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She narrowed her eyes, trying to remember. Alas, she couldn’t. “No. Did we catch the suspect?”
Remy sighed. “Yes.”
“Have I been in the hospital all this time?” she asked.
“No. You were fine after the storm. Two days ago, you were in the bayou looking for evidence of drug running.” He tipped his head. “Any of that ring a bell?”
She shook her head, her breath catching in her chest. “I don’t remember. Is that when the accident happened?”
Remy nodded. “Only it wasn’t an accident, based on what the sheriff reported. You were found by J.D. LaRue, lying on the hull of your overturned boat, unconscious.
Shelby’s heart hammered in her chest. “I dreamed I was swimming in dark water…” she whispered.
He squeezed her hand gently. “You probably were. You had to for you to get yourself up onto the hull.”
A frown pinched her forehead. “How could my boat have overturned?”
“From what the sheriff described, someone rammed your boat hard enough to flip it, and then they road up onto the hull, smashing it down in the water.”
Shelby’s eyes widened. “Holy shit. That was no accident.”
“That’s not all,” he continued. “After you were brought to the hospital, someone sneaked into your room and tried to smother you.”
Shelby pressed a hand to her chest, her heart beating so fast it felt like it would leap out of her chest. “Double holy shit.”
“Yeah,” he said, his mouth set in a grim line. “That’s when your sister called me.”
Shelby shook her head. “What kind of hornet’s nest did I stir up?”
“That’s what we all want to know,” he said.
The door opened, and a man in a white coat entered. “Ah. Good.” He smiled and crossed to Shelby. “I’m glad to see you’re awake. I’m Doctor Richards.”
The blood pressure cuff chose that moment to inflate around her arm, squeezing it hard.
Shelby lay still while the cuff did its thing, and the doctor checked her online chart. When the cuff released, she let go of the breath she’d been holding.
The doctor leaned over her and shined his penlight into her eyes. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I lost my mind,” she admitted. “At least a portion of it. I can’t remember what happened for—” she leaned around to look at Remy, “how long did you say?”
“Almost a month,” Remy supplied.
“It’s not unusual to have amnesia after a head injury,” Dr. Richards said in a calm tone.
“Will I get those memories back?” Shelby asked.
“Maybe,” the doctor said. “It might be temporary. As the brain heals, the memories could return.”
Shelby frowned. “What if they don’t?”
“Then you might have Dissociative Amnesia where your brain blocks out information surrounding the traumatic event,” Dr. Richards said. “Kind of the brain’s way of protecting you from reliving that trauma. In which case, you should seek a mental health provider to help you work through the trauma.”
Shelby sank back against the pillow. “I don’t like that I can’t remember weeks of my life.”
Dr. Richards smiled reassuringly. “Your family and friends can help you fill in the gaps until your memory returns.”
Shelby snorted. “Not the gap that includes who attacked me in the first place.”
