I give him a nod, and he meets the detective’s stare, the two of them exchanging what I’m pretty sure are some heated silent words, before he strides out of the room.
Detective Gallo claims the stool Kayden favors and scoots closer to me. “It really was lucky that he just happened to be at the right place, at the right time, to rescue you.” His tone says he doesn’t think it was a matter of luck at all. “And talk about dedication to a stranger. Forty-eight hours later, he’s not only still here, he’s paying your bills.”
Already he’s attacking Kayden, but I’m not foolish enough not to find out why. “What are you getting at?”
“That maybe, just maybe, he knew you before he found you.” He holds up a finger. “And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t in the right place at the right time by chance.”
My mind flickers with an image of Kayden’s hand on my back, and I can almost feel the familiar sensation of his touch spread from my shoulders down my spine. “He says I didn’t know him.”
“Do you believe him?”
“You know I have no memory.”
“You have instincts.”
“Which could suck, for all I know.”
He rests his arms on the railing, the position eating away much of the space between us. “I’m trying to help you—you know that, right?”
“You are here for him, not me.”
“I’m here because of him, but for you.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I say, “and I honestly don’t care. I have to find out who I am, before I’m discharged and on the street.”
“You won’t end up on the streets. There are programs—”
“So that’s the help you’re giving me?” I interrupt. “You’ll stick me in some government program and I’ll cease to exist before I landed in this hospital room?”
His lips tighten and he leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I ran a general check on all missing persons reports, including anyone traveling from outside the country.”
“And?” I ask, holding my breath, almost as afraid to hear the answer as I am desperate for it.
“At this point there are no active reports that match your description locally.”
“What about internationally?”
“Or for anyone traveling by way of a passport,” he adds.
I’m shell-shocked, trying to figure out what this means for me.
“However,” he adds, “there tends to be a slight delay in reports filed for a missing person who lives or travels alone.”
“Alone.” The word carves a hole in my soul, taunting me with the idea that no one’s looking for me because no one cares about me. “No,” I say, rejecting that idea. “I might not know who I am, but I know I wouldn’t live here without learning the language, which means that I’m visiting. And I wouldn’t visit a foreign country alone.”
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“And as you said, your instincts might suck.”
Infuriated at his lack of help, I say, “I don’t need instincts to know that I can’t wait for a missing persons report that might not come, to deal with my situation.”
“And you don’t have to. If you are indeed an American citizen—”
“I am. I know I am.”
“Well then,” he says, “you’d be traveling with a passport, and there will be fingerprints on file.”
A ray of hope replaces my anger. “You mean we can cross-check my records?”