she replied. Her firm and somewhat harsh tone took Cale by surprise. The Maggie he knew was sweet and soft-spoken. Obviously there was more to his mystery woman than met the eye.
The younger detective looked Cale up and down. “You a lawyer?”
Cale approached Maggie and set the grease-stained bag on the tall metal nightstand. “No. A friend,” he answered cautiously. “Is there a problem, detective?”
Being a paramedic, he came in contact with law enforcement practically on a daily basis, however most of his experiences were either with the uniformed cops or the guys in the arson unit within the fire department.
Maggie let out a huff of breath. “I already told you. I must’ve lost my purse in the fire. I don’t have any identification.”
“How is it you know Ms….” The detective glanced in Maggie’s direction. “Ms. Doe?” he finished, his gaze skeptical.
She looked at Cale. “What Detective Villanueva is trying to ask is if you know who I am. Isn’t that right, Detective?”
“What’s going on here?” Cale demanded, feeling his protective instincts rise to the surface.
“We’re only trying to determine why Ms. Doe was at the Harrison Paint and Wallpaper warehouse. Alone. Especially since the warehouse was closed, not to mention that it isn’t open to the general public.”
The color in Maggie’s eyes brightened considerably. “I already told you, I don’t know anything.”
“How convenient,” Villanueva muttered.
“Until my memory returns, I’m afraid I won’t be of much assistance to you.”
The older, stout detective near the window straightened and gave his partner a quick glance, motioning toward the door with a nod of his head. “You have my card,” he said. “In case you remember anything.”
Cale waited for them to leave before turning his attention back to Maggie. “What was that about?”
Maggie straightened the already perfectly arranged bed covers. “Exactly what they said. They want to know why I was in the warehouse. I’d like to know, as well.”
The question had crossed Cale’s mind, too, more than once. He also understood that Maggie had spoken the truth when she’d told the detectives that until her memory returned, she’d have no answers, only questions of her own.
“They don’t believe me,” she said abruptly. “Who can blame them, really? I sound like something out of a bad soap opera.”
Despite the hint of truth to her statement, Cale chuckled lightly as he carried the visitor’s chair closer to the bed. “I thought the truth was supposed to be stranger than fiction.”
She looked over at him, her eyebrows suddenly pulled down into a frown. Whatever was on her mind, she kept it to herself. After a brief moment, she shook her head then graced him with a hint of a smile. Her pert little nose twitched, as if she were a bunny rabbit anticipating the delightful feast of an unguarded vegetable garden. “Is that a cheeseburger?”
His heart stuttered at the pure pleasure softening her features. “The lady knows her junk food.”
“I can’t believe you remembered,” she said in the same soft voice that had been haunting his dreams all week.
The awe in her voice had him wondering why something so trivial as a cheeseburger brought her such delight. Almost as if no one had ever done anything as ordinary as bring her a special treat. He’d ask her about it, but she’d only whisper, “I don’t know,” and then her eyes would cloud with worry or frustration.
He reached across the bed to settle his hand over her fingers peeking out from the cast that extended to her elbow. Her skin was soft, smooth and silky. If her fingers were this soft, he’d surely drive himself insane imagining the feel of the rest of her body.
“You said it was your favorite.”
Her grin widened, and she playfully snatched the bag from his hands. “I might not know much about who I am, where I belong or what I was doing in a burning warehouse but I most assuredly know a cheeseburger and fries when I smell them.”
Cale chuckled again despite the frightening truth of her statement. Where did she belong? The absence of a ring on her left finger, or of the pale circle caused by wearing one for any length of time, might indicate she didn’t have a husband in the picture, but it didn’t alleviate the possibility of a boyfriend or a serious relationship. The doctors had told her she’d never had any children, but she’d merely shrugged and muttered they no doubt knew more than she.
According to Maggie, the psychiatrist who came to see her on a daily basis had told her she was suffering from level III amnesia, which was generally caused by medical trauma. Well, she’d certainly had that, Cale thought, watching her carefully unwrap the cheeseburger with her good hand. In addition to a broken wrist, smoke inhalation and enough bruises to play connect-the-dots, she’d suffered a severe concussion when a shelf filled with paint cans had fallen on top of her.
She took a bite of the burger, closed her eyes and issued a sultry little moan of pleasure.
Cale exhaled slowly as his imagination took flight. “I take it the lady is pleased.” He leaned back in the chair and propped his foot over his knee, which did nothing to lessen the snug fit of his jeans.
A brief nod followed another bite before she finally answered him. “Very pleased. This is the best thing that’s happened to me all day.”
“I know those detectives must’ve been rough on you, but they’re only doing their job.”
She sighed and set the rest of the burger down on the wheeled table as if her appetite had vanished. He took the action as warning sign of impending not-so-good news.
She dropped her gaze to the cast on her right arm. “That’s not what I meant. A social worker came to see me today,” she said quietly.
“And?” he prompted.
She pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly before she looked over at him. That same desperation he’d seen the night of the explosion, along with a dose of panic, returned. “And they’re releasing me tomorrow. Mrs. Sutter suggested I consider going to a long-term care facility.”
He straightened, alarm rippling through him. “Why?” he demanded. He’d been around the medical profession long enough to know long-term care was code for nursing home. Because of Maggie’s inability to remember anything about herself, it wouldn’t be all that unusual for her to be transferred to a psych hospital. The thought of Maggie in an understaffed, state-operated facility filled him with more dread than he imagined possible.
She made an attempt to cross her arms over her chest, but the weight of the cast and the cumbersome IV line had her frowning instead. “Because,” she said, dropping her hands to her lap, “I don’t know who I am or where I live. It doesn’t appear so far that anyone is looking for me, either, since the detectives informed me they had no missing persons report on file for anyone fitting my description. The social worker said I should consider her suggestion, since, according to her, I’m relatively incapable of taking care of myself.”
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