“Do you think he could be faking?”
I stiffened as I waited, listening intently for her answer. “I seriously doubt it,” Brenda finally said. “A lot of people come in here, starving, looking to get out of the elements and get a few days of food and a place to sleep. But he was clean and well-fed.”
“Could he be a meds seeker?”
Better and better. Now I’m a goddamned junkie.
“I don’t think so.” Her voice dropped lower. “He doesn’t belong here. And somebody out there has to be missing him.”
My brows slashed down. You’d think so.
“He keeps asking about a doctor on staff here. Claims they’re boyfriends.”
“Well?” The detective’s voice was expectant. “Where is this doctor?”
Brenda was briefly stupefied. “We didn’t tell him. Dr. Laurie has been on staff here for three years. Obviously, this man is mistaken.”
“Go get him,” the detective said, exasperation lacing her tone. Immediately, she shot up my list of favorites and surpassed Brenda. And pretty much everyone else I’d encountered since I’d opened my eyes. “If nothing else, this man might be a patient of the doctor and has his memories mixed up. Dr. Laurie can tell us if he recognizes our John Doe.”
“Joe Doe,” Brenda said, amused with herself.
“Whatever.” Clearly, the detective thought Brenda should skip open mic night, too.
I didn’t bother faking sleep as the detective strolled in. She was tall, around six feet, with dark curly hair pulled back into a bun and sharp, dark eyes that probably missed very little. She was dressed casually in gray slacks and a simple tucked black blouse. A badge and a gun were at her hip. The badge didn’t look like anything I’d seen before.
She sat in the visitor’s chair next to my bed and crossed her legs. From the cool look she leveled at me, I had a feeling she didn’t like my filed-down teeth or printless fingers any more than Dr. Michaels had.
“I’m Detective Myers. Glad to see you awake, Mr. Doe.” She pulled out her phone and scrolled to the notepad app. “I don’t suppose you can tell me what your real name is.”
“No. That’s kind of the first step in the amnesia handbook,” I said sourly.
She lifted an eyebrow. “So you’re sticking with the amnesia thing.”
“Pretty much.” I scowled at that perfectly arched eyebrow. “Sorry to inconvenience you, Detective….”
“Myers,” she reminded me.
“I knew that,” I snapped. My memory was about as fuzzy as a pair of retro, rearview mirror hanging dice, and it was wearing on my nerves. “If you don’t believe me, then why are you wasting my time? If I was truly faking, would I cop to anything?”
She stared at me for a few moments, and I wished I’d pretended to be asleep. Anything was better than being in the crosshairs of that intense gaze. “I’m sorry,” she finally allowed. “It’s just that I’ve never had an amnesia case before. I thought that was something that just happened on Days of Our Lives. Or to guilty defendants who want a walk.”
“Well, I’m certainly no actor.” I think. “And I’m not a guilty defendant either.” Again, I think. I cleared my throat. “Look, can we cut this short? I don’t know anything.”
“That’s not what you said before you blacked out. Someone dumped you right near the emergency room doors, just out of sight of the camera. You were half-delirious, but as they were wheeling you into surgery, you said someone was trying to kill you.”
Shit. The good news just kept on coming. I eyed her badge again. “What department did you say you were from?”
“I didn’t. Why don’t we try your name again?”
“Bartholomew Smith.” I smiled sanguinely. “My friends call me Bart.”
“Okay, Bartholomew.” Detective Myers wasn’t interested in my Facebook friend request. “Where do you live?”
I rattled off an address for the sheer joy of getting on her nerves. Why should I be the only one who was irritated enough to scream?
Her right eye twitched. “That would put you in the middle of Lake Huron.”
“Then I live on a barge.” I’d had enough of Detective Myers’s incessant questions. And her obvious belief that I was lying about everything.
She smiled tightly. “Well, you can just cool your heels until you feel a little chattier.”
I lifted my shackled wrist. Obviously. “Not going anywhere for a while?” I asked sarcastically.
“I’d curb that tongue if I were you. I happen to work for a department in the government who is extremely interested in your situation,” she informed me, pushing back her chair with a scrape against the floor. She stood and walked slowly over to my bedside. “So you’re not going anywhere until I say so.”
She was looming over me, and I wished I’d thought to raise the bed more. I fumbled for the remote and hit the up button. The bed began rising slowly, bringing me up at the speed of an extra from Night of the Living Dead. I didn’t expect a hydraulic lift, but this was kind of ridiculous. By the time I got fully upright, it would be nightfall. I pressed the button a few more times just because.
“Let’s try this again,” she said crisply. “What’s your real name?”
I’d opened my mouth to say something that would probably get my other wrist shackled. But then something in the doorway caught my eye—someone, rather. “Gray,” I breathed.
“Gray what?” she snapped.
Just…Gray. Every bit of irritation I’d been storing up for him fled as I drank in the welcome sight in my doorway. “Where the hell have you been?” I demanded, ignoring the detective entirely.
She glanced over at the door as Gray hovered. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to come any closer. “His name is Christian Cross,” he said. His voice was just as deep as I remembered.
I was so busy soaking him in that I almost missed his words. My name. Christian. I logged that in my brain’s exceptionally open hard drive. Right now, I had around 7.9 TB out of 8 TB free. Christian Cross, I repeated silently.
Detective Myers strode over to the door, and they began a hushed conversation. Unlike Nurse Brenda, Gray knew how to whisper, which was unfortunate. At least their quiet pow-wow gave me a chance to look him over without being noticed.
He looked different, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on why. His ash-blond hair was relatively long, and he’d pulled it back in his customary knot at the back of his head. It wasn’t an easy task containing all that wavy hair, and he had a habit of sticking things like pens in it, so his bun was always slightly messy. He was pale as ever, a direct result of a long winter and too much working inside. He’d always kept his beard, slightly darker than the hair on his head, short and trimmed, and that was the same, too.
Even the dark smudges under his eyes were familiar. His job was never-ending, and he carried a lot of responsibility on his shoulders. Honestly, I didn’t think he’d want it any other way. Gray had always gravitated toward responsibility like it was programmed into his genetic code. I think that originated from him taking care of his sisters when his mom left.