to let down. I take care of myself, and that's it. That's all I need. That's all I want. The cost of losing anything – or anyone – else is too much for me to bear.
My mind keeps going back to Celeste. Even as I try to not think about her. She has nowhere to go. No one who even knows who she is – not even herself. The idea of being so desperate and alone, of not knowing if someone tried to kill you and may still be after you – it has to be terrifying.
Seeing the way she'd been left in the state she was in, makes me think someone wanted her dead. If they find out she's still alive, and they want her dead bad enough, I know they'll try again. Maybe next time no one will find her in time, and she'll die. Scared. In pain. Alone.
Just like Sam.
I don't trust the police or the justice system to keep her safe. I've seen what happens to people who trust them firsthand. Too many end up dead or just pushed to the wayside. I hope she gets her memory back, and that they can figure out what happened to her. I hope they find somebody who can care for her and keep her safe. Somebody to protect her.
But not me. She's not my problem. It's not my job to protect her. Not my responsibility to keep her safe. It's a responsibility I don't want.
I shut
off the computer and walk into the kitchen. It's closing in on five in the morning. The sun is still not yet ready to make an appearance outside my window, and I can't even make out the mountains in the background. All I see are silhouettes of trees and the deep, inky darkness beyond the window.
Normally, I’d head out for a walk around this time. But today, I turn on the coffee maker and grumble to myself. I don't need any more reminders of Sam, and I'm afraid everywhere I look will remind me of Celeste. Which in turns, reminds me of my best friend.
The one person I could not save.
* * *
“Well, hello there, stranger,” she says as I walk into her room. She's smiling. Her mood seems better than before, at least. “I didn't think I'd see you again.”
To be honest, it surprises me too. When I got in my truck that morning, I meant to just run to the store for some beer and a couple of other things. Instead, it's like my brain and body conspired against me together and forced their agenda on me – and I ended up here, at the hospital.
“I wanted to see how you're doing,” I say. “They won't give me much information over the phone.”
“Yeah, because you're not family. Heck, I guess you could be, we just wouldn't know,” she says.
I can tell that she's trying hard to remain chipper and upbeat, but I can also tell it's forced. Her eyes give away her true feelings. She's still scared. She still doesn't know what happened to her.
“No, I'm not family,” I chuckle. “I think I'd remember being related to someone as pretty as you.”
Her pale cheeks flush with a hint of color, and I realize what I've just said. Feeling a little foolish, I quickly try to backpedal.
“I mean, not that I should be calling you pretty, but –”
“It's okay,” she says softly. “I appreciate the compliment. Especially since I'm such a hot mess these days.”
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