We’re not even in a particularly great part of the city.
The run-down building has cracks through the bricks, and the steps of the stoop have chips on the right side where the handrail has gone missing.
Brady hops out as soon as she confirms the address and opens her door to the sidewalk. Not sure what to do, I scramble to pull a card out of my briefcase and lean toward the opening. “Here’s my number.”
When she turns back to take it, I add, “If you need anything, anything at all, just call or text.”
“Thanks.” A half-hearted smile peters out before it has a chance to bloom. She tucks the card in her pocket and takes a deep, stuttering breath as if she struggles to keep herself together.
That’s when I catch her eyes beginning to water. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Thank you again.” The door closes, and she walks away, leaving me no option to say more.
The whole situation is fucked up, so I shouldn’t be bothered by this goodbye. She doesn’t owe me anything. I’m just the stranger who stepped in, not her knight in shining armor, for fuck’s sake.
Yet when Brady shifts the Escalade into drive, the sound of the tires grinding against the rubble in the streets, I realize the universe is conspiring against me regarding the Reinhold case.
I should be heading to court or, at the very least, checking in with Leisa to see where the date stands or if the judge granted us another hearing time. Yet that’s not what I do. I slide across the seat and look at the letters hung above the door. All Welcome Shelter of New York.
I pop open the door just before Brady drives forward.
“What are you doing?” he asks, slamming on his brakes.
Without a bag or money, a phone or a friend, Tuesday stands on the sidewalk looking up at the building before her. Nothing about this feels right. And if I gauge my future actions by my past with her, I refuse to leave her here to fend for herself. “Tuesday?”
Her expensive and sky-high heels plant among broken glass on the dirty sidewalk, and her coat doesn’t look like she’s worn it before yesterday.
The wind catches her coat, the front flapped open. Instead of the silk top she was wearing yesterday, she’s in a faded hospital gown tucked into her skirt. What’s really going on? “Why did you want to be dropped off here?”
Glass scrapes against concrete under her designer heels when she turns to find me standing here. “This is where the hospital coordinator told me to come since I have nowhere else to go.”
“I don’t understand. Why don’t you go home?” I thumb toward the SUV now parked at the curb. “I can take you anywhere you want. I can take you home.”
The water in her eyes from earlier has formed tears in the corners that fall down her cheeks. “I don’t know where I live, Loch.”
I narrow my eyes, more confused than ever. “What do you mean?”
“I can’t remember anything.”
My mouth falls open, but I close it to ask, “Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
. . . I didn’t see that coming.
4
Tuesday
Fear had just settled in along with a heavy dose of reality when someone said, “Tuesday.”
Tuesday.
Tuesday . . .
Not a fiber of my being reacts when someone calls that name in my direction. Worrisome, but something about it must fit since that’s what everyone calls me. Apparently, that’s what I also used for my coffee order before I was attacked. But that name doesn’t feel like mine, and that’s a problem. More than not knowing my own name though, I have bigger and more pressing concerns at the moment.
I have no money.
No credit cards.
No phone.
No identification.
No address.
Nothing but this designer coat, a skirt too tight to be comfortable wearing for long, and pencil-style four-inch heels that not only are a perfect nude shade but also designer. Fancy. But impossible to wear if I’m walking far.
Although my blouse had blood along with some black stains, it was ripped yesterday and replaced by a hospital gown, which I fashioned into a top to wear today. Not so fancy.
At my urging, Nurse Belinda researched the brands to see if anything would bring back a memory. The designers themselves didn’t, but I’ve been stuck in shock by the sticker prices. How did I afford an outfit that cost the equivalent of a mortgage?
Who am I?
“You don’t know who you are?” Loch asks, standing close but also giving me space.
I stare at him, noting how the sun chose his eyes to set in. Who can blame the sun? Not me. I’m just as drawn to the golden coloring that sparks like fire in the chestnut centers. I move slightly closer to steal some of the heat radiating off this ridiculously handsome man.
Whoever I was yesterday, I knew exactly what I was doing by choosing to talk to him. A rogue section of hair has escaped what looks to be a style he tried to control, yet it only adds to his attractiveness. Now, finding myself staring purely for pleasure, I can only imagine how stunning his parents must be to have produced a modern-day Greek god straight out of mythology.
I can’t deny the man also knows how to fill out a suit. A tailored midnight-blue suit with a crisp white shirt and black tie only adds to his appeal. I’d like to think I’m above leveling another person to nothing more than some sexy savior, but clearly, I’m not. Loch Westcott is the kind of hero I wouldn’t kick out of bed for eating crackers. The crumbs would totally be worth it.
Wonder if he’s the type to eat crackers for a late-night snack . . .
“Tuesday?”
There’s that name again . . . “Sorry, I got lost in thought.” He has my mind tumbling into the gutter when I need to focus on what I’m supposed to do with my life while I try to figure out who I am and where I belong.
Loch’s expression contorts as if I’m a New York Times crossword puzzle he can’t figure out. I get it. I feel just as confused.
Clearing my throat, I use the distraction to stop myself from staring at him, and reply, “I guess I’m Tuesday.”
The corners of his eyes soften though I don’t mind the whiskers that have started digging into his skin there. It’s really unfair that men age so handsomely.
“At least that’s the name you told the barista, and what everyone has been calling you.”
My bones stiffen in defense, and I shift my weight to my right foot, unsure what to say or do, and still wondering why he’s here. It seems like I don’t have anyone else, but why is this stranger so interested in me? “Why are you here, Loch?”
“Because I can’t leave you—”
“Leave me? I thought we just met yesterday?”
“We did.”
I swing my hand in front of me and then flip it over. “A chance encounter at a coffee shop doesn’t make me your responsibility. You don’t know me much less owe me anything. You’ve already done so much, too much.”
“Just because we don’t know each other doesn’t mean I can leave you to fend for yourself. Your bag was stolen, and you don’t remember anything. You have a concussion and amnesia.”
He’s said the word I’ve been avoiding. At some point, it had become unavoidable. That point is now. “I do have amnesia.” I feel nauseous. I wrap my arm over my stomach, realizing saying it makes it reality.