LITMIR.BIZ

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tried to concentrate hard, yet not tax her brain too much. She’d been eating oatmeal with cinnamon. That was right. That’s what she’d told the detective. Slowly bits came back to her…

      I’m from Quarry, Oregon. My name is Gemma LaPorte. I’m twenty-seven years old. Or maybe twenty-eight? Or am I older? Gemma took several deep breaths and willed herself to relax. I live…on a farm? My parents’ farm? My father is a farmer…but he’s gone now…my mother, too. No, wait. My parents had a diner. The PickAxe. No…no…That’s a different place. A bar, mostly. My parents had…LuLu’s…and I waited tables when I was younger.

      Gemma’s eyes flew open, though she could still only see out of one. She recalled wearing the LuLu’s uniform, a typical old-time diner dress that came in varying colors—hers had been yellow—with pockets and a wide, white collar. Tourists loved LuLu’s, as much for the ambiance as the food.

      “I inherited the diner,” she said aloud. But there appeared to be a block to that thinking. A dark wall. There was something more that she couldn’t quite reach.

      “My mother worked at the diner.”

      Your mother was a liar.

      Gemma inhaled and glanced around, half expecting to find the source of that comment, but the words had been inside her head. She felt more pain but was determined to work her way through it. Carefully, she shuffled her way to the door. Would she be able to just walk out? Would they let her leave? She knew there was enough bureaucracy and paperwork waiting for her at hospital administration to make a stronger person weep, but she needed her identification, the name of her insurance company, the address of her home before she could settle her bill.

      She wasn’t even sure she had the money to make that happen.

      But she had to get out. She had to…find the man she’d been after and finish what she’d started. It was imperative. She could feel a clock ticking inside her head. Time was running short.

      What if someone saw her? She looked like she’d barely survived a war. But then this was a hospital. She wouldn’t be the only one bandaged and bloody, would she?

      And how the hell would she get to Quarry when she had no money? Did she have a car? The good-looking detective had asked how she’d gotten to the hospital. If only she knew. Had she driven herself and left her car in the lot? Even if she had, it was a moot point because she had no keys! And she had no idea what kind of vehicle she drove.

      Nor could she come up with the name of a single friend.

      Her heart squeezed. What if my name’s not Gemma LaPorte? There was something about it that sounded wrong. Like it was an alias. An identity trotted out when she didn’t want to give out her real name.

      She moved as fast as she dared given her painful head and unsure stomach. She almost slipped right past the stairs, but then saw the sign above the door—an icon of a man in a running position over a jagged line meant to represent the stairs—and chose them with relief as the best way to escape.

      She worked her way down the flight with an effort, her head jarring. On the next level down—identified as street level—she hesitated inside the stairwell, afraid to open the door. How long was the hallway between this door and the outside parking lot? How many people around? How many chances for someone to look her way and wonder about the bruise-faced patient with the head bandage?

      Cautiously, Gemma pushed the bar on the door and cracked it open, just a bit. In her sliver of sight she could see a carpeted hallway and a row of windows that looked out toward freedom. She didn’t know what she’d do when she got there. But she just wanted out of the hospital.

      There was, however, no exterior door visible, just rows of floor-to-ceiling windows.

      Squaring her shoulders, she stepped into the hallway and walked unhurriedly to her left, keeping the windows and parking lot at her right shoulder. Surely there would be an exit soon.

      The hallway angled even farther left and Gemma rounded the corner. EMERGENCY was written in bold letters above a sliding-glass interior door and beyond was a large room with chairs, and even farther, another set of glass doors which led to a portico where an ambulance sat and EMTs were standing by, waiting for a call. No way she was going there. Quickly, she turned on her heel and retraced her steps.

      “Hey,” a male voice called from behind her.

      Her pulse leapt. She pretended to be deaf. Maybe they didn’t mean her. Maybe—

      “Are you leaving the hospital, Ms. LaPorte?” the voice asked calmly.

      Gemma looked up reluctantly, gritting her teeth at the familiar tone of the detective’s voice. Of course he was still here. Of course he would be the one to discover her. She had to slide her gaze away from his probing stare and taut physique. “I don’t have a purse,” she said. “My clothes were in the room, but I don’t have a purse.”

      “Did you come by car?”

      “I don’t remember.” Did he think he was going to surprise her into telling him something she didn’t know?

      “Do you know where you’re going?”

      “Home. To Quarry.”

      “By…foot?”

      “Detective…Tanninger,” she said, reading his name tag. She couldn’t remember his first name. “I need to leave. Whatever this is costing, I can’t afford it. I need to find my identification. I need to go home.” Her voice quavered a bit and though she didn’t feel quite as weak as she sounded, she let him think what he wanted. And yeah, she felt bad and it was a simple matter to show it.

      “You look like you could use a wheelchair.”

      “I know what I look like,” she said wryly.

      “Have you talked to the doctor about being released?”

      She met his eyes again and didn’t change expression.

      His lips twitched, but despite the lines at the corners of his eyes, Gemma didn’t trust that he possessed much of a sense of humor. She hadn’t known many people in law enforcement, but those she had—though she could not for the life of her call them up at this moment—had been notoriously lacking in humor and self-awareness. Their officiousness had left her with the vague sense that police officers were not on her side. Better to handle your own battles than call in the cavalry. Bad things lurked beneath the surface of those supposedly sent to serve and protect.

      “You should probably be back in your room,” he said. “But if you want to go to administration and give over your address, name, and social, I can lead you there.”

      He was afraid she intended to scam on the bill. That’s what he meant. She was outraged, yet wasn’t that what she’d planned to do? At least in the interim until she could figure out the missing pieces of her life?

      Gemma didn’t want to go anywhere with Detective Tanninger. But she sure as hell didn’t want to go back to her room, either.

      Yet…she sensed the weariness that was taking hold of her, a dark, descending gloom with strong tentacles. There was an urgency inside her. A need to finish some half-forgotten task, but she also had no means to get to that task and no reserve strength to make that happen. She was bound by her own lack of identification and funds, a weary, beaten body, and a sputtering memory that seemed to blink on and off like a traffic light.

      “I think I’ll go back to my room,” she said tremulously.

      “All right.” He led her toward the bank of elevators and punched the button for the fourth floor.

      Gemma didn’t say anything more, concentrating solely on moving her quivering legs back toward her room. Will cupped her elbow with one hand and helped steady her. If he had more questions, he kept them to himself as they reached the fourth floor and he guided her into her room. Gemma sat herself heavily down on the bed and took a deep, calming breath.

      “Do you feel up

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