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As a devastating summer storm hits Grand Springs, Colorado, the next thirty-six hours will change the town and its residents forever…
How did Mayor Olivia Stuart really die? And how is Martin Smith connected to her death?
The night of the storm, a stranger walked into Grand Springs's hospital. “Martin Smith” can’t remember his name or where he was going when he lost control of his car and crashed.
Months later he’s still searching for his identity. His intuition tells him the mayor’s murder holds the key, and he’s determined to stay in Grand Springs until he finds the truth.
Computer guru Juliet Crandall is the perfect person to help. She has the know-how and computer access to research the past of anyone in town. Helping the gorgeous and intriguing Martin is a breath of fresh air in her solitary life. But who is he really? Martin’s scars hint at a violent past—could he be dangerous?
Find out in the dramatic conclusion of the 36 Hours series.
You Must Remember This
Marilyn Pappano
MILLS & BOON
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Contents
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
