to her and who might be responsible, I’d prefer nobody know she’s been found and under what circumstances.”
“I would have no reason to release any information, and I’ll make sure my nurse understands that, as well.” Dr. Jamison glanced at his watch once again. “I’m sorry, I’ve got other patients waiting. I’ll check in with you later this afternoon.”
Ryan watched the doctor walk down the hallway, then pulled a cell phone from his pocket. He had arrangements to make for Britta. He had no idea what had happened to her, who had drugged her, but her safety was paramount.
With the phone call made and plans in progress, he walked back toward Britta’s room, dreading the conversation he was about to have with her.
When he stepped back into the room, her head was turned toward the window and a shaft of sunlight shone on her platinum hair. His fingers itched, remembering the silkiness of those strands.
She didn’t remember him. Somehow her mind had erased the past seven months. That meant she didn’t remember the shooting she’d witnessed. She had no memory of being a material witness, living her life before the trial in a safehouse with him as her handler.
She didn’t remember that their relationship had become far more than FBI agent and witness. She didn’t remember that they had become lovers.
She turned her head then, as if sensing his presence as he entered the room. “You doing okay?” he asked.
“Of course I’m not,” she replied with a slight edge to her voice.
“You haven’t touched your breakfast,” he said, noting the tray that had apparently been delivered while he was speaking to Dr. Jamison.
“I can’t eat. My head aches from trying to figure out what’s happened to me in the past seven months.” She reached up and grabbed a strand of her hair, twisting it around her finger in what he knew was a nervous gesture.
Ryan sat in the chair next to the bed. “I can help fill in some of those blanks for you.” He tried to figure out the kindest way to tell her of the path her life had taken since the night she last remembered, and decided a direct approach was best. “There is no job for you to worry about back in Boston,” he said. “Nor is there an apartment for you to return to.”
She stared at him as if he’d spoken a foreign language. A pulse beat along the side of her neck and he remembered exactly what her skin tasted like there. It was an unwanted memory that he consciously shoved away.
“Tell me,” she demanded, and pulled her hand from her hair. “Tell me what happened. What I remember is that my life was on track, that I’d landed the job I’d dreamed of and my future looked bright. What happened to bring me here?”
Her Norwegian accent came through strong again, a sure sign of the stress she was under. “What you remember is right, but the night before Halloween all of that changed. That night you witnessed a shoot-out between several FBI agents and members of a sophisticated but deadly street gang. One of our agents died that night, and you were instrumental in testifying against some of the guilty parties.” He paused to allow her time to digest what he’d told her so far.
“So you’re an FBI agent?”
He nodded. “And I was your personal handler, the man who was assigned to keep you safe between the time of the shooting and the trial. Despite one attempt on your life, we managed to get you safely through the process, but because several of the gang members who were still out on the streets had promised retribution, we encouraged you to enter the Witness Protection Program.”
She raised a trembling hand to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear and once again gazed out the window. Ryan remained silent, unwilling to give her more information until she indicated she was ready for more.
She finally turned to face him once again, her blue eyes glinting with the strength he’d come to admire in her during the time they’d been together. “So, how did I come to be here in Raven’s Cliff?”
“This was to be your new home. Your new identity was of Valerie King, a twenty-six-year-old woman from Chicago. You arrived here in Raven’s Cliff Tuesday and were supposed to begin work as a housekeeper in the local inn on Wednesday morning. Your current handler, Michael Kelly, tried to call you, and when he couldn’t get an answer and you didn’t return his calls, he informed me that we might have lost you.”
“So you came here from Boston to find me?” she asked. He nodded.
“Kelly was in the middle of another assignment and couldn’t get away.”
“And you found me at the top of a lighthouse.” She rubbed dainty fingers across the center of her forehead, as if in an attempt to ease a headache. “So, what happens now?”
“I’ve arranged to take you to a safehouse when you’re released tomorrow.”
Her eyes, always a window to her thoughts, displayed a hint of distrust. “How do I know you are who you say you are? How do I know that anything you’re telling me is true?”
Her questions pleased him. They proved to him that, despite the amnesia, her brain was working well. He grabbed his wallet from his pants and pulled out his official Bureau identification. “I’ll get some documentation to bring to you later this afternoon that will support everything I’ve told you.”
She handed the identification back to him, her gaze holding his intently. “I’m afraid.” The words were just a whisper. “I feel so alone. Can I trust you, Ryan Burton?”
“With your very life,” he replied.
She drew a deep breath. “I’m tired now. I think I’ll take a nap.”
“I’ll be back later this afternoon.” He stood and wished he could take the fear out of her eyes, pull her into his arms and assure her everything was going to be all right. Instead he murmured a goodbye and left the room.
He’d just stepped out of the clinic when his cell phone rang. His caller identification indicated it was Michael Kelly.
“How is she?” Kelly asked.
“Physically she appears to be okay but she’s suffering from amnesia.”
“Amnesia? You mean, like she doesn’t know who she is?”
Ryan headed to his rental car. “She knows who she is, but she doesn’t remember the shooting, the trial or anything else that’s happened in the past seven months of her life.”
“Wow. So, she can’t tell you where she’s been for the past four days?”
“She has no clue.” Ryan reached his car and got inside.
“Is this amnesia permanent?”
“The doctor doesn’t know. He thinks it might have been tied to a drug she was apparently given.”
“You need me to come out there?” Kelly asked.
“Not right now. At the moment she’s still in the clinic. What I do need you to do is see what you can find out about a new designer drug, street name Stinging Flower.”
“Stinging
