With the Material Witness in the Safehouse. Carla Cassidy
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green eyes stared at her as he stood and approached the side of her bed. “You’re awake,” he said, stating the obvious. “How are you feeling?”
She clutched the sheet more tightly against her chest. “Okay, I guess. Who are you?”
A deep frown ripped across his tanned forehead. “You don’t recognize me?” He stepped closer to the side of the bed.
He had a wonderful voice, deep and resonating with the hint of a cowboy accent. But, there was nothing cowboy about him. His black slacks clung to long, lean legs and his short-sleeved white shirt exposed strong arm muscles and stretched across his broad shoulders.
His expression told her she should recognize him. Perhaps he was a hotel guest that she’d met. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember. Have we met before? Are you a guest at the hotel?”
She wouldn’t have thought it possible for his frown to deepen, but it did. His eyes searched her features for so long she grew even more anxious.
“My name is Ryan Burton.” He took yet another step closer to her and she smelled the scent of him, a clean masculine scent with a hint of spice. It was oddly familiar. “Are you sure you don’t recognize me?”
“I’m sorry. I…did I hit my head? Is that why I’m here?” It was her turn to frown. Why, oh, why couldn’t she remember?
“Do you know what day it is?”
“Of course,” she replied, and then frowned again thoughtfully. She remembered specifically that yesterday had been October 30. The hotel had been bedecked with fall decorations, and a Halloween gala had been planned for the next evening. She’d been in charge of the festivities, and her boss had been pleased with her arrangements.
“Today is Halloween,” she finally said.
His expression radiated shock. “I’m going to go get your doctor and let him know you’re conscious. I’ll be right back.”
When he left the room, Britta slid her legs over the side of the bed, surprised by the general weakness that gripped her body. She drew a deep breath.
It had been obvious from Ryan’s face when she’d told him the date that she’d been wrong. The newspaper that he’d set on the chair when he’d gotten up should tell her how far off she’d been. Maybe she’d been unconscious for longer than a day.
She was shocked to find herself completely naked beneath the blue floral hospital gown. She clutched the back of the garment closed as she rose unsteadily to her feet.
I’m as weak as a baby, she thought as she reached the chair and grabbed the newspaper. She clutched it to her chest and returned to the safety of the bed. Drawing another deep breath, exhausted by the short foray, she pushed the button that would raise the head of the bed, then opened the newspaper.
Raven’s Cliff Daily News. The bold black letters marched around the top of the paper. Raven’s Cliff? Where was that? She’d never heard of such a place.
The headline screamed in even bigger letters. Tragedy on Raven’s Cliff bluff—Bride Still Missing. She scanned the story quickly, shocked to read that a bride-to-be had fallen off some sort of bluff just moments before exchanging her wedding vows.
She glanced at the tiny print beneath the name of the paper, a startled gasp escaping her as she read the date, May 3.
May? How was that possible? The last thing she remembered was a day in October. Where had the months gone and why couldn’t she remember?
Maybe the newspaper was fake, one of those silly ones people could pay to have printed up. But why would somebody print up a paper detailing the tragedy of a bride falling off a cliff? Or maybe it was a paper from last May.
Frantic, she looked up as the man named Ryan and another tall blonde in a doctor’s coat entered the room. “Is this true?” she asked. “Is the date May third?”
“Hi, I’m Dr. Jamison.” The doctor pulled up the chair next to her bed and sat. “And yes, the date today is May third. What date did you think it was?”
Britta was afraid to answer, knowing that her reply would let the doctor know just how messed up she really was. “Halloween,” she said in a faint voice. “The last day that I remember was the day before Halloween.”
A wrinkle raced across Dr. Jamison’s forehead. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Of course. Britta Jakobsen. Now, please, tell me what’s happened. Why am I in the hospital? Have I been sick? Maybe in a coma?” That would explain the missing time.
“Last night I found you wandering the old lighthouse here in town. You were dressed in a white gown and were wearing a seashell necklace,” Ryan said. “You fainted and I brought you here.”
His words did nothing to alleviate the fear and confusion in her head. Wandering a lighthouse? What on earth was going on? “And where, exactly is here?”
“Raven’s Cliff Clinic,” the doctor replied. “In Raven’s Cliff, Maine.”
Maine? What was she doing here? She’d never been to Maine in her life. Her work, her apartment, everything she knew was in Boston. “Please, tell me what’s happened to me?” She looked at the doctor, then at Ryan, then back again to the doctor, a frantic panic surging up inside her.
Dr. Jamison frowned and reached out for her hand. She’d thought he’d meant to offer comfort, but instead he placed his fingertips against her rapidly beating pulse. “I can’t tell you what’s happened to bring you here, but I can tell you that your vital signs are all good. The tests we’ve run on you show no indication of trauma or illness. However, an initial toxicology screen showed something interesting.”
“Interesting how?” Ryan asked and took a step closer, and once again Britta was struck by the fact that the clean, but subtle spicy scent of his cologne seemed intimately familiar to her.
She wondered in the back of her mind how well they had known each other? But she couldn’t think about that right now. There were other, more-pressing issues to be concerned about, like what had happened to her and how she’d ended up in Raven’s Cliff, Maine.
The doctor looked at Ryan, then back at her. “There’s a privacy issue involved here. Would you prefer that Mr. Burton leave the room while I speak with you about your condition?”
Britta had no idea who Ryan Burton was and why he had apparently spent the night in her room, but the idea of him leaving her all alone scared her almost as much as anything the doctor might say to her.
“No. Whatever you have to say you can speak freely with Mr. Burton here,” she replied. Privacy be damned, she didn’t want to be alone.
Dr. Jamison released her hand and sat back in his chair. “I found traces in your system of a new designer drug that’s springing up in the area. I believe the street name for it is Stinging Flower.”
“That’s impossible,” Britta exclaimed. “I don’t take drugs.”
“There were three fresh injection sites on your thigh,” Dr. Jamison said. “If you didn’t willingly take it, then somebody gave it to you.”
“What is it? What does it do?” Ryan asked.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis for Britta. She’d lost seven months of her life, was in a town where she didn’t belong and had been injected with some kind of new drug. Tears pressed hotly at her eyes, but she swallowed against them, refusing to allow either man to see her cry.
“We don’t know a lot about it yet. All we know for sure is that the drug contains a derivative of the stinging cells of the anemone.”
“What’s an anemone?” Britta asked. She reached up and twisted a finger in a strand of her hair, the rhythmic motion somewhat calming.
“They’re sea animals that usually live on rocks and in the sand and look like