She gives her head a small shake. “Nothing, I just . . . nothing.” Her eyes drop to my mouth before stealing another glance behind me. “I have to go.” I watch her bare, delicate back as she walks away, her heels clicking fast against the wood, that heavy dose of perfume clinging to my nose. It’s starting to grow on me.

I pick the farthest urinal in the men’s room, closing my eyes and letting my head tip back as I consider my options. Should I tell her I’m the guy who saved her that night on the side of the road? Would she want to know? Especially given the way her husband treats her. Obviously the guy’s a douche. But she married him. She is married to him. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, coming here. Roadside kiss or not, nothing is going to happen.

The door squeaks open. A moment later I sense someone take the urinal next to me and I sigh. “Five other spots available. Just saying.” Normally, any conversation at the urinal is not cool by me, even to cuss someone out. But I’m in a bad mood.

“Then I would have to yell to talk to you.”

I recognize that slight Russian accent and the smooth voice.

“So, about my business proposition. What do you know about Aston Martin DB5s?”

Something tells me blowing off Viktor Petrova right now would be a bad idea. Even if that means I have to talk over the sound of piss hitting porcelain. “They’re hard to fix.”

“Yes.” I hear the smile in the word. “And they are apparently even harder to rebuild. I have wanted one all my life and have finally found the perfect one. A ’sixty-four model. It is sitting in my garage. Would you be interested in bringing it back to life for me?”

Found. I wonder if that’s code for stole.

It takes a moment for me to realize that I’m still standing there with my dick in my hands while he has already finished and is moving to the sink. Quickly fixing myself, I head over to join him. No, I wouldn’t. You’re an ass**le.

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

You’re an ass**le who thinks you can buy me like you probably buy everything else, including your wife.

“Certainly enough for that car you wanted. What was it, again?”

Fuck. The guy knows which carrots to dangle. “’Sixty-nine Barracuda.” Now he has me interested. “I’d have to see it, see what shape it’s in.”

Viktor smiles at my reflection in the mirror. “That is fine. Mr. Miller will tell you where to go. Have a good night.” He strolls out of the washroom, leaving me staring at his tall, lean form in his tailored charcoal suit as he exits.

I’ll be told where to go. I’ll bet that’s how Viktor operates. Well, f**k him. I don’t operate like that. Still, rebuild a ’64 DB5 and make enough to get myself my car? I’m going to have a hard time turning that one down, even if he’s an ass**le.

When I reach the table, Viktor and Alexandria are gone. There’s really no need for me to be here. I grab my jacket off the back of my chair.

Boone frowns at me. “Where are you going? Priscilla and her friend are getting off soon. They want to come by for a drink.”

“I’m out.” I tell him what happened in the bathroom. By the time I’m done, his mouth is hanging open.

“Rust tells me he’s got one helluva vintage car collection. You’ll blow your load if you get to see it.”

“We’ll see,” I say as I head out, wondering if blowing my load over Viktor’s cars will be more acceptable than wanting to blow it over his wife.

TEN

Jane Doe

now

“There’s no reason to keep you here longer, Jane.”

Dr. Alwood sits on the empty bed beside me, stripped of sheets after Ginny’s departure early this morning, delivering the news that I knew was coming. Nausea bubbles up inside me.

“We’ll want to continue some outpatient physio and your visits with Dr. Weimer, of course, but hospital administration won’t approve the additional medical bills for keeping you here. You don’t really want to be stuck in a hospital, staring at these same beige walls, do you?”

I bob my head absently, the desire to wrap my sheet around me in a cocoon overpowering. The little that I know in life is about to be taken away from me. I get it, though. Dr. Alwood, Amber, the hospital—they’ve done all that they could for me. I’m not their problem anymore. Now I’m my own problem.

If my chest were still hooked up to the heart monitor, that beeping would be going wild right now.

What the hell do I do next?

“Jane? Are you okay?”

Pain shoots through my jaw as I clench my teeth. I really hate that name. “I just . . .” Hot tears begin rolling down my cheeks. “I don’t know where I’m going to go.”

Understanding takes over her face, followed by a look of sympathy. “Did you think we’d just open the doors and kick you to the curb?”

I feel a salty droplet reach my top lip.

She clears her throat. “I’ve been looking into a few options and I see two. The first is a shelter. There are two all right ones in the Bend area. You’d have to share space with the other single females, so there’s really no privacy. Administration has already called them. They can accommodate you.”

I wipe away the tears with the back of my hand. “Are you trying to sell me on this shelter?”

A soft smile touches her lips. “No. I’m not a fan myself of option one.”

“Okay. So what’s option two?”

She pauses. “What did you think of Ginny Fitzgerald?”

“I . . . uh . . .” The sudden change of subject has me stammering. And what do I say? The woman is her neighbor, after all. “She’s not the friendliest person I’ve ever met, but my sample size is rather limited.”

She grins. “Fair enough. She was a bit crotchety, wasn’t she? When she’s on her own turf, she’s not that bad. Coming in here was a big deal for her. It took me months of convincing and making special arrangements to get her to have the surgery done.”

“You told her about me.” I don’t mean for it to sound like an accusation, but that is exactly what it is.

“Yes, I did. I realize that is not only a complete violation of my professional position; it’s also a violation of your trust.” Dr. Alwood has the decency to look sheepish. “But it was important that I tell her. You see, Ginny lives alone on an old ranch next door to us. She’s been there all her life. Her parents both died years ago and she has no family to speak of. She keeps to herself. As I’m sure you can guess, she doesn’t make friends easily.” I chuckle. Thankfully, she joins in. “Anyway, she has an apartment above her garage that I thought might work well for you. For now, at least. It’ll afford you some privacy and quiet. You’ll have us right next door, should anything happen; you can keep an eye on Ginny—she’s nearing sixty-five—and help her out with the horses. God knows she needs the help and she won’t let anyone step foot on her property besides Gabe, Amber, or myself.”

I note that she doesn’t include her son, Jesse, on that list of acceptable trespassers.

“Have you already talked to her about this? Because I’m not so sure she’s going to like this idea.” I’m not sure I like this idea.

“She has already agreed to it.” She adds after a pause, “She likes you. A lot.”

“What?”

All Dr. Alwood does is shrug and smile. But then she frowns. “She says she had a good talk with you last night? About your . . . similar pasts.”

The ball of fear that’s taken up residence in my chest since our conversation swells. What if Ginny’s right? I’ve been sitting in this hospital room for months now, hoping and praying that one morning I’ll wake up and feel whole again. I’ll know what my parents’ names are and whether I look more like my mom or my dad; I’ll know if I went to the prom like the girls on television and, if I did, who my date was. I’ll remember my first kiss, my summer vacations, my best friend’s name.

I’ll remember my name.

But what if I can never be whole again?

What if all those little bits that make up me get lost, overshadowed by one dark memory? My last memory, the one that made me want to forget everything else in the first place. Will I be able to escape the kind of damage that experience can cause? “Do you think that I’ll turn out like Ginny?” I finally whisper. Bitter and cowering in the presence of men.

Eternally afraid.

“Ginny’s always been a little bit ‘off,’ from what Gabe remembers of her, even when he was a young child. Part of it is just her. Her little ‘eccentricities.’ ” She pauses and then admits, “But part of it isn’t.”

“She didn’t tell me much. What happened to her?”

“She’s never talked to me or anyone else about it. I only know because Gabe knows. If it hadn’t been especially traumatic, I’m guessing no one would ever have found out.” She pauses. “That she actually brought it up with you says something. Maybe one day she’ll tell you the rest.”

Maybe. There’s only one reason I can think of for her to divulge her own dark secret. It would be on the day that I remember mine.

ELEVEN

Jesse

then

I doubt this driveway has ever seen the likes of a shit box like mine. I was kind of hoping the automatic gates at the entrance would malfunction and crush my car as I edged through.

That didn’t happen, though, and now I’m navigating the long, winding landscaped drive to the sprawling estate home ahead, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, my head pounding from all the vodka last night. Wondering for the hundredth time what the hell I’m doing here. Not that I had an option to say no. The second I stepped into the garage this morning—still half asleep thanks to thin walls and listening to Boone and Priscilla until three in the morning—Miller shoved a slip of paper into my hand and ordered me to follow the directions to “Mr. Petrova’s” residence for a ten a.m. meeting. And to call him Mr. Petrova, unless he tells me otherwise.

I pull up alongside a gold Hummer just as Viktor and a man I haven’t seen before step out of the double-story brick house, golf bags slung over their shoulders, gold watches catching rays from a rare day of blue skies and sunshine. Next to their tailored pants and collared golf shirts, I look every bit the broke-ass kid mechanic in my ripped jeans and worn T-shirt.

If the way I look right now bothers Viktor, he doesn’t let on. With that stone-cold mask, he doesn’t give much away, period.

“Hello, Jesse. I am glad you could make it.” Not giving me a chance to respond, he hands his clubs to the guy beside him and begins walking toward the four-car garage, calling out behind him, “Follow me, please.” No friendly urinal-side chatter. This guy’s all business today. That’s fine. I don’t have much to say.

When he punches a code into the garage door and we step inside, all I can manage is a low whistle. The garage may have only four doors, but it extends far enough to accommodate eight cars and Viktor has used the space wisely, lining the back wall with a ’62 fire-engine-red Ferrari, a ’65 Shelby Coupe in metallic blue, a black ’68 Porsche 911, and a green ’55 Mercedes Coupe. The four together have to be worth a couple million. Easy.

Boone’s right. I may blow my load in my pants right here, standing next to Viktor Petrova.

“As you can see, I, too, have a passion for classic cars. These have all been completely restored.” Prying my eyes from the Shelby with difficulty, I glance over at Viktor. Genuine excitement dances through his eyes as they slide over his collection: all rare, all expensive, and all in mint condition, their coats of paint gleaming under the fluorescent lighting.

With a nod toward the far left, he says, “I would like to add my Aston Martin with your help.” A mixed collection of boxes and loose car parts surround the classic, a dull navy blue in need of some serious body work, a small rust hole eating through the back panel. Still . . . it’s a f**king DB5! This guy already has the polished but hardened appearance down pat. Throw him in a suit and this car, finished, and someone might cast him in the next James Bond movie. More likely as the villain, though.

I watch as he pulls a cigarette and a lighter from his shirt pocket. The pack has the same strange alphabet on it that I now recognize as Russian. Through the first inhale, he murmurs, “The engine has seized. I expect it will need plenty of new parts. If you provide me with a list, I will appropriate them quickly.”

I find his precise dialect and tone off-putting. He says “I will” instead of “I’ll”; he uses words like “appropriate” instead of “get”; and though he isn’t lacking in manners, he speaks with stern authority, as if he expects everyone to listen.

I cross my arms over my chest as the first swirl of tobacco touches my nostrils. My eyes scan the corners of the room, looking for cameras. From what I could see coming in, the entire property is surrounded by black wrought-iron fences. With four mint cars in the back, and one in pieces, there’s no way this garage isn’t heavily watched. I can’t find any cameras, though.