by Regan Black
“If you say so.”
“Either she moved since that address was added to her security file, or she’s blocked out more than we know. Werner might want to see if there’s been any sign of trouble at her place. Unless someone comes forward who does know her we can’t be sure.”
“You pulled her out of the panic attack?”
“Eventually,” Carson said, still amazed he’d been successful. Maybe his similar panic attacks had helped him help her. If that was the case, it was the only silver lining he could find in that cloud of personal grief. “She’s tough, whoever she is. I’ll give her that.”
“Good.” Grant sounded relieved to hear it. “I don’t like this at all.”
Carson agreed. “We caught the report on the eleven-o’clock news that the cops are asking for any witnesses to step forward. That didn’t help matters.”
“They posted her face on the news?” Grant muttered an oath. “I’ll follow up on that. Do you need me to hand her off to someone else, now that she’s out of the critical observation time?”
And then what would he do? The idea of playing hot potato with a person with Melissa’s memory issues put Carson on edge. “We’ll manage,” he said. “She trusts me.” No matter how disquieting he felt having her in the house, he wouldn’t abuse that trust.
“We all do,” Grant replied.
Carson didn’t reply. The deeper meaning, the bigger implication in Grant’s voice, made him uncomfortable. They trusted him, but they didn’t know he was a loose cannon.
“Keep me posted, Carson. And if you need anything, call.”
“Sure thing.”
He stood there for some time, working up the energy to fight his knee on the climb up the stairs, belatedly realizing it didn’t ache. It had given him plenty of grief at the zoo, and he’d forgotten to down the ibuprofen when they got back. Crap. He knew enough about the mental and emotional side of injuries and trauma to understand what that meant. Hell, he’d probably known the knee was more of a psychosomatic condition for at least a month or two. Sarah had been gone for 255 days—256, now that it was past midnight—and this was the first pain-free moment he could recall.
Had it been the chaplain who’d calmly made a perceptive observation that Carson’s ongoing knee pain was a personally inflicted penance? Yeah, that sounded like something the chaplain would say. Grant would’ve clearly stated Carson was milking the injury as an excuse—and had done so a few weeks back.
Slowly he did a couple of deep knee bends, even a careful one-leg effort, and didn’t feel so much as a twinge. In the near silence of the house, he could almost hear Sarah laughing at him. He shut off the kitchen light and headed for the stairs, striding confidently. It would feel good to sleep through the night.
The sudden scream ripped through the quiet and yanked him out of his thoughts. His body stormed into immediate action and he took the steps two at a time, desperate to reach Melissa’s room.
At the closed door, he hesitated for a split second, ready to knock or call out, when she let loose another bloodcurdling wail. He turned the knob and pushed the door open, his eyes raking the room for the source of her trouble. A slash of light from the closet cut through the room through the cracked door. The window was closed and she was alone, her legs tangled in the bedding. A nightmare, he realized, had her locked in a terrifying grip.
Her soft whimper and wrenching plea put a lump in his throat, but the next scream forced him forward. He couldn’t let her ride this out alone. Moving close to the side of the bed, he called her name softly and placed a hand on her shoulder as he’d done when his youngest sister had had nightmares as a kid. Melissa was chilled, her skin clammy under his palm. Murmuring assurances, he waited for her to wake up or ease back into a restful sleep.
To his surprise, she rolled over and clutched his hand in a grip strengthened by fear of her nightmare. Her body thrashed, fighting some invisible enemy while a cold sweat glistened across her forehead. He kept up the soothing nonsense despite the fire blazing through the bones and tendons in his hand. Finally her hold went lax and her breathing evened out, and he eased back to straighten the sheets.
Her eyes popped open. “Carson?” Though she looked right at him, he didn’t think she was awake.
“Yes, it’s me.”
“Take me with you.” She lifted her arms to him. “Please, don’t leave me here with him.”
Not awake at all. Her mind was caught in that strange twilight no logic could touch. He brushed her hair back from her forehead and temples, which were damp with sweat. “I won’t. I’ll stay right here with you, Melissa. Go to sleep.”
“Don’t leave me,” she pleaded.
“I’m right here.” He smoothed a thumb over the creases of worry furrowing her brow.
Her hand caught his again and held, gently this time. “Call me Lissa,” she murmured in a small voice as her eyelids drifted shut.
“Lissa.” He tested it out, deciding the abbreviated nickname suited her. Determined to keep his word, he fished his cell phone from his pocket and set it to Silent, turning off his alarms. When he trusted she was settled, he pulled his hand free from hers and, stripping off his shirt and socks, he kept his jeans on and crawled into the other bed.
* * *
The awareness snuck up on Lissa as she came awake. First the dull throbbing in her head, evidence of a restless night, followed by the room that didn’t smell at all like the lavender potpourri she kept in her bedroom. She slid her arms across the mattress, and although she was alone, she found the edges too quickly. The bed was too small, and the jersey fabric of the sheets no match for the crisp, smooth cotton she preferred. Her alarm obviously hadn’t gone off, as it was well past dawn and the morning light was coming from the wrong angle. At her place, the window would be on the wall to her left, not by the headboard as it was here.
Panic pulsed through her in one hard jolt.
When it passed, reality trickled in. Sitting up a little, she pushed her hair back from her face and turned away from the window. Bumping her cheek, she remembered taking a hard blow from a frighteningly calm man. He’d asked her questions she had no hope of answering. There was more. She could feel the details of recent days floating around in a thick fog in her mind.
Fisting her hands in the sheets, she closed her eyes and tried to wrangle the onslaught of facts. Some things were clear. Others she couldn’t pin down. She was Lissa Baxter, a conservator at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. She was under the care of and sleeping in the home of Carson Lane. He’d been the man who’d found her and treated her injuries when the taxicab had dropped her off at the pier.
The Escape Club, she remembered. Noelle, her best friend, had mentioned it. Told her the staff there helped people dealing with overwhelming or tough situations. She’d also mentioned a guy by the name of Alexander, though Lissa couldn’t put a face with the name.
“You’re awake.”
She jumped a bit at the voice, though it was familiar and warm and gritty from sleep. She turned to find Carson propped up on one elbow in the twin bed opposite hers. His was the voice of security, the anchor she’d clung to when her mind had been adrift. “You slept here?” she asked.
“Yes. During your nightmare, you asked me to. How are you feeling?”
“Sorry to impose.” She didn’t recall asking him to stay, but she was glad he had. “I remember more of the, um...problem.”
Carson sat up, swinging around to perch at the edge of the mattress, his torso and feet bare, and the top button on his jeans open. “Which part?”
It took her a moment to answer. It wasn’t fair to be faced with such a handsome distraction at the lowest time in her life. “I remember my name. Melissa Baxter. I know what I do at the museum, and I know my best friend was Noelle Anson.”
He stopped in the process of scooping his taw
ny hair back from his face, and she enjoyed the still-life composition of his arm, his biceps. She knew from experience his lean and defined ropy muscles packed serious strength. “That’s a great start,” he said, dropping his hand back to his side.
“I think I have more than a start,” she admitted. “Though I know I don’t have all of it.”
As much as she dreaded remembering all of what happened in Noelle’s final hours, Lissa hoped there was more in her head than the little bits trickling out around the edges of the protective armored vault her mind had created.
“Come on,” Carson said. “I’ll fix us breakfast while you talk it through.” He pushed to his feet and started for the door.
“Was your ambulance part food truck?”
“Huh?” He turned around and the golden scruff on his jaw created a sexy shadow, but the lack of good sleep was apparent in his befuddled hazel eyes.
“You automatically offer comfort with food.”
“Oh.” His lips curved in a self-conscious smile. “Lane family habit, I guess.”
She thought a family habit of comfort and active acts of kindness and compassion sounded amazing. A family habit like that explained his sisters dropping off lasagna, fresh salad and cake along with the arnica oil he’d requested.
“Well, I’m a happy beneficiary.” She threw back the covers before she remembered she’d worn only his shirt to bed. She felt his eyes on her legs, and her cheeks heated with embarrassment. Dumb reaction, considering he’d probably seen people in all manner of dress, undress and disarray. Still, when he’d seen her at her worst, she hadn’t known enough to be humiliated, and now she did. She brazened through the awkward moment. “Why don’t you grab a shower and I’ll go down and start the coffee?”
“But you’ve had a rough night, and—”
“And what I’ve remembered isn’t going anywhere,” she finished for him. She didn’t have the details the detective surely wanted, but she hoped Carson could help her sort out what she had remembered. “It would be nice to mull things over for a few minutes, with coffee, before we start analyzing and fitting the pieces together.”
His eyebrows dipped with his contemplative frown as he studied her. “If you’re sure?”
“Absolutely. Take your time.” Ideally her attempt at a casual-sister impersonation had been effective. When he walked out of the room, she made her bed, then the one he’d slept in, catching his masculine scent clinging to the sheets. She tugged on yesterday’s borrowed yoga pants and darted downstairs to make coffee, then scampered back upstairs to the hall bathroom and cleaned up in record time.
Seeing his bedroom door still closed, she headed back down to the kitchen. Poking around the space, she sought out options for equipment and ingredients, eager to do something nice for him for a change.
The coffee had finished brewing and she was gathering ingredients when he walked into the kitchen, looking like a man headed out for a run or to the gym for a basketball game. Or maybe he was just ready to run far away from his wacky houseguest.
She didn’t want to overstay her welcome, but she found that along with recalling her family dynamics, her upbringing and how she’d landed in Philly, she also recalled the man who’d rescued her was definitely her type. Trim, athletic, easygoing and smart was almost too much of her type. If only we’d met under different circumstances, she thought with an inward sigh.
“So, I remembered I do like to cook.” She filled a tall coffee mug, leaving room for him to stir in a spoonful of sugar and splash of milk as he’d done yesterday.
“Great news.” He took a deep gulp of coffee and held her gaze. “Are you good at it?”
The question caught her off guard and she laughed, happy to release the tension bubbling in her system. “I don’t recall any complaints,” she replied. She swallowed the lump stuck in her throat and added, “Let me just put this out there. I remember my fifth birthday party with stunning clarity, but I don’t remember exactly what happened to Noelle on Friday night.”
“Do you recall meeting her?”
“Yes!” She seized on the positive point. “We met in college here in Philadelphia. Is that a good sign?”
He nodded, took another long pull on the coffee. “You added something to this,” he said, staring into the mug.
“A dash of cinnamon. It’s how I always make coffee. I should’ve warned you. Is it a problem?”
“No, it’s good.” He set the mug down and leaned back against the counter. “What else do you remember?”
“About the nightmare?”
He went to the fridge, opened it and stared. “About anything.”
After a minute, she gently guided him out of the way. “My epiphany and your sleepless nights aren’t a good mix. Have a seat and I’ll cook breakfast while you drink more coffee.” She needed to keep her hands busy, to create her own anchor for her swirling thoughts. Leaning on Carson indefinitely wasn’t the best option for either of them. On top of the crises they were each coping with, she had a mile-wide independent streak, and he had a steadiness and compassionate calm nature she found irresistible.
“I’ve remembered I’m an independent person,” she said. “When I’m not dealing with amnesia.”
“That has to be a relief for you.” He topped off his coffee and stepped to the other side of the counter, sliding onto a stool. “What are you making?”
“Egg sandwiches.” She turned, arched her eyebrows. “Fast, filling and you had all the ingredients, so I assumed it would be okay.”
“Notice I’m not arguing with you.” He rolled his hand, urging her to keep going. “You were saying something about remembering?”
She felt a smile curl her lips, saw a ghost of a smile flit over his face in silent reply. Suddenly she had a flash of a similar expression on his face at the zoo, right after she made him promise to ask her the nosiest question imaginable when she got over the amnesia. Thank goodness he hadn’t done so yet.
“As I said, independent person, just as my parents raised me.” She organized the ingredients she’d gathered before he came downstairs. “Also, I was an only child and we traveled a lot. I envy you your sisters and how you were born and raised in the same town.”
“Hmm. I used to wish for my sisters to disappear. Is the travel what triggered the anxiety at your apartment yesterday?”
She liked the way he phrased it, as if she hadn’t just dissolved into a puddle of misery. “I’m sure of it.” Turning up the heat under the cast iron skillet she’d found in a cabinet, she tossed fresh greens in a bowl with a bit of oil and a dash of lemon juice, then placed bread slices into the toaster. While the eggs fried, she thought about how her life had been a series of blending what was available into something memorable and delicious no matter where they were living. She’d loved it, until she discovered she needed more stability than her mom and dad could offer.
Waiting for the eggs to cook, she said, “My parents are archaeologists. They encouraged me to go to college, of course, but I baffled them when I chose to stay longer and put down roots here in Philly rather than go into some kind of field work.”
“You don’t have any family here?”
She smiled at his bewilderment, layering a slice of cheese on each slice of toast, then the greens. When the eggs were ready, she slid them on top of the greens and added a sprinkle of shredded Romano cheese. “No.” She handed him his plate along with a napkin and fork, then prepped her own. “By now they should be on a dig in Montana, unless their work at a site in France went long.” She glanced over her shoulder, caught his scowl. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me, Carson. I have a job I love and great friends at work and outside work.”
Thinking of her best friend, it was a helpful discovery that she’d cried herself out during the nightmare. Noelle, as an emergency room nurse and a student of life, had always been pra
gmatic about death. She’d been dialed into the present, squeezing the most out of every moment, and she wouldn’t have wanted Lissa wallowing in tears.
“No pity here,” he countered. “Just drinking coffee and eating this amazing breakfast.” He took a big bite to prove it.
“And you’re wondering about the nightmare,” she said, cutting into her sandwich. “Me, too.”
“You were screaming,” he pointed out.
“Based on the pieces I have rattling around my brain, I don’t doubt it.”
Needing the food, she resisted looking too closely at the images flashing through her mind so she wouldn’t lose her appetite. None of it made any sense, and until it did, she didn’t have to embrace any of the ugly recollections as conclusively real. “I’m a serious history nerd, I love superhero movies, and I go by Lissa with all my friends.”
“So you said last night. Lissa, I mean.” His gaze roamed over her face. “It suits you.”
“Thanks.” She held her cup in both hands, wondering where to begin with the rest of it that wouldn’t make them both sick. “I don’t know what happened to my purse that night, but I remember what it looked like.”
“There’s a breakthrough,” he said with a grin.
That vibrant expression did wonders for him, easing the sadness that seemed to haunt his candid gaze. “I even remember my bank account number.”
“Good.” He slid off the stool to his feet and rubbed a hand over his flat belly. “That was amazing. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I also remembered where I keep my spare key for the apartment. We were at the right place yesterday.” At his arched eyebrows, she explained. “The spare is in my office. We can swing by when the museum opens today. I can ask security to walk me downstairs. Maybe you’d like me to show you around, give you the inside scoop?”
