Stolen Memories. Liz Johnson
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a futile search.
He’d hit roadblocks in other cases, but he’d never felt quite so defeated so early into an investigation.
He’d just never had the image of such beautiful eyes seared in his mind, eyes that begged for his help. And the way she grabbed for his hand at the hospital, afraid he wouldn’t return, clutched at his heart.
Shoving his third and final disc into his computer’s player, he sighed. At least this camera, unlike the restaurant cameras, was angled toward the faces of the pedestrians, most of them walking toward their cars parked along Thomas Road. He sped up the video as the time stamp passed the dinner rush and through long periods without anyone using the crosswalk. The clock on the footage showed almost 2200 when a lone figure carrying some sort of case against her chest, with both arms wrapped around it, stopped at the corner.
He pushed his chair back and sat straight up in it before leaning closer to the screen. The figure looked like a woman with dark hair, and as she swung to look over her shoulder, her hair fanned out, long and just a little wavy.
Just about like Julie’s the night that she’d been found.
On the screen, the woman jabbed at the crosswalk button several times, looking behind her twice before she finally ventured out into the road, checking for oncoming traffic from both directions. The light hadn’t changed in her favor, but she still hurried into the street, pausing only to brush something from her cheek into the bag she was carrying.
And then she disappeared from the camera’s view.
He rewound the scene and slowed it to a crawl and zoomed in on her. Frame by frame the figure moved across the street. And then she stopped for a fraction of a second and looked right into the camera.
Julie.
Even without the scrapes and black eye she now sported, there was no doubt this was her.
His stomach lurched. It was their first real clue. But what did it mean? Only that she’d been attacked sometime after ten o’clock that night.
And then she reached for her cheek.
He’d thought it was a hair in her way, but at the slower speed, he could clearly make out the five little fingers and the care with which she tucked the wayward hand back into the blanket in her arms.
“Ramirez? Do you have the number for that contact in the marshals’ office you just told me about?”
“I think so.” Papers rustled on the other desk, but Zach couldn’t tear his gaze away from the woman looking directly into the street camera and carrying what was undoubtedly a baby.
* * *
Julie popped a piece of melon into her mouth, set her fork back on her dinner tray and picked up the newspaper for the tenth time, staring hard at the picture on the front of the section. Who was the woman gazing back at her?
She knew that it was her own likeness. After all, Tabby Guster had taken the photo when she’d stopped by the day before. Zach had told her this could help them identify her and begin to put the pieces of her life back together. She’d been only too eager to agree.
But now that she stared at the square chin, full lips, brown eyes and pixie cut that she didn’t recognize, it tore at her insides.
How could she not even know her own features? How could they be so foreign when they were literally at the tip of her nose?
With a finger she traced the short hair in the photograph then touched the real hair at her temple. The nurse said they’d cut off a lot of it that first night. But Julie didn’t have anything to compare it to.
The disposable cell phone that Zach had left with her let out a low hum as it scooted across the table at her bedside. Setting the paper down, she scooped it up. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Zach.”
“Hi.” She twisted to catch a glimpse of the clock on the adjacent wall. It was after eleven. “Are you still on duty?”
“No. Why?”
“Oh. It’s just kind of late—”
He sucked in a sharp bite of air. “Did I wake you? I’m sorry.”
“No. Not at all. I was just— I’m just looking at the article in the paper. Again.” Oh, why did she add that? She sounded like she was so interested in herself that she couldn’t stop reading about the woman without her memory.
“It’s a good article.” He paused for a long time, but she could tell he wanted to say more. Finally he filled it in. “It’s a pretty picture.”
Where her self-berating had just been, warmth filled her chest at his compliment. And with it a bit of trepidation. She wasn’t used to being complimented like that. At least she didn’t think she was.
He cleared his throat, effectively turning the conversation to less awkward ground and relieving her of the pressure of finding an appropriate response. Thank goodness.
“I was actually calling to let you know that we’ve gotten a couple tips from the hotline.”
“Already? Did you find out who I am?” The smile that tugged on her mouth refused to go away, growing as fast as the hope blooming in her heart.
“Not yet. But there are a few that we’re going to follow up on and see if anything pans out.”
Like a leaking balloon, hope escaped, leaving a weight heavy on her shoulders.
“Thanks for letting me know.”
“We’ll figure out who you are. I promise.”
His words were kind, but were they really in his control? She replayed them as she hung up the phone and leaned back against her pillows with closed eyes. She needed help beyond this world. God was going to have to heal her brain and restore her memories, or she might always be Julie Thomas—not who she really was.
A squeaking wheel jerked her out of her reverie, and she glanced up just as a large blond man in a maintenance uniform rushed across her room. He’d left his mop and yellow bucket sitting by the door, which he’d closed behind him.
She tried to wave him off. “I don’t need anything.”
But he ignored her, and before she could make sense of his presence, he reached her bedside, pressed his meaty hands to her throat and squeezed.
THREE
Julie tried to scream, but no breath could pass through her constricted airway. The pressure on her throat made her eyes water and her chest burn. Darkness clouded the corners of her vision, but she fought the temptation to succumb to its sweet release.
And she fought the man standing next to her bed, the man who was causing her agony.
All she could see were his broad shoulders and beefy arms, his face just out of her line of sight, but she clawed at him, digging her nails into every bit of flesh she could find. As she raked her fingers down his arm, he growled and yanked his hand away from her throat before hitting the elastic bandage covering the brace around her arm with his fist.
Every point from her wrist to her elbow screamed at the abuse, but she pushed it from her mind, gasping for oxygen before he pressed against her air pipe again.
He leaned in closer, but she could still only see his blond hair, wrinkled forehead and squinty eyes, the lines at the corners taut with the effort it took to keep her from flying out of the bed. She kicked and pushed and tried to scream, but again, there was no sound.
Grasping for the nurse’s call button near her waist, her fingers caught only the very edge before her attacker shoved it to the floor, the plastic landing with a sharp report on the tile floor.
She needed a weapon. Something. Anything to make him back off long enough for her to catch a breath and call for help.
And still the darkness