Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(7)

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, na**d 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.

“It’s okay; you can call me that,” I mutter through a sniffle. I’ve overheard the nurses referring to me as “JD” a few times and, when I finally asked Dr. Alwood about it, she admitted with a grimace that it stands for “Jane Doe.” Because that’s who I am now.

Jane Doe.

Apparently that’s not just reserved for people with toe tags.

He pauses, settling his stern gaze on me. “I wish I had more to tell you about what happened, but I don’t. We believe that you were dumped in the location where we found you. Where you were attacked, I can’t say. We’ve canvassed the area for clues, but nothing’s come up. We don’t even have good tire tracks to work with; the fresh snowfall covered them. No witnesses have come forward yet and no one has filed a missing person’s report that matches your case. I have my men scouring the database.”

He sighs. “The rape test returned no results. There were no DNA matches in there. Dr. Alwood was able to order a DNA test on your unborn fetus. Again, results did not match anything in the database.”

I guess that means that the father wasn’t a criminal. At least there’s that. “So . . . that’s it?”

His jaw tightens and then he offers me only a curt nod.