Reality hits me with gut-wrenching clarity. “No one came looking for me.”
He gives a grim shake of his head. “No.”
I inhale and then let the breath out, devastated by this news. Kayden is here out of obligation or some sense of responsibility. Whatev
er the case, he won’t admit it, and I’m not going to pathetically drive home the topic. I need out of this place, and so does he.
“Do you know when the doctor will be back around?” I ask.
“Not until tomorrow.”
“I can’t wait until tomorrow; I need to talk to him now,” I insist. “Please call him.” I realize I’ve grabbed his arm and I’m squeezing. “I’m sorry.” I jerk my hand back, and it’s trembling. I’m trembling. All over. “I just need them to fix me. They . . . they have to make me remember who I am.”
“The doctors keep saying that you will,” he assures me, reaching to the table beside the bed and presenting me with a leather book.
“What is that?”
“A journal. The staff psychologist left this for you. She wants you to write down your thoughts and dreams. Apparently there’s reason to believe it will help you regain your memories sooner.”
In disbelief, I ask, “That’s my medical treatment? A journal?” I take it from him, my brow furrowing with a memory that’s here and then gone, leaving me frustrated and ready to throw the darn thing. “How is this supposed to help me?”
“It’s one part of a treatment plan they intend to present to you on Monday.”
I set the journal on the bed, rejecting it along with the “treatment plan.” “They seem to believe that your brain is suppressing memories to protect you from some sort of trauma.”
“Leaving me homeless and without a name?” I ask. “That’s a horrible way to protect myself. And I don’t even have memories to write in it.”
He shifts on the bed, his hand settling on my leg. It’s a strong hand, the hand of a man who knows what he wants and goes after it, while I know nothing at all. “Maybe if we talk, it’ll help.”
“That’s no different than writing in the journal. I can’t talk about what I don’t remember.”
“My memories might stir yours.”
I sigh. “Okay. But it would be so much easier if there was a pill for this kind of thing.”
His lips hint at a smile. “Most of us would agree with that at some point in our lives. Why don’t we talk about the night you were mugged?”
“That’s exactly why I’m here,” says an unfamiliar male voice.
My attention shifts to the doorway, where a man in his mid-thirties leans on the doorjamb, his suit and dark brown hair a bit rumpled and his tie slightly off center.
“What the hell are you doing here, Gallo?” Kayden demands, shoving off the bed to face him.
“My job,” the man states, striding toward us. While his features are too hard and the lines of his face too sharp to be called good-looking, there is something about him that refuses to be ignored, and he stands at the end of my bed, fixing me in a steely gray stare. “I’m Detective Gallo. I hear you were mugged, and I want to ask you a few questions.”
“You don’t handle muggings,” Kayden points out.
“I do when your name’s on the report,” the detective says shortly. It’s pretty clear these two don’t just know each other; they don’t like each other.
“Of course,” Kayden replies, sounding amused. “Because I’ve broken so many laws.”
The detective is not amused. “Just because you haven’t been caught doesn’t make you innocent.” He gives me a pointed look. “I’m guessing you aren’t Maggie.”
I blanch. “What? I . . . no. Or . . .” I look to Kayden for help. “What is he talking about?”
“He’s being a smart-ass,” Kayden states. “I registered you under that name and told them you were my sister.”
My brow furrows. “What? Why?”