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“You remember me?”
I close my eyes and nod gently, and though my head aches, it’s not as bad as I thought it would be.
“I remember your voice. I knew you would make me safe.”
I jump when I feel his hand cover mine, my eyes opening again.
“I’ll always keep you safe, honey. Don’t worry about that.”
A knock on the door has him moving his hand away as he walks over to the door and opens it.
He steps back and lets two men in. I notice how similar the two of them are dressed. Nathan’s wearing dark jeans and a henley, but these guys are in dark suits. The tallest of the two men turns to the side, and that’s when I spot a badge clipped to his pants pocket.
“You’re police too?”
“FBI. I’m Special Agent Davis. This is Special Agent Jones. Can you tell us what you remember?”
I shake my head. “I don’t remember anything. I don’t even remember my name.”
Again, neither agent looks particularly surprised. Frustrated, sure, but not surprised.
What the hell is going on?
“Can someone tell me what happened to me?”
The two special agents look at each other before turning back to me. Agent Davis crosses his arms over his chest.
“I don’t want to influence your memories.”
“What memories? I have none. All I know is that I’m lying in a hospital bed, and you won’t tell me what happened.”
The door opens before anyone else can speak, and a young female doctor walks in, taking in the tension in the room before she turns and scowls at the agents.
“I told you when you asked that you could only speak to my patient when she was ready and if you kept her calm. We have no idea what effects this drug will have on her, and I will not have you upsetting my patient.”
“Drugs?” I whisper.
“She has important information that can help us catch a?—”
“If she doesn’t remember her name, then I doubt she remembers much else. Give her time. If you push too hard, you might do more harm than good,” the doctor warns.
The agents look like they want to argue, but think better of it.
“We’ll come back,” Agent Jones says, speaking for the first time. I can’t tell if that’s supposed to be a comfort or if it’s some kind of threat.
When the door closes behind them, the doctor sighs. “Damn Feds.”
“They’re just doing their job, doc,” Nathan says as the doctor shoves her stethoscope in her ears and places the other end just under my collarbone.
“And I’m just doing mine. All I care about right now is ensuring my patient is healthy.”
The doctor looks up at me and smiles gently. “I’m just going to listen to your chest,” she tells me, as if talking to an animal she’s afraid of spooking, before she moves the stethoscope to another spot.
“Your scans all look good. There is some fluid in your lungs, but we are treating that with antibiotics, and you’ll be happy to know your ribs aren’t broken. We think the bruising has more to do with whatever you were lying on than sustaining an injury.
“You have some bruising, as well as cuts and abrasions on your hands and arms, most likely defensive wounds, but most are superficial. All in all, you’re a very lucky woman.”
“I don’t feel very lucky,” I admit.
