to a stranger.
The next thing that caught her eye was the bruise on her shoulder, the bruises cascading down her left side, the needle marks on her arm, scraped knees, one of them bandaged, and, most distressing of all, the faint stretch marks on her stomach.
No memories of any of it, but the unease she’d felt the night before, the pressing urgency of a task undone, of somewhere she needed to be, someone she needed to be with, came rushing back. She put her hand on the doorknob, ready to march right out and demand—what?
Maybe she’d dress first…
She found her fancy black underwear still draped over the towel bar where Mac had hung it to dry the night before. Where did she come by such exquisite lingerie?
Mac had provided black wool-lined slacks that felt snug through the rear and a light blue sweater too tight in the chest. His ex-wife must have been a trim little woman, she thought as she pulled on socks and slipped her feet into the woman’s designer loafers, which fit a lot better than Jake’s boots had.
The clothes were warm and more or less comfortable, boring and predictable, but good quality. Still, she entered the kitchen awkwardly, feeling insignificant in Mac’s presence, wondering if he would look at her decked out like this and think of his ex-wife.
“Everything fit?” he asked as he buttered toast.
“It’s all fine. Listen, I have to go.”
His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “That’s great. Then you’ve remembered who you are and where you live?”
“Well, no—”
His expression reflected a disappointment almost as vast as her own. He said, “You can leave any time you want, but why not eat breakfast first?” As he said this, he handed her a plate dominated by a cheese omelet and toast.
“I can’t eat—” she began but he cast her a stern look so she shut up and sat down at the table. Her stomach was too twisted to handle food. She began to regret drinking the coffee. Mac, not knowing this, of course, refilled her mug before sliding his own omelet onto his plate. He took the seat opposite her at the small, round table.
“I have to go to work,” he said after taking a few hearty bites. “I’ll drop you off wherever you want—”
“The alley,” she said, putting down her fork and dropping all pretenses of being interested in food. For something to do with her trembling hands, she picked up the mug and was grateful for its warmth.
He repeated her destination in a wooden voice. “The alley.”
“It’s where this all started. I have to find out what’s going on. I have to know…there’s someone I need to go to…somewhere I need to be. Time is passing. I’m wasting time…”
Her voice trailed off as she heard her words. They sounded desperate, grasping. She’d walked down that alley with Mac the night before and there had been nothing there but a pile of empty bottles. And though the sense of urgency wouldn’t go away, how did she act on it when she had no idea who in the hell she was?
“I think you should go to a hospital and be examined. Maybe you suffered a head injury or—”
“Absolutely not,” she said emphatically. Her head pounded with the effort of staying focused and she rubbed her temples with one hand. “I’ll just stay here until my mind clears—”
“You can’t stay here alone.”
“Why not?”
One corner of his mouth lifted in a parody of a smile. “Well, beyond the fact that I don’t know you and am not in the habit of leaving strangers alone in my house, there’s the fact that someone broke the window of the room you were sleeping in last night.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would anyone care where I sleep?”
“Good question. Maybe no one cares. I don’t have enough information to tell.”
“Couldn’t the brick have been intended for you? Do you have any enemies?”
“A few. But my enemies would aim for my head. Unless it was a cop.”
“A cop?” As sketchy as her memory was, she knew enough to be surprised that a man who was obviously intelligent, lived in a nice apartment and dressed well had an antagonistic relationship with the police. “The cops are your enemies?”
“Not all of them. In fact, I was a cop myself until a year ago. I talked to my former partner early this morning. He confirmed that tensions are high around the precinct, but he doesn’t think anyone would stoop to a sophomoric trick like tossing a brick through a window. Maybe he can help you—”
“No police!” she said. She slammed the mug down too hard on the table. “No police!” she repeated, not sure why she felt so strongly but knowing she did.
Did she subconsciously know she’d done something wrong, broken a law, was wanted by the authorities?
“Okay, no police,” he said calmly, ignoring the puddle of coffee spreading across the table top.
She nodded, swallowed and dabbed at the coffee with a paper napkin. She felt tears burning her nose. Her stomach was a tight knot. She said, “What did Sister Theresa want?”
“She warned me that I should be careful, that you might have needs I can’t fill, that I might hurt you by trying to help you.”
“Or that I might hurt you,” Grace whispered.
“I’m invincible, so don’t worry about that. Listen, you can’t stay here and you won’t go to a shelter or a hospital. Where do you want to go?”
The response came without thought. “Home,” she said softly. “I just want to go home.”
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