Without a word, he holds up a small bag with a necklace in it. Even in the muted fluorescent lighting above, the stones sparkle like stars. “We had these diamonds inspected. Whoever bought this isn’t hurting for cash,” Sheriff Welles says.
“I don’t know who that would be,” I answer honestly. Is that person me? Am I wealthy? Or is the person who gave that to me rich? Who would have given that to me? The father of my lost child, perhaps? Where is he now? I instinctively glance at my hands. At the fingertips that reach out from one end of my cast, the remnants of my red nail polish still visible though my nails are badly broken. Half of my pinky nail has torn off. If I look very carefully, I think I can make out a tan line on the third finger of my right hand. “Was I wearing a ring?”
“Why do you ask? Do you remember wearing a ring?” His voice has dropped an octave, almost lulling. As if he’s hoping to coax an answer out of me.
I frown. “No. I just . . . If I was pregnant, does that mean I’m married?” Did I walk down an aisle in a white dress and profess my love to someone? Am I even old enough to be married?
“This was the only piece of jewelry that we found on you,” Sheriff Welles confirms.
“Could my ring have been stolen?”
“I can’t say for sure, but my experience tells me that, had this been a robbery-motivated attack, they would not have left this necklace behind.”
Not robbery.
If not that, then why?
Why?
Why would someone do this to me?
Dr. Alwood and Sheriff Welles sit and wait while a thousand questions flood my mind and tears of fear and frustration burn my eyes. I gather they’re waiting for me to be struck by an epiphany thanks to a couple of plastic bags stuffed with bloody clothes and jewels. They don’t seem to understand, though. My memory—my life—isn’t simply riddled with holes. It has been sucked into a black hole, leaving nothing but this battered husk behind, my mind spinning but unable to gain traction.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I burst out with, “I’m not lying! I don’t remember who I am!”
A wisp of a sigh escapes the sheriff as he drops the jewelry back into the bag, his gaze touching Dr. Alwood’s eyes in the process, an unreadable communication between them. “Okay, Jay—” He cuts himself off.
“It’s okay; you can call me that,” I mutter through a sniffle. I’ve overheard the nurses referring to me as “JD” a few times and, when I finally asked Dr. Alwood about it, she admitted with a grimace that it stands for “Jane Doe.” Because that’s who I am now.
Jane Doe.
Apparently that’s not just reserved for people with toe tags.
He pauses, settling his stern gaze on me. “I wish I had more to tell you about what happened, but I don’t. We believe that you were dumped in the location where we found you. Where you were attacked, I can’t say. We’ve canvassed the area for clues, but nothing’s come up. We don’t even have good tire tracks to work with; the fresh snowfall covered them. No witnesses have come forward yet and no one has filed a missing person’s report that matches your case. I have my men scouring the database.”
He sighs. “The rape test returned no results. There were no DNA matches in there. Dr. Alwood was able to order a DNA test on your unborn fetus. Again, results did not match anything in the database.”
I guess that means that the father wasn’t a criminal. At least there’s that. “So . . . that’s it?”
His jaw tightens and then he offers me only a curt nod.
My eyes drift away from both of them to the window across from me, the sky beyond painted a deceptively cheerful blue. The small television mounted on the wall is still on—I fell asleep watching it—and showing a news broadcast. Yellow caution tape circles a gas station. A caption flashes along the bottom, calling for witnesses.
And a thought hits me. “Was my story on the news?”
“No.” Sheriff Welles’s head shakes firmly. “I’ve kept this story away from the media.” He adds in a low mutter, “God knows they’d love to have it.”
“But maybe it would reach my . . . family?” The family who hasn’t filed a report yet?
“Yes, maybe. Maybe it’ll also reach the person who attacked you. Do you want him to know that you survived?”
A cold wave rushes through me as Dr. Alwood snaps, “Gabe!”
His mouth purses together but he presses on. “Reporters will sensationalize this story. They’ll want pictures of your face. They’ll want to post details of your attack. Do you want that all over the news?”
“No.” My eyes dart to the door as a spark of panic hits me. “You don’t think he’d come here for me, do you?” Maybe he already has. Maybe my attacker has already stood there, watching me as I’ve slept. I shiver against the icy chill that courses through my body with the thought.
“I think he assumes you died and your remains would be dragged off by a mountain lion or wolves before they were discovered,” he assures me, his words offering little comfort. “That old tannery building probably hasn’t had a visitor in over a year.”
“How’d you find me, then?”
“Sheer luck,” he answers without missing a beat. “I have a police officer stationed outside your door just as a precaution. We’ll keep you safe. If you do remember something, no matter how small, please let either Dr. Alwood or me know immediately.” The way he names himself and the doctor—slowly and precisely—I get the distinct impression that he meant to swap “either” for “only.”
With my reluctant nod, he heads toward the door.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” Dr. Alwood says. I watch her trail Sheriff Welles out to stand behind my door. Thanks to the window, I can see them exchanging words, their lips moving fast, their foreheads pulled tight. Neither seems happy. And then Sheriff Welles leans forward to place a quick peck on Dr. Alwood’s cheek before disappearing from my view.
Suddenly the slips of “Gabe” and the terse tone you wouldn’t expect a doctor to use with the sheriff make sense.
“Are you two married?” I ask the second Dr. Alwood pushes back through the door, glancing down to see that her fingers are free of any jewelry.
“For twenty-nine years. Some days being married to the town sheriff is easy, and . . .” she collects my chart from the side table and hangs it back on the end of my bed, a corner of her mouth kicking up in a tiny smirk, “other days, not so much.”
I think about that extravagant necklace I was wearing, and the ring that I was not. “I guess I wasn’t married to the father of my baby.” Had I been happy when I found out I was pregnant? Was the father happy? Did he even know?
Is he the one who did this to me?
Dr. Alwood heaves a sigh as she begins pushing buttons on the heart rate monitor. The lights dim. “Your heart is strong. We don’t need this anymore.” With cool hands, she peels the various electrodes from my chest, my arms, and my thighs, as she explains, “It isn’t uncommon to see patients with amnesia after a brain injury. It’s more commonly anterograde versus retrograde, but . . .” She must see the confusion on my face because she quickly clarifies, “You’re more likely to struggle with your short-term memory than long-term memory. And, when it is retrograde, the gaps are usually spotty, or isolated to specific events. It’s extremely rare to see a complete lapse in memory like yours, especially one that lasts this long. Your tests have come back showing normal brain activity and no permanent damage.”
I feel the pull against the raw scar on the side of my face as I frown. If it’s not brain injury, then . . . “What does that mean?”
“I think it may be psychological.”
“What does that mean?” Is the doctor saying I’m crazy?
“It means that whatever happened was traumatic enough to make you want to forget everything about your life.” Her eyes drift over my body. “Given what I’ve seen, I can believe it. But on a positive note, you’re more than likely to overcome this. Brain injuries tend to have long-lasting effects.”