A Man Worth Remembering. Delores Fossen
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her in drab green surgical scrubs. And she was on a gurney.
“I’m not in ICU,” she said to herself. “Or in an emergency room.”
It looked more like a huge supply closet. There were several metal shelves crammed with boxes. A single window graced the far wall, and the blinds were closed, so she couldn’t tell if it was night or day. Or if it was covered with bars. She was afraid it might have bars.
“It’s what you have to tell her,” the woman insisted.
Sanchez shook his head. “I won’t.”
The woman folded her arms over her chest and tapped her foot. “It wasn’t a request. Now, what part of it didn’t you understand?”
“The part where you started spouting Justice Department garbage, that’s when, Teresa.”
“You’d rather have her dead? Because that’s what’ll happen. Heck, it almost did, or have you forgotten that already?”
“I haven’t forgotten anything. I’m the one who pulled her out of that lake.” Sanchez mumbled something under his breath. Leigh only caught the Jesucristo part. “Hell, she almost died in my arms.”
She lifted her head off the gurney. “Who are you people?”
The three rifled their gazes toward her, but they didn’t say anything. She studied each one, trying to interpret their expressions and the snippets of conversation she’d heard.
She definitely didn’t trust the blond man, and yet she couldn’t say why. The woman was no ally either. She didn’t know what to make of Sanchez, but since he’d saved her from drowning, she would cast her lot with him if it came down to choosing sides.
It would, she feared, come down to choosing sides.
“Better yet,” she amended when none of them answered her, “who am I?”
Gabe Sanchez walked toward her with an almost graceful ease. He was tall, over six feet, and muscular. His biceps strained against the cotton T-shirt. He had chocolate-colored hair that was short and neat. Efficient. Low maintenance.
When he got closer, she saw that his eyes were a deep blue. They, too, seemed efficient—his gaze swept over her with a minimal amount of effort. However, she had no doubt that he’d just given her the once-over.
The others trailed behind Sanchez, stopping when he did. They were friends. No, more than that. Or less than that. Maybe much, much less.
God, why was it so hard to figure out things?
“You still don’t remember who you are?” Sanchez asked her.
“No. Why is that? What’s wrong with me?”
“You took a hard hit on the head. It might take a while for everything to come back.”
She touched the bandage on her forehead. There was indeed a lump under the gauze swatch, but she hadn’t needed to feel it to know it was there. That was no doubt the source of her vicious headache.
“I have a concussion?” she asked.
Sanchez nodded. “And a few stitches in your forehead and on your ankle where the rope abraded your skin. The doctor examined you, but he doesn’t think your memory loss has anything to do with the head injury. In other words, no brain damage. He said it was brought on by emotional trauma.”
“Disassociative amnesia,” she softly added. “How long will it last?” But she already knew. Like her aversion to the blond man and the woman, she just didn’t know how she knew it.
It was Sanchez who answered. “The doctor’s not sure. It could be hours. Or days.”
“Or I might never regain my memory,” she provided.
She lowered her head and tried to absorb that. She couldn’t. It was impossible to understand anything while her thoughts whirled around like a tornado.
God, what she was going to do? She didn’t know who she was, not her name, not her age. Nothing. She didn’t know if she was still in danger or if she could trust anyone. She didn’t even know what these people had to do with her.
But they knew.
They likely knew everything about her.
“What’s my name?” she asked Sanchez. She wanted answers, and by God, she wanted them now.
“Leigh O’Brien.”
That didn’t mean anything to her. Only the water and Sanchez saving her meant anything. For all practical purposes, her life had begun the moment she realized she was drowning. That wasn’t a comforting thought. “Where am I?”
“A private clinic near New Orleans.”
So, they hadn’t left the area. But it wasn’t an ordinary clinic. She was sure of that. “Are you a cop?”
“No.”
“Am I a cop?”
The room went deadly silent. “No,” the blond man finally answered.
Leigh didn’t like that hesitation. It sent a wave of panic through her. “Am I a criminal then?” And she braced herself for the answer.
These people might be here to arrest her for something she’d done wrong. Had someone tossed her in that lake because of a drug deal gone bad? An organized-crime housecleaning? What awful thing had she done to make someone want to murder her?
The blond man took a step forward, placing himself slightly ahead of the others. “You’re not a criminal.”
She allowed herself a short breath of relief. Just one. And got down to business. “Since these questions could go on forever, why don’t you just tell me who you are?”
The three glanced at each other before the blond man said anything else. “I’m Wade Jenkins. People call me Jinx. Special Agent Sanchez and I are with the FBI. Agent Teresa Walters is an agent with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms—the ATF.”
“FBI. ATF,” Leigh repeated. “What about me? Am I some sort of agent, too?”
“You’re a concerned citizen.” The blond man burrowed his index finger into his eyebrow. “A concerned citizen with a rather large problem.”
“Obviously,” Leigh snapped. “Believe me, after everything that’s happened, I can guess there’s a problem. Now, other than a concerned citizen, who am I? If I don’t work for an agency with initials, where do I work?”
“At a bookstore in Austin, Texas,” Jinx answered.
“A bookstore?” A bookstore. That couldn’t be right. Nothing about that felt right.
He didn’t elaborate. “Exactly what do you remember about being in the water?”
A good question. Too bad she didn’t have a good answer. “Not much other than Agent Sanchez saving me. Before that, all I remember is struggling and sinking deeper.”
“Any idea who put you in the lake?”
She tried to force the answer to appear in her mind. It didn’t work. She had no more answers about that now than she had when Sanchez had first asked her. “No. I have an image of someone on a bridge, but I can’t make out any of the features. Someone wearing light colors. I don’t suppose that helps you any?”
“No,” Teresa Walters answered in a frustrated huff. “But your amnesia is only part of the problem. This might not be over. Someone might make another attempt to kill you.”
Leigh swallowed hard. She hadn’t considered that. Yet. However, after her adrenaline fatigue wore off, it would no doubt have occurred to her. Amnesia or not, she still had common sense.
She hoped.
Leigh turned her gaze to Sanchez. “Who wants me dead?”
He