Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(6)
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 f**k 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.