Bed? The haze in her peripheral vision cleared and her surroundings came into focus. “Where am I?”
“In the hospital. You were attacked. Do you remember what happened?”
“Attacked?” She tried to lean forward and was stopped short by a stab of pain at the base of her skull. She winced, squeezing her lids together.
He curled one large hand over her shoulder and pressed her back against the mattress. “Relax, you’ve got a pretty good lump on the back of your head.”
That would explain the excruciating pain. She reached up to touch it, but tangled herself in her IV lines instead.
“Here, let me.” Though his voice held a note of irritation and his eyes mirrored the emotion, his touch was undeniably gentle as he unwrapped the tubes from her fingers. When she was free, she reached up, grazing the small bandage taped to the back of her head. Considering the pain, she’d expected to find half her skull gone. This didn’t seem so bad.
“Did you see who hit you?”
She shook her head, regretting the move instantly, as another wave of nauseating pain swept through her. “I don’t remember being hit.”
His face grim, he perched on the edge of her bed, and produced a small notepad out of the dark leather jacket he wore. Everything about him was dark. Dark clothes, dark hair, dark eyes. Even his expression was dark. “You were found with no identification. If you give me your name and number I’ll call your family.”
She must have looked confused, because he added, “I’m Detective Mitch Thompson. Twin Oaks P.D.”
“Twin Oaks?” she asked and he flashed her a badge. Twin Oaks, Michigan. Why didn’t that sound familiar?
“If you’ll just give me your name.”
“My name?”
“Yes, your name,” he said. “I need to contact your family. They’re probably worried about you.”
“Right.” Her family would be worried, wouldn’t they? She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing happened. No name popped out.
She tried again, but still, nothing.
She looked down at the band on her wrist. Jane Doe. No, that wasn’t right. She swallowed hard, a cold, itchy panic churning her belly. She tried again to summon a name, a mental picture of herself, but there was nothing there. No names, no familiar faces. No family.
Nothing.
This was all wrong. She clutched the thin blanket, willing her brain to work harder, to concentrate past the frantic thumping of her heart. The rush of blood echoed in her ears like static on a radio. If she could just turn the dial, adjust the frequency…
But there was nothing. It was as if a hole had been punched in her memory and her identity had just…leaked out.
“Are you okay?” Detective Thompson was on his feet. “Maybe I should get a doctor.”
She thrust her arm out, clutching the sleeve of his jacket, oblivious to the pain the action induced. He was the only thing familiar, the only thing that felt real. “Don’t leave me alone.”
“Relax.” He eased himself down, covering her hand with his own, prying it from his sleeve. His hand was warm and soft, comforting to the smallest degree. “If you tell me who you are, I can call your family.”
“Family?” The panic rose, filling her throat with bile and gagging her. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. Did she have a family? Wouldn’t she remember them?
A frown darkened his face even more. “Who are you afraid of? Did someone you know hurt you?”
Someone she knew? But, she didn’t know anyone.
“Do you know who did this? Don’t be afraid. I can protect you.”
“I—I can’t tell you,” she said. Hearing the words, in a voice so foreign it should have belonged to a stranger, sent an icy chill up her spine. Bile surged up, until she had to fight to keep it down.
“Why can’t you tell me?”
“Because, I—I don’t know who I am.”
Chapter 2
Mitch pulled on the hospital scrubs the nurse had given him and shoved his soiled clothes into a plastic bag. In the span of about four hours he’d been bled on, spit on and puked on. It was all a part of the job, although he didn’t typically encounter such a variety of bodily functions in one night. And he still had no identity on Jane Doe or the slightest clue who attacked her. No evidence had been found at the crime scene and no one shopping or working in the store had seen or heard a thing. As Greene had predicted, the security tape quality was very poor so they doubted a positive ID would be possible. It didn’t look like the victim was going to be much help, either.
He strapped on his holster and shrugged into his jacket.
With a weary sigh, he pushed open the bathroom door and walked back to Jane Doe’s cubicle. The doctor in charge of her care stood beside the bed checking her pulse. She was asleep now, probably all worn out from that Exorcist routine she’d pulled earlier.
The doctor checked her IV then motioned for Mitch to follow him, sliding the curtain closed on his way out.
“So,” Mitch asked. “How is she?”
“Mild concussion. We’d like to keep her overnight, just in case.”
“And the amnesia?”
“Temporary, I’m sure. The blow to the head wasn’t that severe. Her memory loss was probably brought on by the psychological trauma. It could last days or weeks. Typically something will trigger a memory, a familiar name or face. I don’t think she’ll suffer any permanent damage.”
“Could she be faking it?”
“Of course it’s possible. There is something I’d like to show you.” He led Mitch past the nurses’ station to a wall of X rays. “Due to the nature of her injuries, we checked for possible skull fractures and broken bones in the arms and hands.”
Mitch gazed up at the films spanning half the wall. “What am I looking for?”
“See these?” He indicated several areas in the X ray. “They’re healed fractures. I counted seven altogether. Two in the skull, four fingers, her right arm. She also has an appendectomy scar, so I had films taken of her torso, as well.”
“She had her appendix removed?”
He led him down to another set of films. “That, and I found four healed rib fractures. I didn’t X-ray the legs, so there could be more.”
“Christ.” Gazing up at the films, he shook his head, disgust roiling his stomach. It looked as if someone had used her as a punching bag. “Can you tell when they happened?”
“I would guess that they all occurred after the bones were fully developed.”
“Could it be from some kind of accident?”
“Unlikely. You can see in the fingers here that the bone was never set properly. For most of these injuries, I’d guess she was never seen by a doctor. It looks to me like a classic case of domestic abuse.”
Mitch scrubbed a hand across his rough jaw. He’d seen the aftermath of domestic abuse as a patrolman and a detective, and it turned his stomach every time. Only now, as he pictured Jane Doe looking so fragile, IV lines crisscrossing the head of the bed, her silvery eyes wide and trusting, the sensation multiplied.
However, as innocent as those eyes appeared, the cop in him had to consider the possibility that she didn’t really have amnesia. That she was hiding from someone. “If she was treated here for her injuries, could that be traced?”