Exposed (Madame X, #2)(17)

Do I want to be Isabel?

Do I want to be Madame X?

I think of Logan, how he insists that I deserve the right to choose.

But I don’t know what to choose.

I drift away, out of apartment number three, to the elevator, to the lobby. I don’t think I even said good-bye to Rachel, or closed the door behind me.

I find myself on the street. It is still dark out, quiet for New York City. A few cars whoosh by, a yellow cab with its light on. A white panel van. A police car.

I wonder if you know where I am. If you’re looking for me.

I do not want to be found.

Not by you.

A café, open twenty-four hours. An older woman, tired looking, bored, stares at me as I enter. “Help you?”

“Do you have a phone I can use?”

A blank stare. “You in trouble?”

“I need to call someone. It’s important. Not legal trouble, no.”

Another blinking moment, and then the woman digs into an apron pocket and withdraws a cell phone, hands it to me. It is one of those that flips open. I dial the number: 212-555-3233.

A sleepy, beautiful, sun-warm voice: “Hello? Who’s’iss?”

“It’s . . . it’s me.”

“X?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?”

I glance at the woman. “Where am I? What is the name of this place?”

The woman just gestures at the menu on the counter in front of me. I read the name of the café, the address.

“I’ll be there in ten,” Logan says. “Stay there, okay?”

He shows up in under ten minutes, wearing khaki cargo shorts and a black tank top that show off his sleeves of tattoos covering his arms from elbow to shoulder, and flip-flops. “X, you okay?”

I shake my head. “I have so many questions.” I wish desperately to cling to him. I dare not, for fear that I will never let go. “I don’t know . . . anything. I don’t know what to do.”

Logan glances around, eyes the menu, then slides into a booth. I take the bench opposite him. He glances at the woman. “Two coffees, please.” He shoves a menu toward me. “Hungry?”

I nod, and peruse the items on the two-sided, laminated sheet. I decide on Belgian waffles and bacon. I’ve never had them, and they sound good. After the food has arrived, Logan and I spend a few minutes just eating; the waffles are so delicious that I don’t want to waste a single minute talking when I could be eating.

We’re done and Logan has his big hands wrapped around the small white ceramic mug of black coffee. He lets out a breath. “So what are your questions?”

“Where did you find the name?”

“The name?” He lifts an eyebrow. “Not ‘my name,’ but ‘the name’?”

“Is it mine?”

“You don’t trust me?” He sounds wounded.

I want to be logical, but it is hard. “I do. I want to, at least. But can I? Should I? That could be any name. How do I know it is mine?”

He nods. “You have a point,” he says. “You told me you got hurt six years ago, that you had total amnesia. You didn’t tell me which hospital, or anything like that, so I started broad. Did a search on nameless coma patients in the entire New York City area. Put some resources into the search, friends who know who to ask about things like this. Six years ago, there were thousands of accidents that resulted in the victims going into a coma. Of those however-many-thousands of coma patients from six years ago, all of them were identified. Most of them woke up within a few hours or days, and of those who woke up, most got their whole memories back, while some got only parts of their memories back.”

“What are you saying?” I feel faint.

“Do you know how long you were in a coma?”

I think back. When I woke up, I was unresponsive. Awake, but not all there. It took time before I could even focus my eyes. Longer still before I could understand questions, or respond. I couldn’t speak. Whether it was a cognitive problem or physical, doctors weren’t sure. But as Caleb spent more time with me, I started to speak. Mimicking words, showing comprehension. I have no memory, however, of being told how long I was in a coma for. All of this that I know, I only know because Caleb told me. My actual memories of the time immediately after I woke up are extremely hazy.

I shake my head. “I—I don’t know, no. I—Caleb never told me. I never thought to ask.”

He just nods. “None of the coma patients I found out about fit your description, even physically speaking, symptoms or whatever else aside.” A sip of coffee. “So I went back farther. Year by year, searching for coma patients who were admitted with no identification. A ‘Jane Doe,’ they call them. I spoke to hundreds of doctors and nurses, and no one knew anything.”

“You did all this? The searching?”

He shrugs. “I told you I’d find proof. I’m still working on it, but it takes time. Maybe I should sell my businesses and become a private investigator, you know? I’ve got a knack for it, I think.” A wave of his hand. “Point is, yes. I’ve spent every waking moment, and most of the hours I should have been sleeping, looking for information on you. I went back three years before I found anything.”

He pauses, I don’t know why. I am frustrated, curious, fearful. “And? What did you discover?”