there was no name to use. She hadn’t had any sort of identification on her—no driver’s license, no social security card, no well-creased love letter addressed to her hidden in the pocket of her black dress.
And if there had been any form of ID in the vehicle, most likely it was now burned to a crisp—as she almost was.
“I need something to call you,” he told her. Even as he said it, he began going through possible names and rapidly discarding them for one reason or another. And then he had it. Just like that. “I know, how about Angel?”
“Angel?” she repeated, testing it out on her ear. Like everything else, it didn’t seem familiar, but she liked the sound of it. “Why Angel?”
“Because you look like one,” he answered simply. “At least, like one of the angels I used to picture when I was a kid,” he told her with an affable grin.
“Angel,” she said again, and then nodded. It had a nice ring to it. “All right. I guess you can call me that.”
“Just until you remember your real name,” he emphasized. Although he had a hunch it wasn’t going to be as good as “Angel.”
She looked at him, wishing she could believe what he’d just said. Why was it so easy for him and so hard for her?
“You really think I will?” she asked him.
There wasn’t so much as a second’s hesitation on his part. He saw no point in trying to hedge or qualify his words. This woman didn’t need hesitation. She needed someone to believe for her until she could believe for herself.
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