I’m also guessing Viktor’s already been up her alley. Something about this guy—and what I just witnessed between him and his wife—tells me he’s not above f**king around on her, no matter how beautiful and young she is.

And, I’ll admit, Viktor’s wife is definitely beautiful.

“It was good to meet you.”

It takes an elbow from Boone in the bicep to realize that Viktor’s standing over me, looking down at me, talking to me.

“Uh, yeah. You too.” Not really, but what the hell else do I say?

“Perhaps we can discuss my business proposition another night.”

I shrug. “All right.”

That cold, steely gaze weighs down on me for a split second and then he leaves, dragging his preschool trophy with him by her wrist.

Fucking weird people. And f**k Boone for bringing me here.

Boone leans in and whispers, “Are you an idiot? Do you know who that guy is?”

“A rich, foreign ass**le?” I don’t do well with arrogance or authority. Probably why having a sheriff for a father hasn’t worked out well for me. Then again, maybe it’s because I have a sheriff for a father that I don’t do well with arrogance or authority.

Boone’s eyes flash as he scans around us, a hiss of warning sailing through his teeth. “That’s Viktor Petrova.”

“That name means exactly nothing to me.”

“Whatever.” Boone rolls his eyes. “The dude just picked up your tab.”

With a frown, I glance over my shoulder. Priscilla is already at the bar, collecting drinks for someone else. “How do you know he grabbed my tab?”

“Do we even know each other? I’m part Russian. I understand some.”

My face screws up. “Really? ‘Boone’ is Russian?” Russian. So, that’s what that sharp-sounding language is.

“No, my mom’s side. Her father didn’t speak a word of English. I learned from him.”

I seek out Viktor and find him standing with Rust and another well-dressed, middle-aged man. Whatever had him heated earlier seems to have blown over, because he’s smiling.

But why the hell would he pick up my drink tab? He’s either trying to butter me up for this “business proposition” or he’s just showing his money off. Rich people and people who want to pretend that they’re rich like to do that. “What did you say he does again?”

“I didn’t say.” Boone’s focus shifts to the glass in his hand, pausing for a moment. Like he’s making a decision. “Officially, him, Rust, and two other guys own an international car sales company together.” Then he leans in, dropping his voice to a low murmur. “Unofficially . . . if you want a car—any kind of car—Viktor is the guy who can get it for you. Well, not him. But he’ll arrange it.”

“So he sells stolen cars. Is that what you’re saying?” My dad would go ballistic if he knew I’ve been sitting at a table with a guy like that.

“Jesus, Welles!” Boone barks, scanning the area around us again. “Don’t ever bring that shit up with anyone. I’m only telling you because it looks like he wants to make some sort of deal with you.”

“Like I would.” I glance over my shoulder at them again. A blue sparkle catches my eye. His wife is standing in a corner now, released from Viktor’s ironclad grip. She’s much taller than I would have guessed. And thin, her curves subtle and delicate. That dress of hers barely covers her ass, making her long, slender legs that much longer. “How old is his wife?”

“Dunno. Old enough to land herself a rich husband who buys her all kinds of stuff. She’s been in here before. Never says a word to anyone. I think her face might crack if she smiled.”

“If I were married to someone who slapped me around, I probably wouldn’t be smiling either.”

Boone helps himself to another drink from the bottle on the table. “Slaps her . . . f**ks around on her . . . and she’s not going anywhere. I guess the diamonds and fancy clothes are hard to walk away from.”

“Yeah.” I turn my back to her and dump the rest of that smooth-tasting free Russian vodka down my throat.

SIX

Jane Doe

now

“A psychological amnesia with a global loss.” I repeat what the hospital psychologist—a tall, thin British woman who wears glasses on the bridge of her nose—told me as Dr. Alwood takes a seat in the chair next to my bed. “She said she wants to do further assessments, but that is what she suspects. And it’s extremely rare.”

“Yes, I spoke to her this morning,” Dr. Alwood admits, hitting the automatic button on my bed’s handrail. The upper half of my body slowly rises. “I know it doesn’t sound like it, but this is very good news. It gives us hope that you’ll remember something.”

That’s what the psychologist said. But she also said I may not. Or I may remember just bits and pieces. I may remember them next week. Or next year.

Or not at all.

And until then, what do I do? I’m stuck in this hospital room for now, my bones mending as my muscles go into atrophy. The nurses come to shift my body several times a day to help avoid bedsores, telling me that they’ll be forcing me out of bed to move around soon. Next will come rehab. All of this is government-funded because I have no identification and therefore, no insurance. And then what? If I never regain my memory and no one comes to claim me, where will I go? What will I do?

How will I survive?

“I want you to remember that there is still some bruising and swelling, especially around your nose area. That will change the look of your face,” Dr. Alwood says, cutting into my silent worries, the handle of the blue-framed mirror gripped in her hand.

I eye it warily. “You really didn’t have to do this. Reid or Amber would be willing.” Or any other nurse, for that matter. Anyone but “the best surgeon in the hospital,” on her day off, sitting at my side in jeans and a red sweater, her long hair normally tied back now cascading over her shoulders.

“Also, the redness in the scar will fade. I’m hoping for a fine line,” she says, ignoring me. She pauses to smile. “Really. It could have been so much worse, Jane. Remember that. Okay?”

I nod slowly, my adrenaline spiking as she raises her arm, angling the mirror just right, so I can set eyes on a face I’m sure I’ve seen thousands of times.

A complete stranger stares back at me.

“Breathe,” I hear Dr. Alwood remind me and I inhale sharply, as if I wasn’t able to gather air in my lungs before. She waits patiently, quietly, while I study this battered stranger who I do not recognize.

“So, that’s what russet looks like.” I zone in on my deep reddish-brown irises while I try to ignore the purple bags hanging beneath. Most of my face is puffy and mottled with yellow and purple bruising, the worst of it around my nose. If this is what I look like and this is a vast improvement, I understand why no one would hand me a mirror before now.

There are so many details to take in, I don’t know where to focus first. I run my tongue over the dark mark across my bottom lip, where Dr. Alwood confirmed it had been split open. The stitches have since dissolved. My long, straight hair—a light blond color with dark roots and hanging limp from grease—is partially pulled back to reveal a shaved patch and dark scab on the side of my scalp.

But it’s the glaring red line running vertically down the side of my face from my temple to the underside of my chin that holds most of my attention. I flinch as I take it in, wondering what caused it. Was it accidental?

Probably as accidental as the rape.

“It will fade with time,” Dr. Alwood reminds me as I stare at my reflection.

“And what if I still don’t recognize myself then?” I ask with a hollow voice, my gaze catching the gap on the top side of my mouth. Three teeth. I’m missing three teeth. Was I pretty once?

I certainly wouldn’t call myself pretty now.

Maybe that’s why, when there’s a knock at my door followed by the squeak of a hinge, I instinctively duck my head. For all the weeks and all the nurses who have strolled in and out of here, I’ve never felt the instinctive need to conceal my face. But now that I know what I look like, I’m suddenly desperate to hide.

“Jesse, you can’t be in here!” Dr. Alwood hisses.

“I need to head back to the city, Mom.” A masculine voice—deep like the sheriff’s, only smoother—answers.

Despite my distress, I find myself hazarding a glance, curious what the offspring of Dr. Alwood and Sheriff Welles might look like. I find a young guy standing in the doorway, his face a stony mask.

His intense gaze riveted to me. A wave of familiarity washes over me as I take in the eyes he shares with his father—set with striking eyebrows and so dark they could be mistaken for black. He holds my gaze steady, even takes a step closer. He’s curious, I’m sure. He’s probably never seen a face this bashed up before.

A police officer pokes his head into the room. “He told me it was okay.”

“Of course he did,” Dr. Alwood mutters, shooting her son a dirty look before standing.

The officer seizes Jesse’s bicep and gives it a tug.

With a scowl, Jesse jerks his arm free. “Get your f**king hands off me, Crane!” He obviously has no qualms about swearing at a police officer. I assume it’s because he’s the town sheriff’s son and can get away with it.

Dr. Alwood intervenes. “It’s okay, Officer Crane. We don’t need a scene in here.” She turns her attention to me. “This is my son, Jesse. He drove me in to work today. Car troubles. I’m sorry for his rudeness.” I feel her weighty gaze on me as I can’t help but steal another glance, quickly evaluating him from head to toe—his short ash-brown hair, his strong jaw, the way his blue-and-black checkered shirt hangs nicely off his body.

Yes, the good doctor and the sheriff certainly created a handsome child.

I duck my head again, knowing that my battered face can’t possibly earn the same appraisal from his end.

“I’ll leave this here for you, okay?” Dr. Alwood sets the mirror down on the nightstand. With a slow smile, she adds, “Don’t worry. It will all work out.”

Hiding my right side, I watch Dr. Alwood stroll toward the door. “Come on, Jesse. It’s time for you to go.” She loops her arm around his waist. He’s still staring at me as she tugs him out.

Back to their lives.

And I am left completely alone, waiting to remember mine.

SEVEN

Jesse

then

“Not bad, kid.” Miller hovers over the open hood of Rust’s ’78 red Corvette, the low rumble of its engine filling the six-bay auto shop. “Get working on the Enclave.” And then the burly man ambles toward his office, a greasy rag hanging from the back pocket of his ratty jeans.

I shoot a glare Boone’s way. Is that all I get?

Boone shrugs and smiles lazily. “What do you expect?”

I’ve got the boss’s car purring in under an hour, when it wouldn’t give more than a hack and a cough before stalling for everyone else. I know that our shop manager can be a dick, but this is f**king ridiculous.

“A bended-knee proposal, that’s what,” I mutter as I kill the engine and slide out of the driver’s seat, wiping my hands on a cloth. For all the good that’ll do. My fingernails have been stained black with motor oil since I was fourteen.

Boone wanders over to slap the frame of the car, as if he’s the one who fixed this beast. Given it’s his uncle’s, he’ll probably be driving it anyway. “You want a bended-knee proposal, come out to The Cellar with me tonight and maybe you’ll get one from Viktor.”

“No thanks,” I mutter, heading over to the Enclave, already up on the hoist. “I’m done with that place. If this Viktor guy wants to make a deal, he can come talk to me here.”

“Nurse Boone, will you please hand me that torque wrench?” Tabbs hollers from beneath the hoisted Cadillac.

Snickers fill the shop as Boone drags his boots along the concrete floor to meet the mechanic. He slaps the tool into his greasy hand none too gently.

“Hey! Didn’t they teach you how to pass tools gently in nursing school?”

Zeke, a heavyset black mechanic with a Louisiana accent, explodes with a roar of laughter.

“Just keep it up . . .” Boone pops a dirty middle finger in the air and marches over to join me under the Enclave. “I’m f**king sick of this.”

“What’s your problem? You had those brake jobs and that timing belt.” I guess his complaints to Rust at The Cellar reached Miller, because he’s been giving him some work.

“Yeah, but these guys are never going to stop busting my balls. Not until I’m running this place and I fire their asses.”

“Just smile and ignore them until then.”

“Easy for you to say.” He wanders over to a table covered with tools and begins wiping them down. Miller may look like a bum off the street, but he’s meticulous about how he keeps this place. I don’t know if that’s his rule or Rust’s, but every tool is cleaned and put in its rightful spot each night or there’s hell to pay. Unfortunately for Boone, that job normally lands in his lap.