Kansas City Countdown. Julie Miller
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probably five or six years older than Keir, and had been his enemy in the courtroom. He had less in common with her than that Tammy Too-Young from the bar. But he couldn’t look at the tragedy that marred her beautiful face or the fear that darted in the corner of her eyes and not feel something. He covered her hands where she still held on to him and eased her back into the seat. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a jackass. But you’re the last person I expected to be helping tonight.”
“You don’t like me, do you?” She gave him a graceful out for that question by asking another. “You know who I am?”
“Yes, ma’am. Kenna Parker. You’re a criminal defense attorney.”
Her fingertips dug into the muscle beneath the cotton of his shirt, holding on when he would have pulled away. “How do you know? You said you couldn’t find my purse.”
She wanted to argue with him? Patience, Watson. The woman is scared. “You shredded a case of mine in court this afternoon. But I’m a cop before anything else. Now something terrible has happened to you tonight. I don’t know what exactly, but I’m going to help you.”
Her posture sagged, although her grip on him barely eased. He couldn’t tell if she was frightened or angry or some combination of both.
“Detective Watson. I don’t remember what happened to me tonight, much less this afternoon. I don’t know how I got into that alley. I don’t know why someone wanted to hurt me like this.
“I don’t even remember my name.”
Kenna Parker.
Shivering in an immodest gown in the sterile hospital air, she silently worked the name around her tongue and wondered if she was truly remembering her name or if she’d simply heard it said to her so many times over the past few hours that she was now accepting it as fact.
Kenna.
She was Kenna Parker. She’d been named after her late father, Kenneth. She was an only child, a surprise gift to older parents who’d never expected to have children at all. No one had told her that tonight—or make that the early hours of Saturday morning. Kenna breathed a cautious sigh of relief. She was remembering. Some of her life, at least—like the growing-up parts that did her no good answering questions from the clerk at the reception desk or the admitting nurse or the criminologist who’d scraped beneath her fingernails and taken pictures of her injuries before the attending physician went to work.
She couldn’t remember whether or not she was in a relationship. She couldn’t remember where she’d eaten dinner or even if she had eaten. And hard as she tried, she had absolutely no memory of being brutalized and left for dead, no image of her attacker haunting her thoughts. She had no memory of who hated her or something she represented or had done so much that splitting her head open and taking a sharp blade to the left side of her face seemed justifiable. The nicks on her hands, and the scrapes on her knee and foot, indicated she’d put up a fight. Surely she’d eventually remember a face or mask or height or voice or something if she’d done that kind of battle with her assailant.
But there was a black void in place of where any memory of the assault should be. Bits and pieces of her life before whatever had happened to her tonight were coming together like an old film reel being spliced together. Yet Kenna was afraid some parts of the movie would never be recovered. Even the last few hours after the assault were filled with holes. According to the doctor, scrambled brains were a side effect of the head trauma she’d received. Plus, he’d said that the amnesia could be psychological, as well—that whatever she’d been through had been so awful that her mind might be protecting her from the shock of remembering.
That didn’t seem right, though. She wasn’t sure why, but Kenna got the feeling from her defensive injuries, and her inability to relax until she figured out at least some part of what had happened to her, that she had a strong will to survive—that Kenneth Parker or someone in her past had taught her to think and fight, not surrender to a weakness like hysterical amnesia.
A glimpse of something sharp and silver glinted in the corner of her eye and Kenna shrieked. “Stop it!” Throwing up her hands, she snatched the man’s wrist to stop the sharp object coming at her face.
“Nurse.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Small hands tugged at her shoulder and Kenna twisted away. “Easy, Ms. Parker. We’re trying to help you.”
“Get away from me!” Kenna evaded the hands and shoved the weapon away, fighting to sit up.
“Kenna.” A firmer hand clasped her shoulder, refusing to be shrugged off. “You’re safe. I’ve got your back.”
Kenna froze at the deeply articulate male voice. She tilted her gaze to the dark-haired man with the badge and gun on his belt. Blue eyes. She knew those blue eyes. He was Detective...? The name that went with the piercing gaze escaped her for the moment. Still, she appreciated the clip of authority in his tone. If he said so, she believed he would keep her safe.
“The last thing we need is for her to panic. Isn’t that right, Doc?”
The other man chuckled beside her. “It’s never a good thing in the ER.”
Kenna turned to the gentler voice and looked into the black man’s warm brown eyes.
“That’s where you are now. St. Luke’s Hospital emergency room. You have a concussion, several abrasions and some deep cuts I’m in the process of treating now that I know what medications I can use.”
Kenna drew in a deep breath to calm the pulse pounding in her ears and nodded. She dropped her gaze to the plastic ID badge the doctor in the white lab coat wore around his neck. “Dr. McBride.” She realized she still had his forearm clenched between her hands and quickly opened her grip. “I’m sorry. I thought you were... That someone was... I don’t know what I thought.”
“Did you remember something about the attack?” Detective Blue Eyes asked. “Is the syringe significant?”
“There was no evidence of drugs in her preliminary blood work,” the doctor offered.
Keir nodded. “But there are some drugs that leave the system quickly.”
“That’s true. And I estimate these injuries occurred eight to ten hours ago.”
“I don’t think that’s it,” Kenna interrupted. “Something was coming at my face. I could see...” A black void filled the space where the memory should be. She shook her head. A syringe? She eyed the object in the doctor’s hand and frowned. She couldn’t have been cut with a syringe. Her focus narrowed to the tiny hash marks and numbers marking the syringe—3 ml. 2.5 ml. 2 ml. 1.5... A door slammed shut in her head and she wanted to scream.
So what did that mean? She tried to recall what it was that had triggered her panicked reaction. But when she closed her eyes to concentrate, she was greeted by the frightening abyss of her amnesia. Kenna quickly opened her eyes to focus on things she could recognize and shook her head. “Sorry. I’ve still got nothing.”
“Not to worry.” The detective pulled away, retreating to the doorway where he must have been waiting, out of the doctor’s and nurse’s way. “We’ll figure it out.”
“I hope you’re right.”
He winked. “I’m always right.”
His confidence surprised her for a moment before she felt a smile softening her bruised, swollen face. His roguish charm distracted her from her fears and gave her back some of her own confidence. “Then we’d better get to it. I’ll do my best not to freak out on anyone again.”
While the nurse tucked a warm blanket around her, Dr. McBride rolled his stool back to the examination table and pointed to the items on the stainless steel tray beside him as he explained the procedure. She watched him pick up the syringe