Denial (Careless Whispers #1)(8)

“If you have something to say to me, Gallo,” Kayden says calmly, “then say it and let’s move on.”

The detective’s steely eyes fix on Kayden, and the hate radiating off him is so fierce. I’m clearly in the center of something very personal, and very bitter.

“Detective—” I say, intending to ask for the help he swears he’s here to give me.

“You and I need to chat for a few moments alone,” he says, his hard stare returning to me.

“Let’s cut to the chase, Gallo,” Kayden interjects. “You’re here to badger me by badgering her, and I’m not going to let that happen. Especially while she’s fragile.”

“I’m not fragile,” I insist.

“I can assure you,” the detective replies, ignoring me, “this is about her, not you.”

“If ‘her’ is me,” I say, certain this one-on-one is going to happen, “I’ll talk with you alone.” I glance at Kayden. “I get that there are two agendas here. I can handle it. I just need to solve the mystery of who I am.”

The detective’s approving gaze falls on me. “At least two of us are on the same page.”

Kayden’s lips thin, but he accepts my answer. “I’ll be right outside the door if you need me.”

I give him a nod, and he meets the detective’s stare, the two of them exchanging what I’m pretty sure are some heated silent words, before he strides out of the room.

Detective Gallo claims the stool Kayden favors and scoots closer to me. “It really was lucky that he just happened to be at the right place, at the right time, to rescue you.” His tone says he doesn’t think it was a matter of luck at all. “And talk about dedication to a stranger. Forty-eight hours later, he’s not only still here, he’s paying your bills.”

Already he’s attacking Kayden, but I’m not foolish enough not to find out why. “What are you getting at?”

“That maybe, just maybe, he knew you before he found you.” He holds up a finger. “And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t in the right place at the right time by chance.”

My mind flickers with an image of Kayden’s hand on my back, and I can almost feel the familiar sensation of his touch spread from my shoulders down my spine. “He says I didn’t know him.”

“Do you believe him?”

“You know I have no memory.”

“You have instincts.”

“Which could suck, for all I know.”

He rests his arms on the railing, the position eating away much of the space between us. “I’m trying to help you—you know that, right?”

“You are here for him, not me.”

“I’m here because of him, but for you.”

“I don’t know what that means,” I say, “and I honestly don’t care. I have to find out who I am, before I’m discharged and on the street.”

“You won’t end up on the streets. There are programs—”

“So that’s the help you’re giving me?” I interrupt. “You’ll stick me in some government program and I’ll cease to exist before I landed in this hospital room?”

His lips tighten and he leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I ran a general check on all missing persons reports, including anyone traveling from outside the country.”

“And?” I ask, holding my breath, almost as afraid to hear the answer as I am desperate for it.

“At this point there are no active reports that match your description locally.”

“What about internationally?”

“Or for anyone traveling by way of a passport,” he adds.

I’m shell-shocked, trying to figure out what this means for me.

“However,” he adds, “there tends to be a slight delay in reports filed for a missing person who lives or travels alone.”

“Alone.” The word carves a hole in my soul, taunting me with the idea that no one’s looking for me because no one cares about me. “No,” I say, rejecting that idea. “I might not know who I am, but I know I wouldn’t live here without learning the language, which means that I’m visiting. And I wouldn’t visit a foreign country alone.”

“And as you said, your instincts might suck.”

Infuriated at his lack of help, I say, “I don’t need instincts to know that I can’t wait for a missing persons report that might not come, to deal with my situation.”

“And you don’t have to. If you are indeed an American citizen—”

“I am. I know I am.”

“Well then,” he says, “you’d be traveling with a passport, and there will be fingerprints on file.”

A ray of hope replaces my anger. “You mean we can cross-check my records?”

“Exactly. I’ll pick up a fingerprint kit, and we’ll run them through the database. If we get a hit, then we’ll know your name, home country, and even your parents’ names.”

“Why wouldn’t we get a match?”

“There are any number of reasons,” he says, “but let’s cross that bridge if we come to it.”

“No. No, I want to know the reasons.”