LITMIR.BIZ

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came in November. It was supposed to be cold.

      How could she remember all those everyday details and not know the first thing about herself? Not her name, her age, her address.

      Nothing.

      Sande pushed away from the wall. The towering brick buildings on either side of the alley kept the sun at bay. The shadows deepened the farther into the alley she ventured.

      She could climb into one of those larger boxes and curl up in a ball to stay warm. That would help. Maybe she’d even put one on top to create a sort of shelter the way homeless people did.

      Anticipation trickled inside her.

      Was she homeless? A kind of sadness filtered through her. Did Sande Williams have anyplace to go? Any family? Friends? Or was she completely alone?

      She couldn’t worry about that right now. Staying warm took priority. Survival had to come first.

      She reached for a box. It was just what she needed.

      “Hey! That’s my box!”

      Sande jerked her hand away. Lurched back a couple of steps. “I’m…I’m sorry.”

      The stringy-haired lady who had scolded her stepped from the shadows beyond the pile of cardboard boxes. Her heavy coat made her look like an Eskimo. “I don’t mind sharing,” the Eskimo woman said as she swiped her hands against the ragged jeans she wore. “But you should always ask first.”

      Sande nodded. “Sorry.” She hadn’t meant to invade anyone else’s territory. She was just so tired. Cold and lost. And she was scared. Terrified.

      The woman’s eyes narrowed as she assessed Sande from forehead to feet. “Where’s your clothes, girl?”

      Good question. Wearing a white bedsheet certainly didn’t count. “I’m not sure what happened.” Might as well tell the truth. “I woke up like this.”

      The woman pursed her lips thoughtfully. She didn’t appear that old, just looked a little haphazard and world-weary. Her jeans and coat were old, worn-out.

      “I probably got something you could wear.”

      Sande almost refused her generosity. Clearly, the woman had very little in the way of assets. Sande hated to take anything from her. But at the moment, she was pretty much desperate. Beyond desperate, actually.

      Why couldn’t she remember anything?

      “I’d appreciate that,” she said, thankful for the assistance.

      The woman motioned with her right arm. “Come on.”

      She dug her way through the piles of boxes until she reached what might have been the center. Sande realized then that the boxes were stacked in such a way that they created a refuge.

      She followed the woman into the cardboard sanctuary. “What’s your name?” her new friend asked.

      The toe tag clutched in Sande’s hand came immediately to mind. Though she hesitated before giving that answer, nothing else occurred to her. “Sande Williams.”

      “I’m Madge,” the older woman said, “but you don’t look like a Sande to me.”

      Sande didn’t know what to say to that statement. The name didn’t set off even a flicker of recognition within her. And other than her height and weight, she didn’t know anything about how she looked. Fear surged inside her once more. How could she not know her own hair color? Or eye color?

      She grasped a strand of her hair and pulled it in front of her face. Blond. She had blond hair.

      “You from out of town?”

      Sande shook off the disturbing questions churning in her brain and nodded, then, with resignation, wagged her head. “I really don’t know.”

      Equal parts suspicion and sympathy stirred in the woman’s eyes. “Something wrong with you, girl?”

      “Maybe.” Sande shrugged. “I’m not certain. I woke up in a—” she cleared her throat “—in a hospital.” She swallowed hard. “Dressed like this.”

      “You don’t know how you got there?”

      Another shake of her head answered that question.

      Madge’s eyes narrowed with increasing suspicion. “You ain’t got no strange disease, do you?”

      Sande bit her bottom lip. She hadn’t thought of that. The possibility took her anxiety to a whole new level. “I don’t think so.”

      “Well.” Madge considered the situation a moment. “I tell you what.” She stooped down and dug through a large plastic shopping bag. The colorful words printed on the bag were partially worn off, as if its owner had lugged it around for quite some time. “You get these clothes on—” Madge offered Sande the items she had retrieved “—and we’ll go down to the church and have us some lunch. There’s a man who serves there on Thursdays who might be able to help you out.”

      Did that mean today was Thursday? Didn’t really matter. Sande hastily tugged on the clothes. She didn’t care what they were or their condition, or even how they fit, as long as they covered her body and protected her from the cold that had settled deep into her bones.

      The memory of those men chasing after her back at the hospital reignited her fear, which had lessened a fraction.

      “Who is this man?” she asked, a little hesitant to speak to a stranger, considering recent circumstances. Whatever instincts she possessed were screaming at her to use extreme caution.

      “His name is Lucas Camp.” Madge scrounged around in the bag once more until she came up with a pair of beat-up sneakers. “His wife runs some fancy private investigation agency.” She made a humming sound as she mulled over what she wanted to say next. “The Colby Agency.”

       Colby Agency?

      Didn’t ring any bells for Sande.

      “Yep.” Madge fished a tattered jacket from her stockpile of personal goods. “They say the Colby Agency is the best of its kind. I bet you they’ll be able to figure out just what happened to you and where you come from. Seems like the best plan.”

      Sande sure hoped so.

      She couldn’t remember her name or where she lived…but she had a feeling. A very bad feeling that if she didn’t get help, something terrible was going to happen…

      To her.

      Chapter Two

      Patrick O’Brien.

      Dr. Patrick O’Brien.

      No. Not anymore.

      Patrick had given up his practice as a psychologist more than two years ago.

      He wasn’t going back there.

      Not ever.

      Patrick surveyed his office. He liked working for the Colby Agency. Profiling clients and the subjects associated with cases had proved to be interesting work. The pay was outstanding and the benefits unmatched.

      His work kept him busy. He didn’t have to think about the past…

      Then what the hell was wrong with him today? He couldn’t keep his mind on the task in front of him. He felt restless. Out of sorts.

      He knew the reason. Pretending wouldn’t make it otherwise.

      It was the anniversary of his wife’s death. Three years ago today she had left their Oak Park home for a day of shopping with friends, but had never made it to the mall. Never even made it across town. A carjacking had left her dead on the street.

      And that had only been the beginning of his life’s unraveling.

      Patrick pushed away the memories, the images that instantly flooded his mind. He couldn’t live in the past, couldn’t

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