into handing her case over to Agent Bell.
“Don’t worry,” Claire told her. “We only offered to help because we owe him—not because we don’t think he’s capable of solving the case on his own. Dalton is a very good agent.”
She nodded in agreement. “I know. I wouldn’t be alive if he wasn’t.”
“He’s not like Ash and Blaine Campbell, though,” Claire continued. “They were marines—they grew up knowing what was right and what was wrong.”
Anger surged through her, and she opened her mouth to defend him. The special agent obviously knew what was right and wrong.
But before she could speak, Claire continued, “Dalton grew up on the streets—in a gang. He had to figure out for himself what was right and wrong. I think that’s even more impressive.”
“So do I,” she said. But everything about Dalton Reyes impressed her. She couldn’t help wondering about herself. What kind of person was she? Was she an honorable person? Did she know right from wrong?
“This must be so hard for you,” Claire said, “not having your memories. Not knowing how you grew up—who your family is or your friends...”
She wondered if she had any—since nobody had filed a report about her missing. Dalton and Agent Stryker stepped back into the room, and like the love between the Strykers, there was love between the men—a strong bond of friendship.
Her heart ached with an overwhelming sense of loss. But she hadn’t just lost her friends; she had lost herself, as well.
Dalton uttered a long-suffering sigh, even while his dark eyes twinkled with merriment. “I had to give this guy some advice for the honeymoon.” He turned toward Claire. “You’re welcome.”
The new bride laughed. “Like you have any experience with honeymoons or will ever have any experience...”
Apparently, as well as growing up on the streets, Dalton had grown up determined to remain single. She hadn’t been surprised when she’d overheard him telling Blaine Campbell that he wasn’t marrying anyone. Ever. She faintly remembered him saying something in the ambulance when the paramedic had mistaken her for his bride. She’d been in and out of consciousness, so she hadn’t picked up on his words but on his tone. He had been appalled that someone had mistaken him for a groom.
At the moment she could relate as she glanced down at her hand again. She wanted to take off the ring. She couldn’t believe she was engaged. It didn’t feel right.
“If you two don’t get going, you won’t have any honeymoon experience, either,” Dalton warned them.
Claire glanced at her. “But I could help...”
“I have help,” Dalton said. He wrapped his arm around the young bride and steered her toward the doorway. “I know you two can’t stand spending time together, but you’re going to have to suck it up for the next fifty or sixty years.”
The newlyweds chuckled—confident in their love and their relationship.
She glanced down at her ring again. Why would she be wearing this when she obviously hadn’t felt that way about whoever had put the ring on her finger? But then, a love like the Strykers’ was rare and special.
“It was nice meeting you,” Claire called back to her.
She had met Claire. She wasn’t sure if they’d met her—because she wasn’t sure who she was, except not Jane or Mercedes. But maybe she would need to start thinking of herself as one of those names since she was unlikely to ever remember her own. She waved at them. “Enjoy your honeymoon.”
The Strykers both hugged Dalton before leaving. He stared after them a moment, as if tempted to call them back, before he turned back to her.
“Who is your help?” she asked. While it would have been selfish to keep them from their honeymoon, she would have trusted the Strykers to help her.
“Trooper Littlefield is going to stand guard in your room,” he told her, “while I go to Chicago to follow up a lead.”
“Littlefield?” she asked.
Was that the trooper whose car had been stolen? Because of that and because something about him or his uniform was vaguely, unsettlingly familiar to her, she wouldn’t feel particularly safe with him. But then, she didn’t feel particularly safe with anyone but Dalton.
“He’s a good officer,” Dalton assured her. “He’s the one who called me when he noticed the vintage Mercedes. He knew something wasn’t right about it.”
Her in the trunk—that was what hadn’t been right about it. What if he hadn’t seen the car? What if Dalton hadn’t stopped it?
She would be dead. She was certain of it. She shuddered with the realization that someone out there wanted her dead. What kind of person was she that someone could hate her enough to try to kill her more than once...?
“Are you okay?” Dalton asked, his voice even deeper with concern. “Claire didn’t upset you, did she?”
She shook her head. Claire hadn’t upset her, but meeting the other woman had. “I just wish...”
“What?” he asked.
“I wish I knew what kind of person I am,” she said. “If I’m like her...” Or if she was someone who’d earned another person’s hatred? “I just wish I knew who I am...”
“You may not know your name,” Dalton said, “but you know who are you are—you’re strong and smart and brave.”
But she felt like none of those things. She was terrified—terrified of the person determined to kill her, terrified to be away from Dalton Reyes and terrified to find out who she really was.
* * *
ALL HE’D HAD to do was bide his time. Eventually the dark-haired agent had left—along with the other federal agents. They weren’t bodyguards; they were investigators.
He wasn’t worried about what they would find. He’d been careful so that nothing could be traced back to him. Not even her...
But still she had to die.
And it would be easier for him to kill her now that the agent was gone. He’d left behind the bald-headed trooper for her protection.
All he’d had to do was wait him out. With the amount of coffee the man drank, it was inevitable that he would leave her to use the restroom. He was waiting for him there—hiding inside a stall.
He waited until the trooper was preoccupied at the urinal before he stepped out. The trooper didn’t have a chance to pull his gun—to catch more than a shadowy movement in the mirrored wall—before he struck him. Hard. Harder than he’d even struck her.
As the trooper dropped to the tile floor, he dropped the bloodied pipe next to him. He was wearing gloves, so it couldn’t be traced back to him. He was careful to leave no evidence behind. Anywhere.
He reached for the buttons on the trooper’s uniform.
