Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(42)

Or a girl I might want to wake up next to every morning.

Is this her attempt to make herself look less attractive? If so . . . it’s not working. I finally manage, “You look comfortable.”

“You don’t.” With hesitation, she practically tiptoes over to hand me the plain white T-shirt dangling from her fingertips.

I give her a pointed stare as I catch it. “I’m going to ruin that in sixty seconds.” I haven’t worn anything but black, gray, or navy blue in years.

“That’s okay. He won’t miss it, I promise.” She pauses. “Besides, white will look good on you.”

I’d already peeled off my soaked sweatshirt. I reach up over my head to pull my T-shirt off. And then I stall. She’s watching me. Common sense tells me that undressing in front of Viktor Petrova’s young, hot wife in his garage—especially after what just happened out on the road—would be really stupid, not to mention disrespectful. Even though I’m shivering.

And the dickhead would deserve it for the way he treats her.

And I’ve already kissed her, so worrying about disrespecting him really should be the least of my worries.

Still . . . she’s vulnerable and confused.

I drop my arms back to my sides.

“I should let you get back to work.” The girl who babbled on about small towns and starry nights is gone with one simple kiss, leaving this one behind, who has crossed and uncrossed her arms three times since stepping out here.

She’s nervous. I don’t want her to be nervous around me.

She turns and takes five steps before her feet falter. “How long have you known?”

“Since the day you came into the shop with that damaged muffler.”

“Hmmm . . . I hit that speed bump really hard, didn’t I?”

That makes me laugh. On impulse, I scrawl my cell phone number on a sheet from Viktor’s notebook and hold it out for her. “Here. In case you’re ever stuck again.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“Probably not.” Definitely not. “It’s just a friend’s cell number, Alex. Use it whenever you need to. For anything.” She can read whatever she wants into that last part.

She quietly accepts the paper. Not until she’s on the steps does she speak again. “When I saw you that first night at The Cellar . . .” Her words drift off. “I imagined that it was you on the side of the road. I hoped it was you.”

I’m left standing in the middle of the garage, staring at a closed metal door.

My heart racing.

Placing Viktor’s long list of parts on the table, I get in my car and take off for home, before I do something crazy.

SIXTEEN

JANE DOE

now

“It’s most likely a memory. Or a hint of a memory. It could mean that the man who hurt me was also someone I once trusted. Maybe I loved him. Or . . .” I hesitate. “Maybe I was involved with two men, and one of them didn’t take too well to it.” When Dr. Weimer suggested that to me, I shook my head vehemently.

Would I have done something like that?

Meredith remains quiet, waiting for our left turn out of the hospital driveway, as I fill her in on the details of my appointment with Dr. Weimer. I suppose some people might not feel comfortable reciting the private conversation they had with their psychologist. The ideas they tossed back and forth about what a certain dream could mean.

I don’t balk at telling Meredith, though. Maybe it’s because she—the one who pieced my shattered body back together—now knows more about me than anyone else. Or maybe I’ve just come to value her opinion that much.

“I might not ever remember more than that.” But I also might fall asleep one night and find myself trapped in a nightmare, reliving every painful second of my attack. A scary thought to have when you’re closing your eyes at night.

“Only time will tell, I guess.” She smiles warily at me as she pulls into the midday Bend traffic.

“Thank you for carting me back and forth like this. I know you must be tired.” Meredith came home at seven this morning from a thirty-hour stretch at the hospital.

“It’s really no problem. It’s not like I was awake for my entire shift. I had a few hours off to sleep yesterday evening.”

“Still, you and Sheriff Gabe, you keep treating me like . . .” Like I’m their child. Whose child am I? Is my mother even alive? I have to think not; otherwise she’d be looking for me.

Wouldn’t she?

“You’re good parents.”

Meredith chuckles softly. “Tell that to my kids.” The smile fades. “People think learning how to restart hearts and set bones and reattach blood vessels is hard, but let me tell you, it’s nothing next to learning how to be a parent. And I’ve spent many years feeling like a horrible one. I can’t tell you how many times I wished I was around more for my son.”

“He’s gotten into some trouble?”

A grimace touches her lips. “He made some bad choices, that’s all. Nothing you need to worry about.” She reaches out to tap the journal in my lap. “Chicken.”

We pass a giant waving chicken—someone dressed in a costume—standing outside a fast-food restaurant. “Scary.”

She chuckles. “Yes. That one certainly is. Both of my kids used to scream at anything in a costume when they were young.”