Burying Water, Page 2

  Her barrage of questions only makes my heart rate spike and the annoying EKG ramp up again. I can’t answer a single one of them. Is anyone missing me right now? Are they searching for me? Am I from Bend, Oregon, or do I live somewhere else?

  Dr. Alwood sits quietly, waiting, as I focus on a small yellow splotch on the ceiling. That’s water damage. How can I recognize that and not my own name?

  “Even a tiny detail?” she presses, the urgency in her voice soft and pleading.

  “No.” There’s nothing.

  I remember nothing at all.

  THREE

  Jesse

  then

  There are a lot of things I don’t like about Portland.

  The rain tops the list.

  Scratch that. Driving in the rain tops the list. It’s usually just a dreary never-ending drizzle, but once in a while the skies open up for an especially heavy downpour. The shitty old Toyota I bought for five hundred bucks doesn’t deal well with that weather, the engine randomly sputtering and cutting out like it’s drowning. I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to fix the problem.

  September was a heavy month for rain. It looks like October is competing for a record, too, because it’s pouring again tonight. It’s only a matter of time before the car gives out on me, right here in the middle of this deserted road. Then I’ll be just like the poor sucker on the shoulder up ahead, his hazards flashing.

  Even though I’ve already made my mind up to keep moving, when I realize it’s a BMW Z8, my foot eases off the gas pedal. I’ve never seen one in real life before. Probably because there are only a few thousand in the entire country and each one would go for a pretty penny. It’s rare and it’s fucking gorgeous.

  And it has a flat tire.

  “Nope.” Changing tires in the rain sucks. That rich bastard can wait for roadside assistance to come save him. I’m sold on that plan until my headlights catch long blond hair in the driver’s side. Twenty feet past, my conscience takes over and I can’t help but brake. “Shit,” I mutter, pulling off to the shoulder and slowly backing up.

  No one’s getting out, but if she’s alone, she’s probably wary. With a loud groan, I step out into the rain, yanking the hood of my gray sweatshirt up over my head. I jog over to the passenger-side window. Growing up with a sheriff as a father, you learn never to stand on the road, even if there isn’t a car in sight. People get clipped all the time.

  I knock against the glass.

  And wait.

  “Come on . . .” I mutter, my head hung low, the rain pounding on my back feeling like a cold hose bath. It can’t be more than 40 degrees out here. Another five seconds and I’m leaving her here.

  Finally the window cracks open, just enough for me to peer through. She’s alone in the car. It’s dark, but I’m pretty sure I see tears. I definitely see smeared black makeup. And her eyes . . . They glisten with fear. I don’t blame her. She’s driving a high-priced car and she’s sitting alone out here after eleven at night. And now there’s a guy in a hoodie hanging outside her window. I adjust my tone accordingly. “Do you need help?”

  I hear her swallow hard before answering, “Yes. I do.” She sounds young, but it’s hard to tell with some women.

  “Have you called Triple-A?”

  She hesitates and then shakes her head.

  Okay . . . not very talkative. She smells incredible, though, based on the flowery perfume wafting out of her car. Incredible and rich. “Your spare’s in the trunk?”

  “I . . . think so?”

  I sigh. Looks like I’m changing a tire in the pouring rain after all. “Okay. Pop your trunk and I’ll see what I can do. Stay in here.”

  I round the car. Beneath half a dozen shopping bags and under the trunk floor, I find the spare tucked away. Running back to get my jack and flashlight out of my car—I use my own tools whenever I can—I settle down by the back corner of the Z8, happy for the dead roads. Not one vehicle has passed since I stopped.

  The BMW is jacked and the lug nuts are off when the driver’s door opens. “I’ll have this changed in another two minutes!” I holler, gently pulling the rim off. “You should stay inside.”

  The door slams shut—I cringe, you don’t slam anything on a car like this!—and then heels click on the pavement as she comes around to stand next to me. The rain suddenly stops pelting my back. “Is that better?” she asks in a soft voice.

  I don’t need to glance up to know that there’s an umbrella hovering over me. “You’re not from Portland, are you?” I mumble with a smile. Neither am I, technically, but I’ve learned to adapt in the four years that I’ve lived here. Part of that is knowing that no guy in Portland would be caught dead using an umbrella. Neither would most women, actually. We’d rather duck our head and get wet than be labeled a wuss. Smart? No.

  “No, not originally.”

  I yank the tire off and roll it to the side. That’s when my eyes get caught up in a pair of long, bare legs right beside me, covered in goose bumps from the cold. Forcing my head back down with a low exhale, I grab the spare.

  “Thank you for stopping. Most people wouldn’t have.”

  Most people, including me. “You should really get a Triple-A plan.”

  “I have one,” she admits somberly and then, after a second’s hesitation, adds, “My phone died and I can’t find my car charger.”

  So, she was totally stranded. As much as this sucks, I’m glad I stopped. This should give my conscience something to feel good about, seeing as I’ve tested it plenty over the years. “I can’t find my phone charger half the time. It’s usually under the seat. I finally went and bought a second cord that I keep in my glove compartment.”

  I hear the smile in her voice as she says, “I’ll have to remember that.”

  “Yeah, you should. Especially in a car like this.” The spare is bolted in place in another minute.

  “You’re very fast.”

  I smirk as I lower the car. “I’ve been changing tires since I could walk.” Well, not really, but it feels like it. Grabbing the flat tire with one arm, I intentionally step out from the umbrella so I don’t get her dirty with it on my way to the trunk. It’s too late for me, but I’m used to it. I go through more clothes than the average guy. “Do you have far to go? These aren’t meant for long distances.”

  “About ten miles.”

  “Good. I can stay behind you until you get off the highway, if that makes you feel better,” I offer, wiping my wet, dirty hands against my jeans. “I’m headed that way anyway.”

  “That’s very kind of you.” She doesn’t make a move to leave, though. She just stands there, her face hidden by the darkness and that giant umbrella.

  And then I hear the stifled sob.

  Ah, shit. I don’t know what to do with a rich girl crying on the side of the road. Or crying girls in general. I’ve made plenty of them do it, unintentionally, and felt bad about it after. But other than saying, “I’m sorry,” I’m at a loss. I hesitate before asking, “Is everything okay? I mean, do you have someone you can call? You can use my phone if you want. I’ll grab it from the car.”

  “No, I don’t have anyone.”

  A long, lingering silence hangs over us.

  “Well . . .” I really just want to get home and catch The Late Show, but I didn’t get soaked so I could leave her standing out here.

  “Are you happy?” Her question cuts through the quiet night like a rude interruption.

  “Uh . . .” What? I shift nervously on my feet.

  “In your life. Are you happy? Or do you ever wish you could just start over?”

  I frown into the darkness. “Right now I wish I wasn’t freezing my ass off in the rain,” I admit. What the hell else do I say to that? I wasn’t ready for deep, thought-provoking questions. I generally avoid those, and God knows the idiots I hang out with don’t toss them around. Is this chick out of her mind?

  She steps in closer, lifting her umbrella to shield, granting me part of my wish. �
�I mean, if you could just start over fresh . . . free yourself from all the bad decisions you’ve made . . . would you do it?”

  Obviously this woman’s shitty day started long before the flat tire. “Sounds like you have some regrets,” I finally offer. It’s not really an answer to her question but, honestly, I don’t know how to respond to that.

  “Yeah. I think I do.” It’s so soft, I barely hear her over the rain hitting asphalt and the low rumble of her idling engine. I startle as cool fingers suddenly slide over my cheek, my nose, my jaw—covered in fresh stubble—until they find my mouth, where they rest in a strangely intimate way. I feel like she’s testing me. What’s going on in this woman’s head right now?

  Though I can’t stop the steady climb of my heartbeat, I don’t move a single muscle, more curious than anything. Very slowly, the shadow in front of me shifts closer and closer, until her mouth is hovering over mine and her breathing is shaky.

  And then she kisses me.

  It’s a tentative kiss at first, her lips lightly sweeping across mine without committing entirely, but it gets my blood rushing all the same. I can’t say that I’ve ever kissed a woman without seeing her face first. It’s both unnerving and strangely liberating. If she looks anything like her lips feel, then I’m kissing a supermodel right now.

  Finally she finds her place, her lips slightly parted as they gently work against mine, each one of her ragged breaths like an intoxicating spell as they slip into my mouth alongside her tongue. I don’t even care about the rain or the cold or getting home anymore, too busy fighting the urge to loose my hands on her. But I don’t know why the fuck she’s doing this and I’m a suspicious person by nature. So, I ball my fists and keep my arms to my sides while her mouth slowly teases mine and her hand grasps the side of my face.

  Just when I’m ready to give up on my mistrust and pull her into me, she suddenly breaks free, her short, hard pants dispelling her calm. She steps back, taking the shield of her umbrella with her. The cold rain is a semi-effective douse to the heat coursing through my body.

  “Thank you.”

  I smile into the darkness. “No big deal. Tires take me no time.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the tire.” She’s smiling too. I can hear it in her soft words.

  With my mouth hanging open, I watch her silhouette round the car. In one fluid motion, she folds her umbrella up and slides into the driver’s seat.

  And I’m left standing here, wondering what the hell just happened. She doesn’t know what I look like either. We could pass each other on the sidewalk and we’d never know.

  Maybe that’s the point.

  Shaking my head, I dart back to my car, my clothes soaked and my mind thoroughly mystified. She may be sweet but if she goes around kissing strange men on the side of the road, no wonder she has regrets. I hope regrets are the worst thing she ever has to deal with.

  True to my word, I tail her for eight miles, my fingers testing my lips as I recall the feel of hers against them, until she signals toward one of Portland’s richer areas. A big part of me wants to turn off and follow her the rest of the way. Just so I know who she is.

  I have my hand on the turn signal. But at the last minute, I pull back and keep heading straight. Regrets have a tendency to spread when you tie yourself to the wrong kind of person. I’ve learned that the hard way.

  I hope she finds what she’s looking for.

  FOUR

  Jane Doe

  now

  “I told you already; she’s not lying. She doesn’t remember a thing! Anyone who looks into the poor girl’s eyes can see that!”

  Dr. Alwood’s harsh tone pulls me out of a light sleep. She’s standing next to my bed, squared off against a man with an olive complexion and wavy chestnut-brown hair—peppered with gray at the temples—and a grim expression, dusted with day-old scruff.

  “I have to do my job, Meredith,” the man says, his dark eyes shifting to catch me watching. With a nod in my direction, he clears his throat.

  Dr. Alwood turns and her scowl vanishes, replaced by a soft smile. Today she’s wearing a baby-blue blouse tucked under her white coat. It doesn’t do much for her pallid complexion, but it’s pretty all the same. “I’m sorry to wake you,” she says, her voice returning to its typical calm. A life jacket for me these past few days, while submerged in this ongoing nightmare. “The sheriff would like to speak with you.” With a gesture to the man, she introduces him. “This is Sheriff Welles, of Deschutes County.”

  The man offers me a curt smile before dipping his head forward and squeezing his eyes shut. As if he has to regroup; as if facing me for more than that short period of time is difficult. Maybe it is. Based on what the small parade of nurses coming in and out of my room have told me, the swelling has gone down and the deep purple bruising has faded. You can even see my high cheekbones again, whatever that means. I have yet to even glimpse myself in a mirror and no one seems to be in a rush to bring one to my bedside, not even to see if it may trigger my memory. They keep telling me that we should wait “just a few more days.”

  “He’s going to ask you a few questions.” She casts a glare his way. “Right, Gabe?”

  His heavyset brow pulls together as he lifts his gaze to meet mine again. Such penetrating eyes—not a single fleck of gold or brown to break up the near-black color. They draw me in and make me hold my breath at the same time. He must do well in interrogations. “Right.”

  Gabe Welles. Of course, the sheriff knows what his name is. Everyone knows what their name is. I’m the only clueless one around here. “I don’t know how much help I can be,” I say, my voice much smoother than when I first regained consciousness . . . my eyes flicker to the clock to calculate . . . forty-two hours ago. I’ve regained nothing else.

  I still have no idea who I am and I certainly don’t remember being raped and beaten. I imagine most victims like me would do anything, take any sort of pill or potion, to forget the traumatic experience. But I’ve spent every conscious moment grappling with the recesses of my mind, hoping to find a thread to grab on to, to tug, something that will unravel the mystery.

  Nothing. I remember nothing.

  “You seem to be doing much better than the last time I saw you,” Sheriff Welles says in a rich, gravelly voice that demands attention.

  “Gabe—I mean, Sheriff Welles—was the one who found you,” Dr. Alwood explains.

  My cheeks heat with color. “How bad was I? I mean . . . ?” Was I on bloody, naked display for him to see? Do I even want to know if I was? It should be the least of my worries, and yet the thought churns my stomach.

  “I’ve seen a lot in my thirty-five years in the police force, but . . . you were in rough shape.” He pauses to clear his throat. “Dr. Alwood has already informed me that you don’t recall anything. I have something that I thought may help.” From a canvas bag, he pulls out a clear plastic package marked “Evidence,” followed by a case number, and holds it up. Electric-blue sequined material stares back at me. “You were wearing this dress when I found you.”

  Where would I be going in that? A wedding? A disco? Based on the reddish-brown stains and tears, I won’t be wearing it ever again. The sheriff and doctor watch me closely as I admit, “I don’t recognize it.”

  He dumps it back into the canvas bag and pulls out another plastic evidence bag, this one with a light pink coat and very clearly covered in blood. “You were wearing this over your dress.”

  Was I? “It’s not familiar,” I answer honestly. The steady pulse from the EKG begins to increase again. I’ve noticed that it does that every time Dr. Alwood begins questioning me, as my agitation rises.

  He pulls out a third bag, with only one silver dress shoe in it. It has a heel so high, no sane human would choose to wear it. “Just like Cinderella,” I murmur half-heartedly, adding, “I don’t even know how I could walk in that.”

  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.