Hidden in Plain View. Diane Burke
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cloth sling.
I’ve injured my arm. But how? Why can’t I remember? And why do I feel so scared?
She took a deep breath.
Don’t panic. Take your time. Think.
Once more she inhaled, held it for a second, and forced herself to ever so slowly release it. Repeating the process a couple more times helped her regain a sense of calm.
Okay. She could do this.
She opened her eyes and stared into the darkness.
“Sarah?”
Sarah? Is that my name?
Why can’t I remember?
Her heart almost leaped from her chest when one of the shadows moved.
The man had been leaning against the wall. She hadn’t seen him standing in the shadows until he stepped forward. He obviously wasn’t a doctor. His garb seemed familiar yet somehow different. He wore black boots, brown pants held up with suspenders and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He carried a straw hat.
“I thought I heard you stirring.” He approached her bed and leaned on the side rail. She found the deep timbre of his voice soothing.
The faint glow from the overhead night-light illuminated his features. She stared at his clean-shaven face, the square jaw, the tanned skin, his intense brown eyes. She searched for some form of recognition but found none.
“I’m glad you’re awake.” He smiled down at her.
She tried to speak but could only make hoarse, croaking sounds.
“Here, let me get you something to drink.” He pushed a button, which raised the head of her bed. He lifted a cup and held it to her lips. There was something intimate and kind in the gesture, and although she didn’t recognize this man, she welcomed his presence.
Gratefully, she took a sip, enjoying the soothing coolness of the liquid as it slid over her parched lips and trickled down her throat. When he moved the cup away, she tried again.
“Who...who are you?”
His large hand gently cupped her fingers. She found the warmth of his touch comforting. His brown shaggy hair brushed the collar of his shirt. Tiny lines crinkled the skin at the sides of his eyes.
“My name is Samuel, and I’m here to help you.”
Her throat felt like someone had shredded her vocal cords. Her mouth was so dry that even after the sip of water, she couldn’t gather enough saliva for a good spit. When she did speak, her voice reflected the strain in a hoarse, barely audible whisper.
“Where... What...” She struggled to force the words out.
“You’re in a hospital. You’ve been shot.”
Shot!
No wonder she had felt so afraid when he’d moved out of the shadows. She might not remember the incident, but some inner instinct was still keeping her alert and wary of danger.
“Can you tell me what you remember?” There was kindness in his eyes and an intensity that she couldn’t identify.
She shook her head.
“Do you remember being in the schoolhouse when the gunman entered? Did you get a good look at him?”
Schoolhouse? Gunman?
Her stomach lurched, and she thought she was going to be sick. Slowly, she moved her head back and forth again.
“How about before the shooting? Your husband was inside the building constructing bookshelves. Do you remember bringing a basket of treats for the children?”
His words caused a riotous tumble of questions in her mind. She had a husband? Who was he? Where was he? She tried to focus her thoughts. This man just told her she’d been shot inside a school. Had anyone else been hurt? Hopefully, none of the children.
“Hus...husband?”
“Sarah. There’s no easy way to tell you. Your husband was killed in the shooting.”
The room started to spin. Sarah squeezed her eyes shut.
“I’m so sorry. I wish there had been an easier way to break the news.” His deep, masculine voice bathed her senses with sympathy and helped her remain calm. “I hate to have to question you right now, but time is of the essence.” The feel of his breath on her cheek told her he had stepped closer. “I need you to tell me what you remember—what you saw that day, before things other people tell you cloud your memories.”
A lone tear escaped and coursed its way down her cheek at the irony of it all.
“Can you tell me anything about that day?” he prodded. “Sometimes the slightest detail that you might think is unimportant can turn into a lead. If you didn’t see the shooter’s face, can you remember his height? The color of his skin? What he wore? Anything he might have said?”
He paused, giving her time to collect her thoughts, but only moments later the questions came again.
“If you don’t remember seeing anything, use your other senses. Did you hear anything? Smell anything?”
She opened her eyes and stared into his. “I told you.” She choked back a sob. “I can’t...can’t remember. I can’t remember anything at all.”
His wrinkled brow and deep frown let her know this wasn’t what he had expected.
“Maybe you should rest now. I’ll be back, and we can talk more later.”
Sarah watched him cross to the door. Once he was gone, she stared at her hand and wondered why the touch of a stranger had made her feel so safe.
* * *
Sam stood in the corridor and tried to collect his thoughts.
Sarah.
He hadn’t expected to be so touched by her unfortunate circumstances. He had a policy to never let emotions play a part when he was undercover or protecting a witness. Sarah Lapp was a job, nothing more, and he had no business feeling anything for her one way or the other.
But he had to admit there was something about her. He’d been moved by the vulnerability he saw in her face, the fear he read in her eyes. She was terrified. Yet she had stayed calm, processing everything he had to tell her with quiet grace.
She’d been visibly upset when Sam had told her about the shooting. She’d seemed shocked when he informed her that her husband had been killed. But learning that she had had a husband at all seemed to affect her the most.
He hadn’t had an opportunity yet to talk with Sarah’s doctors about the full extent of her injuries. Was she really suffering from memory loss, and if so, was it a temporary setback or a permanent situation?
Sam often relied heavily on his gut. His instincts this time were warning him that he had just stepped into a much more complicated situation than he had first thought.
He needed to talk with the doctor.
When he glanced down the hall, he saw Dr. Clark, as well as several members of the police force, including his superior, with three Amish men in tow. Dr. Clark ushered the entire group into a nearby conference room and gestured for Sam to join them.
Once inside, Sam crossed the room and leaned against the far wall. He saw the men shoot furtive glances his way and knew they were confused by his Amish clothing.
He didn’t blame them. He was disconcerted by it, too. He hadn’t donned this type of clothing for fifteen years. Yet his fingers never hesitated when he fastened the suspenders. The straw hat had rested upon his head like it was meant to be there.
Jacob Lapp, identifying himself as the bishop of their community and acting as spokesperson for their group, addressed Captain Rogers.
“We do not understand,