Page 17 of A Future To Remember

“Anything about what I told you jar a memory?”

“No. But . . .”

“But what?”

“When I was on the floor in the bathroom, Dixon said, ‘I got you,’ and I felt like someone had told me that before, but not in a good way.”

“Then, what kind of way?”

“Like, an evil ‘Got you!’ kind of way.”

Cash nodded, but then he changed the subject, probably out of fear I’d have another panic attack. “I talked to Wanda yesterday—”

“Wanda?” He’d said that like I should know who that was.

“Sorry, Wanda Bigelow. She owns Wanda’s Diner here in town.”

“Ahh, yeah, I remember. Wanda who’s married to Poor Hank.”

Cash pointed a finger gun and made a clicking sound with his tongue. “She’s got an apartment above the diner. She used to live there, but now that she’s married to Hank, it’s sitting empty.

“There’s not much to it, but it’s got a bed, a sofa, and a bathroom with a shower.”

“Sounds delightful,” I said, being careful to remove any hint of sarcasm from my voice.

“She says you can stay there rent-free as long as you’re willing to put in some time at the diner. The waitress who’s been working there for the past six years just quit, and Wanda could sure use the help. She can’t put you on the payroll because you don’t have a Social Security number, but she said you could keep whatever tips you earn.”

“I’ll take it,” I said quickly. A free place to stay and a job? Sign me up!

Cash grinned. I could tell he was happy to have played broker in the deal.

I looked down at myself and asked, “Did anyone wash my clothes? I don’t want to put them on if they’re caked in blood.”

“You can’t have your clothes back, Maddy. Sorry. I’ve sent them off to Boise to have the blood further analyzed and the DNA tested. Their crime lab is really backed up, so we won’t have any results for a couple of months, but I’m hoping that maybe you or the unknown person whose blood was on your clothes might give us some clues.”

“I’m AB negative,” I said…like I knew it for certain. My breath caught when I realized what I’d just said and I stared up at Cash, who looked just as surprised as I felt.

“You remember?” he asked.

I nodded, then shook my head. “It just…it just came out of my mouth. I didn’t even think about it. I just blurted it out.”

Cash scratched the side of his cheek. He had a dark shadow there that was well past the five o’clock stage. Taking out a small notebook from the back pocket of his jeans and a pen from the pocket of his shirt, he handed both to me and said, “Let’s try an experiment then. Don’t think, just try signing your name.”

I set down the notebook and stared at the blank page, holding the pen for a long moment while I tried to blank my mind and call up the muscle memory that would simply squiggle my autograph onto the page.

The slightest of movements got me exited. I closed my eyes, hesitating while I fought to let go of the feeling that Cash was studying my every move, then scrawled something onto the page. Opening my eyes, I tried to read it.

“This isn’t my full signature,” I explained. “I felt too self-conscious at the beginning, so I just focused on starting in the middle, and this is what came out.”

Cash leaned over to look at my scrawl. “Hmm,” he said. “I can’t make it out.”

“I think that’s a G.” I pointed to the first letter. “And I think that’s an L.”

“Is that an R?” he asked, pointing the last one.

I squinted. “Yeah, I think it is! “And that might be an E?”

Frustrated, I hovered the pen back over the paper and tried to repeat the signature, but an even worse scrawl came out. I knew I was pushing too hard for the memory, and when I looked at the second attempt, it looked less like a signature and more like a cardiogram.