LITMIR.BIZ

      Prologue

      Friday, June 6

      The emergency room was bustling, with every cubicle occupied, every chair in the waiting room taken. Some patients waited quietly. Others were vocal about their discomfort—and their displeasure.

      The man walked past all the waiting patients to the broad hallway, where a harried clerk stopped him. “Can I help you?”

      He looked blankly at her. Did he need help? He wasn’t in any pain except for the headache, and it would go away soon enough. The crack to his head had left him a little dazed, but that would go away, too.

      “Sir? Are you hurt? Do you need to see a doctor?”

      The bright lights in the hall made the ache in his head throb. When he closed his eyes to block the glare, he swayed unsteadily, and the woman took hold of his arm. “Sit down over here, and the doctor will see you as soon as possible. Did you hit your head?”

      He sank into the chair against the wall and realized how good it felt to sit. It had been a long walk from the banged-up car on the highway to the well-lit hospital.

      “Sir?”

      Lifting one hand, he touched the knot raised when his head came in contact with some part of the car. “Yes, I…”

      She crouched in front of him, pen poised over clipboard. “What’s your name?”

      He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Nothing. In a flash, the muscles in his stomach knotted and panic surged through him. It was a simple question, the simplest question in the whole world. What was his name? It was…

      Still nothing.

      “Sir, I need your name for our records.”

      When he reached out, his hand trembled. When his fingers made contact with the clerk’s hand, they wrapped tightly around it. She tried to pull free, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he leaned closer, staring fearfully, desperately, into her face. “I don’t know… I don’t…”

      Oh, God, he couldn’t remember.

      * * *

      “Should I list him as John Doe?”

      He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, only half listening to the medical staff around him. He had been examined, poked and prodded, X-rayed and interrogated and, finally, medicated. His clothes had been searched for identification, but none was found. His wallet—if he’d had one—was gone. His driver’s license was gone. His identity was gone.

      On the up side, so was his headache.

      “He doesn’t look like a John to me. Can we pick another name?”

      “How about Chris?”

      “No…he’s not the Chris Hemsworth type.” The answer was dry and mocking and made him wonder for the first time what he looked like. Did he have blond hair and blue eyes, like the actor? If he saw a photograph of himself, would he recognize it? If he walked over to the mirror above the sink, would he find himself facing a stranger?

      He didn’t have the nerve yet to find out.

      “Hey, I know what we can call him. Martin—”

      The other female voice joined in. “Smith. Yes, of course. Perfect.”

      “Who is Martin Smith?” That was the doctor, sounding disinterested as he made notes in the chart.

      “He’s a character on the soap we watch. He’s tall, blond, blue-eyed—”

      One of the women gave him a furtive glance that he caught from the corner of his eye, then lowered her voice. “A hunk.”

      That was good, wasn’t it? It meant he didn’t look half as

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