Wade’s face blanched. “I don’t know.”
She struggled against a sudden flood of nausea. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Wade grabbed a small bedpan from the table by the bed and thrust it into her hands. A series of dry heaves racked her aching body, but apparently her stomach was empty, for nothing came up.
Wade disappeared from view for a moment, returning with a wet washcloth from the bathroom. He handed it to her and she took it gratefully, pressing the cool cloth against her mouth.
“I know they looked you over carefully in the E.R. before they brought you to a room,” Wade said gently. “There was a female deputy with you, so they probably checked for that. I think the doctor would have told you if they’d found anything.”
“Three weeks,” she rasped, her throat aching. “They might not even find anything after three weeks—”
Wade closed his hand over hers. Heat spread through her from his warm, firm touch, helping to settle the shakes that threatened to take over her body. She took a couple of deep breaths, willing herself to deal with what she knew rather than what she didn’t.
She had to separate herself from how the story affected her personally and stick with the facts. She had to think like a reporter.
“Is there a theory behind what happened to me and my parents?” she asked aloud, dreading what Wade’s answer might be.
He hesitated before he spoke, drawing her gaze to his eyes to see whether she’d find truth in them or more secrets. “The official story is that the investigators have formed no theories.”
“And unofficially?”
“The fact that your father is such a high-ranking military officer suggests a national security angle.”
Of course, if she were thinking straight, the thought would have crossed her mind already.
And there was also her father’s odd behavior when he’d called her the Monday before her flight to Chattanooga to ask her to make time for a family vacation the next week. “There’s something I need to tell you about,” he’d said, sounding serious.
Had he ever gotten a chance to tell her whatever he’d wanted to share?
“How did anyone kidnap all three of us from a busy airport?” she wondered aloud.
“They didn’t,” Wade answered, squeezing her arm with gentle strength. She looked down at his long fingers, at the play of muscles and tendons in the back of his lean hand as he squeezed again and let go. “You and your parents arrived at the cabin on the eighteenth of August as planned. The caretaker handed the key over to your father, and you and your mother were both there with him. You were seen the next morning in Dahlonega, where you’d apparently gone for breakfast. The caretaker remembered seeing you and your parents return in your father’s silver Ford Expedition around ten-thirty on the nineteenth. That’s the last anyone saw of you.”
She shook her head. “I don’t remember any of that.”
“Your concussion could have caused a memory loss.”
“Will I get it back?”
“I don’t know.”
The nausea was knocking on the back of her throat again. She wrestled it back to mere queasiness. “Why do I get the feeling you know more about what happened to me than I do?”
“I don’t think I do.”
He sounded honest enough, but she saw more mysteries behind those big brown eyes. “You’re keeping something from me.”
Wade Cooper was saved by a knock on the door. When nobody entered a moment later, Wade stood. “I’ll see who it is.”
He crossed to the door, favoring his right leg. His right knee looked a little larger than his left, straining against the faded jeans he wore. Bum knee?
He spoke in low tones to someone outside the door. The other voice sounded male as well, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying. Wade closed the door behind him and returned to her side, pulling his chair closer. His dark eyes were deadly serious.
“Two men from the Air Force Office of Special Investigations are downstairs asking to talk to you. It’s up to you. If you want to talk to them, fine. If you want to wait until you’re feeling better, that’s fine, too.”
The last thing she wanted to do was face an interrogation by the A.F.O.S.I. But all she’d be doing was putting off the inevitable. “You can tell them I’ll see them.”
Wade nodded and stood. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out a narrow wallet. He removed a card from one of the inside pockets and handed it to her. “That has my cell number on it. You need to talk to me about anything, you call. Understand?”
His urgent tone made her stomach hurt, but she nodded, wincing at the flare of pain in her head. “Are you leaving?”
He shook his head. “I’ll be just down the hall. Call that number, and I’ll come running.”
As he disappeared through the doorway, she released a slow, shaky breath. She wasn’t used to feeling weak and vulnerable. She hated it. But her world had upended in the span of a few minutes—or, more accurately, three missing weeks. She had to find her feet again.
She had to find out what happened to her parents.
A brief knock on the door preceded two men dressed in dark suits who entered the room in tandem. They filled the small space with an air of authority, introducing themselves as Braddock and Hartman from the A.F.O.S.I. Braddock, who was taller, darker and leaner than stocky, sandy-haired Hartman, did most of the talking. Hartman stood slightly behind the other man, holding a small duffel bag. Annie eyed the bag with curiosity.
“We need to know everything you can tell us about the incident in Georgia,” he began without further preamble.
“I can’t tell you anything,” she said carefully. “I have a head injury and I don’t remember any of it.”
Braddock’s eyebrows inched upward. “Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
The two men exchanged a look that gave her the creeps.
“Could I see your identification?” she asked.
Their gazes snapped to her. Braddock’s tense expression melted into an engaging smile. “Certainly.” He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
Annie tensed, an image flashing through her muddled brain. A needle, glistening in the glow of a single, bare bulb. A tiny droplet of moisture trembling on the point before it fell.
Panic seized her insides, threatening to turn them to liquid.
The man withdrew his hand. It held only a flat black wallet. He flipped it open and showed her an official-looking name badge. Arthur Braddock with the Air Force Office of Special Investigations. Looked legit.
So why couldn’t she shake the feeling these guys were anything but what they claimed to be?
“What is the last thing you remember before waking up?”
“I was standing at the luggage carousel at the Chattanooga airport,” she answered.
“And you remember nothing else?” Braddock sounded skeptical.
“I have vague memories of being in the emergency room earlier tonight, I think,” she answered carefully. She didn’t mention the image of the needle, mostly because she didn’t really trust these two men. But the truth was, she did have some memories of being examined in the emergency room. They’d cut off her clothes. Poked and prodded and X-rayed. She had a vague memory of being in a cool, white cavern—a