Running on Empty. Michelle Celmer

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      Pain, sharp and relentless, lanced the back of her head, pounded through her brain like a jackhammer and wrapped itself around her eyeballs. She tried to lift her lids, but piercing white light seared her retinas.

      “That’s it,” a voice said. It sounded distant, muffled. “Open your eyes.”

      “Too bright,” she muttered, nearly choking on her own words. Her mouth felt funny, as if it had been stuffed with cotton.

      “Why don’t we try sitting you up a little.” There was a humming sound, and she felt herself rising, as if some invisible force held her suspended in midair. Maybe she was dead. There had been a bright light.

      Nah. Heaven wouldn’t smell like rubbing alcohol. And it wouldn’t be so loud. All around her she heard the drone of muffled voices, odd beeps and bleeps, the thud of footsteps. Did people in heaven even have feet?

      She tried to swallow, but her tongue felt thick and sticky. “Water?” she croaked, her voice sounding coarse and unfamiliar.

      A straw touched her lips but she sucked a bit too enthusiastically. The shock of the cold liquid made her gag and choke. Water spewed from her mouth and dribbled down her chin.

      That must have been attractive. When she was able to speak, she would have to apologize to whoever it was she’d just sprayed. With caution, she forced her lids open, blinking several times to clear her vision, and found herself gazing into a pair of deep-set, chocolate brown eyes.

      “Want to try that again?” he asked, holding up a plastic cup. His deep voice enfolded her like soft flannel, and any apprehension she’d been feeling melted away.

      Entranced, she nodded and he lifted the cup, holding the straw to her lips.

      “Take it slow this time.”

      She sucked in a few drops, rolling it around on her tongue before letting it slide down her throat. Much better. She sipped slowly on the straw, and all the while he kept those dark, watchful eyes trained on her. When she’d had enough, he set the cup on the tray beside her bed.

      Bed? The haze in her peripheral vision cleared and her surroundings came into focus. “Where am I?”

      “In the hospital. You were attacked. Do you remember what happened?”

      “Attacked?” She tried to lean forward and was stopped short by a stab of pain at the base of her skull. She winced, squeezing her lids together.

      He curled one large hand over her shoulder and pressed her back against the mattress. “Relax, you’ve got a pretty good lump on the back of your head.”

      That would explain the excruciating pain. She reached up to touch it, but tangled herself in her IV lines instead.

      “Here, let me.” Though his voice held a note of irritation and his eyes mirrored the emotion, his touch was undeniably gentle as he unwrapped the tubes from her fingers. When she was free, she reached up, grazing the small bandage taped to the back of her head. Considering the pain, she’d expected to find half her skull gone. This didn’t seem so bad.

      “Did you see who hit you?”

      She shook her head, regretting the move instantly, as another wave of nauseating pain swept through her. “I don’t remember being hit.”

      His face grim, he perched on the edge of her bed, and produced a small notepad out of the dark leather jacket he wore. Everything about him was dark. Dark clothes, dark hair, dark eyes. Even his expression was dark. “You were found with no identification. If you give me your name and number I’ll call your family.”

      She must have looked confused, because he added, “I’m Detective Mitch Thompson. Twin Oaks P.D.”

      “Twin Oaks?” she asked and he flashed her a badge. Twin Oaks, Michigan. Why didn’t that sound familiar?

      “If you’ll just give me your name.”

      “My name?”

      “Yes, your name,” he said. “I need to contact your family. They’re probably worried about you.”

      “Right.” Her family would be worried, wouldn’t they? She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing happened. No name popped out.

      She tried again, but still, nothing.

      She looked down at the band on her wrist. Jane Doe. No, that wasn’t right. She swallowed hard, a cold, itchy panic churning her belly. She tried again to summon a name, a mental picture of herself, but there was nothing there. No names, no familiar faces. No family.

      Nothing.

      This was all wrong. She clutched the thin blanket, willing her brain to work harder, to concentrate past the frantic thumping of her heart. The rush of blood echoed in her ears like static on a radio. If she could just turn the dial, adjust the frequency…

      But there was nothing. It was as if a hole had been punched in her memory and her identity had just…leaked out.

      “Are you okay?” Detective Thompson was on his feet. “Maybe I should get a doctor.”

      She thrust her arm out, clutching the sleeve of his jacket, oblivious to the pain the action induced. He was the only thing familiar, the only thing that felt real. “Don’t leave me alone.”

      “Relax.” He eased himself down, covering her hand with his own, prying it from his sleeve. His hand was warm and soft, comforting to the smallest degree. “If you tell me who you are, I can call your family.”

      “Family?” The panic rose, filling her throat with bile and gagging her. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. Did she have a family? Wouldn’t she remember them?

      A frown darkened his face even more. “Who are you afraid of? Did someone you know hurt you?”

      Someone she knew? But, she didn’t know anyone.

      “Do you know who did this? Don’t be afraid. I can protect you.”

      “I—I can’t tell you,” she said. Hearing the words, in a voice so foreign it should have belonged to a stranger, sent an icy chill up her spine. Bile surged up, until she had to fight to keep it down.

      “Why can’t you tell me?”

      “Because, I—I don’t know who I am.”

      Chapter 2

      Mitch pulled on the hospital scrubs the nurse had given him and shoved his soiled clothes into a plastic bag. In the span of about four hours he’d been bled on, spit on and puked on. It was all a part of the job, although he didn’t typically encounter such a variety of bodily functions in one night. And he still had no identity on Jane Doe or the slightest clue who attacked her. No evidence had been found at the crime scene and no one shopping or working in the store had seen or heard a thing. As Greene had predicted, the security tape quality was very poor so they doubted a positive ID would be possible. It didn’t look like the victim was going to be much help, either.

      He strapped on his СКАЧАТЬ