It's wrong, but I can't deny that I find her incredibly attractive. She's absolutely beautiful. She reminds me of Snow White with her dark hair and pale skin, even if I suspect some of that paleness comes from her not feeling well. I imagine she glows when she's at her best – when she's not in pain.
She's just very naturally beautiful. Everything from her sweet, almost shy smile, to those crystal blue eyes. Had we met under different circumstances, I'd have probably asked her out. Or maybe not. I have to admit, she's the type of woman who deserves better than what I have to offer.
“Why don't you have a seat, stranger?” she asks. “I don't get much company who aren't wearing badges and asking me tons of questions these days.”
She sits up higher in the bed, and her eyes beckon me. I take a seat beside her, on the edge of the bed, not really sure what we'll even talk about. I can't really ask about her life. She doesn't remember most of it. And I don't like talking about myself, so – what does that leave us, exactly?
“The doctors said I can be released in a few days,” she says softly. “I seem to be fine, except for the head injury which they say is healing nicely.”
“Do they think your memory will be back by then?” I ask.
She shrugs and stares down at the blanket, pulling a piece of imaginary fuzz from it.
“They can't say for sure,” she says quietly. “They're hopeful. At least, they say they are.”
“Where will you go?” I ask her.
“I don't know,” she says, a weak smile on her face, as if she's trying to make me feel better. “But I'm sure I'll figure it out.”
“Do you have any money?”
“Not that I'm aware of,” she says.
Uncertainty and fear flashes through her eyes. It breaks my heart. She's alone in the world right now. She has no idea who or where she is – or if someone might be after her. She would be just a sitting duck, waiting for whoever wants her dead to find her again and finish the job. The hardened part of me wants to just look the other way, say it's not my problem, and just keep moving forward. Deep down, I know that part of me is wrong.
I reach for the pen and paper on the table beside her. The top page of it is littered with her doodles. They’re cute. I chuckle to myself as I tear off a fresh sheet and write down my name and phone number.
“When they release you, call me,” I say. “I'm not sure what I'll be able to do, but I'll do what I can. Let me help you.”
“But –” she starts to protest.
“No buts,” I say.
“I can't do that. You've already done so much for me,” she says.
“You can, and you will,” I say, my voice firm. “And don't even worry about it, Celeste. It's not even a problem for me.”
It really isn’t a problem. I have plenty of money – actually, it means nothing to me. I don't need what I have already, and if I can help someone else out who needs it, I'll do it without thinking twice. If it keeps someone else from ending up like my best friend, even better.
She stares at the piece of paper for a while before folding it up and tucking it away, smiling.
“I appreciate it, but let's hope I don't need it,” she says.
“If you do, don't hesitate to call me. Please,” I say. “I can put you up in a hotel or something, at the very least. We'll figure it out.”
She nods. “We'll just have to wait and see, I guess.”
I hope she gets her memory back, and that everything will be fine. I hope she can go on her way and forget all about this experience. Hopefully our fears were wrong and nobody’s trying to kill her, it was just a bad accident. Hopefully she'll be reunited with a family that loves her and misses her, and she can be safe and sound somewhere.
But just in case she's not, I can't sit back and let someone else get hurt. Not if I can step in and help them. It's not my responsibility – but I can't let it happen to somebody else. Not again.
Chapter Four
Celeste
I stare at the slip of paper with Grant's number on it for a long minute, my heart already thumping hard. He said to call him if I had nowhere to go – and I don't. I have nowhere in this world to go, and I still can't even remember where I belong in the first place.
But reaching out to him – a complete stranger – is the last thing I want to do. Especially since he'd already saved my life once.
My discharge paperwork is finished, and I'm free to go. But where? Where do I go when I have no idea who or where I am? I don't even have a dollar to my name. I have no other choice. I ask to use the phone at the hospital and with a trembling hand, I push the buttons and call the number he'd written down for me.
It rings a couple of times before Grant picks up. A spike of adrenaline lances my heart when I hear his voice.
“Grant? It's Celeste,” I say timidly, biting my lip to fight back the tears. “I'm really sorry. I hate to bother you, but –”
“Have you been released?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say weakly.
“I'll be right there. Just sit tight,” he says.
I nod even though he can't see me. He hangs up, and the line goes silent. All I can do is wait for him to arrive.
The hospital had given me a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, socks, shoes, and some gloves. A cold front had come in last night, and winter is settling in, but they didn’t even have a real jacket to give me.
My stomach churning, I step outside the hospital doors, and let the fresh air wash over me. I breathe it in – even though it’s biting cold, it smells nice and crisp. I soak it all in but can't shake the feeling that this is not where I belong. It just feels so weird to be here. Almost like I'm on an alien world. I may not know where I'm from, but I know it’s not here. This doesn’t feel familiar at all.
In the distance, there are snow-covered mountains. Red and orange leaves cover the ground as far as I can see. They must have just fallen; the trees are all empty. I take a deep breath and close my eyes again, hoping the surroundings might trigger something in my mind. Might jar loose some memories. I stand there for a long moment in the cold, stretching out with all of my senses, but there's nothing. Nothing but the feeling that I've never been here before.
But how can I be sure I've never been here when I can't remember where I'm from? I can't explain it, it's just a feeling. I just know, deep down in my bones.
I open my eyes again, and in the corner of my eye I see someone sitting in a car nearby. Just sitting there. I get the distinct feeling that they're watching me. My stomach clenches as the hair on my arms and on the back of my neck stands up, but I tell myself that I'm being silly. Paranoid. It's just someone sitting in their car, after all. It's a hospital parking lot, I'm sure they're just waiting for somebody to be discharged or something.
The windows are tinted and dark, so all I can see is the outline of the figure inside. It doesn't look like they're moving, nor do I see the glow of a cellphone. They're just sitting there, perfectly still. An ominous feeling envelops me. As I walk back towards the hospital entrance, their eyes follow me – or seem to. It's like I can feel the weight of their gaze pressing down on me. Like it has substance, and a physical weight.
Calm down, Celeste. I'm just imagining things. It's all in my mind. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.
Still, I hover close to the front of the hospital where there are people, just in case. Better safe than sorry. At least standing in the lights by the front doors, there are others coming and going, and it’s warm here anyway. I can see the front desk and the nurses through the sliding glass door, and I make sure I'm in a position where they can see me too.
I look back over at the car. It’s a black BMW, I note. The person inside is hard to make out, but I'm pretty positive that it's a man inside. A large man. I keep telling myself that he’s just waiting for somebody – another patient, maybe one of the nurses. Just because they're sitting in a car doesn't mean that they're watching me. I'm just being paranoid. Yeah, that has to be it. I brush
my unease aside and continue pacing the front of the building, watching for Grant, wishing he'd get here soon.
A few minutes later, a pickup truck pulls up to the curb. At first, I step away. My instinct is to run back inside, but then I catch a glimpse of the man behind the wheel and relief washes over me. Grant hops out of the driver's side and walks over, opening the passenger side door for me. I'm still watching the other car, and that feeling of being watched intensifies.
“Everything okay?” Grant asks.
“Yeah,” I say, doing my best to shake off the bad feeling as I climb inside the truck. “Everything is fine. I'm good.”
He shuts the door and walks over to the driver's side. Once we're both inside the truck, I feel a lot better. Safer somehow. Maybe it's just being near Grant making me feel that way. I tell myself that the person watching me is nobody. Nothing nefarious is going on, it's just all in my head and I'm imagining things. I glance out the side mirror and my stomach lurches when I see the driver of the BMW pulling out of his parking spot and sliding in right behind us.
Not wanting to worry Grant, I just try to keep a subtle an eye on the guy as Grant pulls out of the parking lot. We hit the highway, and he's still behind us. I feel like I'm losing my mind, worrying about some random car that might be going the same way as us. It might be nothing but stupid, random coincidence.
But it’s Grant who finally looks over at me and says, “Is that guy following us?”
“I don't know, but I've noticed him too,” I say. “I felt like he was watching me at the hospital.”
“Shit,” Grant mutters under his breath. “Let's try to lose him.”
“We're probably just being paranoid, right?”
“Maybe,” Grant says. “Maybe not.”
I don't know exactly what he means, but fear batters my insides. His jaw is clenched tight as he watches the other vehicle in the rear-view mirror. He's clutching the steering wheel tightly as his eyes dart between watching the road and checking on the car behind us.
“One thing is certain, we're not taking you to a hotel until that guy is off our heels,” he says, and then thinks about it for a minute before adding, “or maybe I shouldn't take you to a hotel at all.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Grant yanks the wheel, making a quick exit off the highway, without any warning or turn signal, and the guy behind us tries to react in time, but doesn't make it. The BMW misses the exit, but just barely. I turn around in my seat quickly and see that Grant’s maneuver made several cars behind him slam on their brakes, nearly causing an accident.
I can hear tires screeching and horns blaring, but the BMW is no longer behind us. I lean back in the seat, heart racing, and let out a long breath. Even though the guy is gone now, I know that means someone was, in fact, watching me. It wasn't in my head. I wasn't being paranoid.
Which means I'm probably in danger.
“We should call the police,” I say.
“Absolutely,” he says. “I got his license plate number. Hopefully that leads them somewhere.”
Throughout all of this, it had never even occurred to me to look at the other car's license plate. Thankfully, Grant seems to be on top of things. Not that I feel a whole lot better knowing somebody is out there looking for me. If anything, having that confirmed only makes me more afraid.
Grant turns down a back road, one that's hardly paved, and the truck bounces along the rutted path.
“This will take us longer, but very few people know about these roads,” he says.
“Where are we going?”
“To my place,” he says.
“Your place?” I ask. “What about a hotel for me?”
He shoots me a sideways glance. “Too dangerous,” he says. “Now that we know somebody's after you, I don't want to expose you to a risk like that.”
“I can't just stay with you though,” I say. “I don't even know you.”
“You know me better than anyone else right now,” he says.
True. He has a point. Not a comforting thought, but he's right. I still feel the need to argue with him, because it feels weird for me to even be considering staying at a stranger's house. The moment I open my mouth to argue again though, Grant shuts me down.
“Just for a few days,” he says, his voice firm. “At least until we can figure out who was following us just now. And why.”
“But –”
I stop, not because of anything Grant said, but because of a sudden, familiar feeling that washes over me. I sit up and stare out the window, taking in the surroundings. Trees, sky and mountains. Nothing different from what I saw at the hospital, but there's a new feeling – one I can't explain. It just seems familiar, somehow.
“What is it?” Grant asks me.
“I – I feel like I've been here before,” I say softly.
“We're not too far from where you were found,” he says. “So, maybe you're recognizing it because of that?”
Those words send a shiver down my spine. I have to physically suppress a shudder. Ice water fills my veins as we drive slowly down the road. He slows down even more, as if to let me take in my surroundings. As if to give me a chance to reclaim some memories, regardless of how unpleasant they might be. Recovering even my bad memories could be the key to unlocking the rest of them.
“Do you remember anything?” he asks.
“Nothing specific,” I say. “I – it's just a feeling. Like I've been here before. And not just because you found me out here. It's something – different.”
I close my eyes, trying to clear my mind and focus. I see the same mountain road curving in front of me. Except this time, I'm behind the wheel of a car. No one is with me.
“They never found a car, did they?” I ask.
“No, they didn't,” Grant says.
“I was driving, by myself. I know I was,” I say.
A sudden feeling of panic, powerful and deep, hits me. With my eyes still closed, I see someone following us. Not a black BMW this time, but a white Mercedes. And it's a vehicle I recognize – though I don't know why I do. I just know it fills me with dread.
Then I catch a flash of someone. No face, but a figure. Coming at me. I scream, but nothing comes out. No sound comes out in my visions, but in real life, I'm shaking like a leaf. My heart is racing and the knots in my stomach are twisted so tight, I feel like I might throw up.
“Stop!” I shout. Grant slams on the brakes.
“What? What is it?” he asks. “What happened?”
I'm trembling in my seat, eyes still closed as the world shifts around me. Before I know it, Grant has ahold of my shoulders, holding me steady. He gently shakes me, pulling me out of the trance. When I finally look up, I stare up into his hazel eyes, and somehow, all the fear and pain is washed away. The trembling stops, and the nausea rolls back. As I look at Grant's rugged, but kind face, I'm reminded of the fact that I'm alive, that whatever happened to me was in the past. Right now, I am safe.
He holds my shoulders firmly, yet softly, and forces me to look in his eyes. His face is softer than I've seen it before, and he looks almost as terrified as I feel. Maybe not terrified of the same things I'm scared of, but there's fear in his eyes. I can see it plain as day. For some reason, something about all of this is scaring him too.
“You're going to be okay,” he whispers to me. “I promise you – whatever happened to you is over. You're going to be okay.”
Without even thinking, I unbuckle my seatbelt and reach for him. I pull myself into him, burying my face in his chest. My entire body is shaking again, but as he holds me, I find myself settling down. I calm myself down as he runs his hands along my arms and back, runs his fingers through my hair, and whispers reassurances to me.
I can't explain it, and don't understand why, but in his arms, I feel safe.
* * *
I stand in the doorway to his cabin and look around. It's a nice place. Small, but nice. The living room and kitchen are combined, with a small breakfas
t nook tucked away in one corner. Large picture windows overlook the mountains. It's a breathtaking view.
A patio door leads out to a nice, large deck. A couch and a couple chairs take up most of the space in the living room and face a fireplace instead of a television. In fact, there's no TV in the place at all, as far as I can tell. A computer workstation is set up in another corner, complete with built-in bookshelves surrounding the desk. I notice a partially open door on the opposite wall, and what appears to be a bedroom on the other side – the only bedroom.
Otherwise, that's all there is to the cabin. It's simple. It's a little spartan, but it's clean and nice. Cozy.
“You can have my bed,” he says, as if reading my mind. “I'll take the couch.”
“I can take the couch,” I offer.
“No, it's more secure in the bedroom anyway,” he says.
“Secure?”
“Yeah, in case someone comes in after you,” he says. “They'll have to get by me first.”
I take a few steps into the cabin and have a seat in the first chair and look down at my hands. I'm still not comprehending everything he's saying. I understand the words, of course, but I don't understand how they apply to me. Why I have to worry about things like being secure, or somebody having to go through Grant to get to me.
I don't understand why I would ever have to be concerned about my safety like that. None of this is making any sense. It's something that happens to other people, or in the movies. Not to somebody like me.
At least, I don't think so, anyway. What kind of person am I? I honestly don't know. I don't know the things I've done that might have put me in this kind of danger. Maybe, I'm a bad person? Maybe I hurt other people or stole something. There’re a thousand different maybes that go through my mind, but none of them ring true to me.
As I sit there obsessing about the situation and trying to make any sort of sense of it, Grant is checking the doors and windows, making sure everything is secure – as if we're on lockdown. That's when I notice the gun safe next to the fireplace. My eyes drift upward, and I then see the rack above it holding several different shotguns. My pulse quickens.
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