Freefall

Cover

ONE

The blow came like the torrent below, hard and swift and unexpected. Framed by jungle foliage, a face, the thrust of an arm. Her spine arched. She screamed, jerked, and pinwheeled, then splashed in and went under. Swept up in fluid momentum, her head broke the surface. A shout bounced off the canyon wall. She couldn’t turn to place it, couldn’t catch the words. Another shout, drowned by an ominous roar.

Realizing the danger, she kicked against the rabid current, but it surged, tipped, and flung her down, down to the pounding base. It drove her into the pool, tumbling and crushing, exploding in percussive blasts like war around her. She hit something hard. Pain seared her head. Her limbs slackened. Darkness.

Ears popping, lungs bursting, she woke with a single thought: Fight! She pulled and kicked, broke free of the tumultuous churn, and propelled herself to the surface, sucking air and choking. The hungry current dragged her from the pool into the rocky channel. She kicked and ducked—not thinking, just guarding herself as she rushed along until the cataract broadened and slowed.

Ahead, she glimpsed a promontory of dark rocks gilded with moss. She pushed toward them, grasped and slipped off the first but caught hold of the next. Pulling herself into the niche, she choked, then settled enough to draw air in through her nose, out through her mouth. The fire in her chest subsided.

Head throbbing, she leaned against the rock and dragged her thick-tread hiking shoes onto the promontory one foot at a time. A haze of gnats wafted by her face, drifting over the water. Her vision blurred and cleared as she clung there in the pooling edge of the river.

A brown bird called raucously. Ferns, broad-leafed trees, crescent-leafed trees, vines, and bushes surrounded her.

Something cut into her chest. She reached up and felt the stiff nylon straps of a hydration pack. Hardly thinking, she took hold of the mouthpiece at the end of the water bladder’s hose, bit the release, and drew in warm, then icy water. But as she drank, panic gripped her throat. Where was she, and what was she doing there?

As best he could tell, the waterfall had thrown him back into a sunken lava cave. The roar of the falls resounded inside the walls as he pulled himself over the lip and onto a ledge, using only his arms. Explosive pain shot down his battered and bloody legs. Pieces of his left shin ground together with each infinitesimal shift. His right ankle burned with a different but no less incapacitating throb. Teeth clenched, he rolled to his side, fitting himself into the curve of the cave wall. He lay still, stunned and weak, letting his body recoup, acquainting himself with the points of injury.

He squeezed his brow, rubbing the water from his eyes, and shivered. When Gentry toppled into the water, he’d shouted a warning, but already she was past the point of no return. Not even the strongest swimmer could resist the rushing cataract—as he’d learned. Maybe he shouldn’t have gone in for her. There’d been no time to think, to consider, only to react. Seconds before he went over he’d seen her surface in the pool below, but his own plunge was less successful.

He reached down and probed his shin, found the break he’d suspected. Waves of pain kept him from exploring further. Easy, he told himself. Easy. He could only pray Gentry hadn’t hit the same rocks. But then, like him, she’d have been channeled into the cave behind the falls, not carried out. Was she there still?

Gentry! No way she’d hear him over the echoing roar, but something in him had to cry out. His eardrums were shell-shocked from the din, but he yelled again. Gentry!

Sense returned. If Gentry was out there, he couldn’t reach her. He’d never pull through the falls. He’d be smashed down again onto the rocks. And if she tried to reach him?

No. Please, God. Cut and bleeding, pain escalating, he groaned. Her only chance—and his—was for her to get out, to get help. The trail, hardly more than a wild boar path over roots and rocks and clay, was so remote there was no telling how long until anyone might pass by. And it led to the top of the falls. People weren’t supposed to go over.

He dropped his head back and expelled his breath. What had happened? Gentry was an experienced hiker, strong and surefooted. But he’d read enough survivor stories—and stories that didn’t turn out as well—to know things could simply go wrong.

He closed his eyes. He needed to garner what energy he had, recover from the shock, rest. His bleeding had slowed, the wounds coagulating. The break in his bone could be bleeding into his leg, but he couldn’t help that. At this point, he couldn’t help anything. He drew a staggered breath and prayed.

Clouds puffed past overhead, carried swiftly through the sky, but heat blanketed the deep-cut valley where the winds didn’t penetrate. Moisture rose from the water and joined the graying gauze that erupted in showers, then passed.

Too woozy to think, she dragged herself ashore. She wanted to stay there, but an indistinct urgency moved her on. Following the water, she pressed her way through the palms and bushes, groping over tangled roots and rocks. She missed her footing and slid back into the river, then scraped her palms and bruised her hip climbing out. Her mind felt like sludge.

The cataract fanned out, plunging abruptly through jagged ridges, the nearest a rocky channel too steep and slippery to attempt. She splashed over and let herself down beside the next channel. Equally steep, the rocky edges of this one were possibly navigable—though not before resting. She drank from the water pack on her back and tried to stop shaking.

After less time than she’d have liked, she started down, turning almost immediately to work down the face like a rugged irregular ladder. Tucking her fingers into a crevice, she was startled by a sharpfaced chameleon-type lizard that skittered over her hand and into the vines that cloaked the ridge on her left. A short way down dangled a large black-and-yellow spider, whose legs went out in diagonal pairs. Again she heard the birds. Around her life teemed, but she felt unutterably alone.

Her arms shook as she stretched down for a hold. The cliff dropped away below. The water broke loose and fell, casting her in mist and slickening the rocks she clung to. Her breath came sharp and shallow as waves of dizziness took hold. She pressed herself to the wall, letting it pass, making it. Maybe there was a different way down, but she didn’t have the strength to climb back up and find it.

She inched her foot down, dug in the toe of the hiker, then forced her other foot to release. The bad stretch wasn’t too long. She could make it. She had to. She moved her hand, clawed a jut in the rock, then eased down. A slender white bird winged over the falls with a dipping motion that rolled her stomach.

She pressed her face to the stone and waited it out. Clouds parted and the sun caressed her. With her thigh quivering, she groped for a foothold, found a good-sized step, and lowered herself. She could do it. She would.

She reached level ground, staggered into a small clearing beside the stream, and dropped to her knees beside a boulder. Her head felt as though someone had opened it up and filled it with sand. She laid it on her arms. Maybe she’d just . . . rest. . . .

A sudden burst of birdsong penetrated her stupor. She drew in the scent of earth and water and rank foliage. Opening her eyes produced a grinding headache. She reached up and felt the top of her scalp, swollen, tender, and crusted under the hair. What. . . ?

Green folds of land rose steeply all around her, leaves and blooms just tinged with dawning light. She turned slowly, holding her head between her hands, and found the source of the mist wafting over her. A lacy spread of falls tumbled down a jagged cliff, forming streams that flowed past the rock where she’d hunched . . . all night?

In addition to scrapes and bruises, welts on her arms raised up and itched where something had fed on her. She groped up from her knees, brushed the wet, reddish brown leaves off her pants, and stood. Dizzy, she waited for the hazy vision to pass—or not. She rubbed her temples. Where was she? Why had she spent the night in a jungle?

Her parched throat grated. Automatically she reached for the water tube that dangled beside her cheek and took a cool drink. She squeezed the clasps and unfastened the straps across her chest and waist, then, grimacing, worked the pack off her shoulders. Every muscle griped.

She sat down on the rock and laid the pack across her legs. The main pocket held a stick of turkey jerky, a PowerBar, and a trail mix of mostly raw nuts and seeds with enough M&Ms to make it worth it. She found a packet of medicated Band-Aids in the small zippered pouch, and she used them on her left elbow and wrist and applied a layer of sunscreen to her arms and face from the tube in the side pocket. Whatever she was doing, she’d come prepared. But by the throbbing in her head, something had gone wrong.

She tore open the PowerBar and bit into the stiff, semisweet staple. Chewing made her temples throb and killed her hunger. She wanted to lie back down on the damp ground, but something told her she had to keep moving. She didn’t know how long or how far. Or which direction for that matter.

She searched the steep slopes to the tops of their ridges, then dropped her gaze back to the valley floor, where the river’s voice reminded her: Follow the water. Water runs down. Water leads out.

She slipped the pack back on, fitting it snugly enough to her back that in her daze she’d hardly noticed it was there. With the thinstalked palms higher than her head, she decided to walk in the shallow edge of the stream. Her canvas hikers were made for water, but the going was slow on the slippery rocks. She gave it up and pressed through where the shorter, thigh-high ferns had taken over beneath the overarching branches of trees.

Ragged clouds overhead dropped misty rain, filling her nostrils with an ozone-rich scent. She kept moving, driven by a need beyond thought. Her vision grew wavy, her balance askew. She stumbled on, the water’s voice her only constant. When fatigue demanded, she rested but moved again when she was able.

The sun came out and warmed the air to a mild sauna and brought a fresh chorus of birdsong. She tore a yellowish fruit from a branch, ripped open the peel and sucked out the juice and pulp. She nibbled from her pack. Sometime in the afternoon, she threw up.

The sun was setting when she staggered into a wide, lush, verdant-smelling expanse. She stumbled onto the level ground as at the unexpected end of a staircase. Thorns and branches had torn through her lightweight pants; scrapes and scratches stung her arms and legs. None of that mattered if this valley was what it looked like.

Righting herself, she started across ground patched with watery plots of a broad-leafed, red-stemmed plant. The paths between the paddies were raised and dry, but by the time she’d traversed the plots she was more crawling than walking. As twilight deepened, she staggered into a yard and grabbed hold of a low stone bench.

With the culmination of effort, she slumped to her knees. Her joints felt near to separating. She was aware of her skin. Fatigue weighted her head until it rested on the edge of the bench. Her ears thrummed like a hive, and she thought she might faint.

Then a golden light spread over the fragrant yard. The sound of a door opening. Footsteps on the soft, mossy ground and a voice, not unlike the birds whose conversations had filled the hidden spaces of the forest throughout the day. Hello?

No strength to answer.

Hey. The hand on her shoulder was gentle. Are you all right?

Her sand-filled head refused to nod.

Here, sit. The woman helped her onto the bench. I’m Monica.

Raising her eyes, she searched Monica’s heart-shaped face, looked into the dove gray eyes and registered nothing familiar.

Can you tell me your name?

Soaked and shaking, she parted her lips. Her mind groped, but with panic rising in her throat, she whispered, I don’t know.

TWO

Okelani held her hands inches from the stranger’s face as though parting the air over her and stroking it down and away. Plenny fear.

Monica swallowed. She’d recognized confusion, disorientation. But fear? The young woman lay unmoving in the daybed on fresh sheets hung just that day on the lines in the carport. They still smelled of the valley mist and the garden’s blooms. She had probably lost her way on one of the trails through the preserved areas of the island. By the bruising on her limbs and head, it was clear she’d taken at least one fall. Okelani would provide something to treat the scratches and cuts, but beyond that, what should be done?

The old woman’s sensitive hands glided over the air above the woman’s throat and collarbone, breasts, and abdomen. Malice, she murmured, but it nevah start here. With thigh-length black hair streaked with gray, eyes nearly white with film, Okelani floated her hands down the woman’s torso. She could have the cataracts removed, artificial lenses implanted to restore her sight, but she believed that as God clouded her eyes, he deepened her inner vision, gave her understanding she had been too distracted to attend before.

Monica watched in silence as Okelani listened with her hands. She loved the old woman. She trusted her. But through a tight throat, she asked, Should I take her to a doctor?

Okelani lowered her hands to her sides and turned, her body still graceful. Doctor? Huh. Den why she come for you?

That was the question she’d been trying to avoid. Of all the yards for this person to stumble into, why had this woman’s feet brought her here? What should I do?

What you always do. A pillow for her head. Shelter from da storm.

Do you sense a storm?

The old woman turned slowly. Da Lord my light and my salvation. Who I ’fraid of?

Monica knew the words like her own skin, but fear took many forms, and she knew that equally well. She trembled for this stranger, and for herself. She did not have the strength to go through it again. Okelani was telling her the woman had come for a reason. But then, they all did.

A rooster’s crow woke her with a vague sense of unease. Before opening her eyes, she tried to gauge the sensation, to name it. Fear? Too strong. Urgency? Yes. But for what?

She opened her eyes to a preponderance of cacti, one like a heap of bristling snakes, another with folded, cabbage gray leaves like rippled brain tissue. Interspersed were pots and pots of delicate orchids; white, magenta, red speckled. Ferns dangled from the rafters, so that her next thought was of the tropical forest.

The room was the one she’d stumbled into the night before. She must have fallen asleep at once, because she recalled nothing after lying down on the rattan daybed and breathing the scent of freshly laundered sheets. She rose to one elbow. The bed was the color of milk caramel, the sheets frothy cream.

Outside the wide sliding doors, a sheet of gray mist passed. She shuddered. The sense of something pending intensified—but what?

A tap came at the door. The woman from the garden peeked in.

You’re awake. Her eyes were almost the exact color of the rain outside. Did you sleep well?

The disconnect indicated sleep wasn’t a problem. She nodded and winced. Verbal responses would hurt less.

Last night you couldn’t tell me what happened. Or even your name.

Her name . . . How could she not know? She pressed up to sit. I must have hit my head.

You still don’t remember?

Fear stirred. But was the fear that of not knowing? I remember yours. It’s Monica. She clung to that piece of information.

Call me Nica. The women sat down on the edge of the daybed, concern etched on her face. Maybe you should see a doctor. Okelani thinks you have a concussion.

Okelani?

She examined you last night.

Dismay sank in. She had no memory of another person. Nothing.

You were too deeply asleep to notice.

That was some relief, though not when she thought of lying utterly unaware. Anything could have happened. Something already had.

Nica said, Don’t worry. Okelani’s son Clay, the pearl diver, once hit his head so hard he repeated the same things over and over for days.

Am I repeating myself?

Nica smiled. No. You seem to have a gap in your memory.

A gap . . .

Can you tell me anything?

Fear spiraled up. No, I . . . it’s all gone. Maybe she should see a doctor, but an unaccountable hesitation kept her from saying so.

Maybe the police—

No. The word was out before she knew why.

Nica tipped her head. Are you in trouble?

I don’t know. I said that without thinking.

A reaction more instinctive than thought. Nica turned pensive.

Maybe. Without recall, did she function on some primal level? She pressed her palm to her temple.

Okelani thinks someone hurt you. She sensed malice.

Malice. Wouldn’t she know? Maybe she should go to the police. Yet something stronger held her back. I can’t explain it. But I need to wait.

Nica nodded. So what should I call you?

She shook her head, fists clenched. How could everything be gone, as though she’d only begun yesterday?

Nica fingered a succulent plant with leaves like small polished stones. How about Jade?

She gave the room a quick glance. If she was going to be named for a plant that was better than Aloe Vera or Orchid. Jade. Okay. She slipped the name like a thin garment over her nakedness.

Would you like some fruit, Jade?

Maybe a little. She was still queasy, but a bump on the head couldn’t last forever. She’d remember, and then she’d understand. Could you tell me . . . Her mind clogged with questions, all the things she didn’t know. Where am I?

Hanalei. On the island of Kauai.

Kauai?

Nica nodded.

Jade bit her lip. What was she doing on Kauai?

Come and eat something. Nica stood and glanced over her shoulder. It’ll all work out. But her smile didn’t hide the shadow on her face.

Nica looked out through the window to Jade sitting in the garden, and an ache settled in the pit of her stomach. Maybe this time would be different. But if it wasn’t? How many damaged souls could she usher to the portal of death and let go? She still ached from Old Joe’s passing. He’d reached her with his body so full of cancer she’d smelled him before seeing the heap of rags and bones at her steps. She recalled keenly how his fingers had clung to hers, unable to relinquish even the pain until she had banished his fear, giving him a peace she could hardly find herself.

She touched her fingers to the glass. Jade had come like an injured bird, her trouble locked in her mind. She might be nothing more than a clumsy tourist, but Okelani didn’t think so. What storm could be brewing for the woman with no memory? Had someone hurt her, and would they try again?

Like Jade, most of those who came clung to their privacy and what little dignity they had left. She usually involved no one but Okelani, but now she picked up the phone. Jade had said no doctor, no police, so there was only one place to turn.

The rings ended in an abrupt, Cameron Pierce.

"Aloha, Kai."

Nica. He softened perceptibly, though she’d obviously interrupted. It was midmorning on the West Coast.

Are you working on a case?

Shuffling a handful, why?

I have someone who might need your help.

Another stray? His tone communicated his frown.

A woman came to me last night. She doesn’t know who she is.

Right. The word, clipped and skeptical, did not surprise her.

In light of the sorts of things he handled, she could imagine his wheels turning. But once he saw her, he’d realize Jade wasn’t what he thought, that it was as Okelani said; if she was in trouble, the malice was bent on her. A shiver of fear shimmied down her back, though she tried to hide it in her voice and said simply, It would be nice if you could come.

Give it to me on the serious scale—one to ten.

I’m calling, aren’t I?

He expelled a hard breath. I’ll see if Denny’s flying over. His hanging up without saying good-bye was more an indication of his focus than his temperament. He didn’t mean to be rude, but sometimes he trampled the niceties. Like the sea—Okelani had said—at high surf. Nica smiled.

In the dim recess of the cave, something bumped against the arm that had slipped into the cool water, something that felt different enough to stir him from sleep. He moved his hand and took hold of . . . his pack. Water streamed from his elbow as he hauled it up against his chest, hyperventilating with relief and groping it like a loved one.

Though it had been ripped from his back, leaving welts across his waist and chest, it didn’t seem to be damaged. He’d carried the major portion of their provisions, but what he needed most was clean water. He’d avoided drinking from the dark, still pool, intending to hold out until help came, but now he bit the release at the end of the hose and drank.

Heaven.

He furtively rose to one elbow. He’d always bought the best equipment, believing it might matter someday. With fumbling fingers, he checked pocket after pocket. Knife, food, first-aid kit, all protected by the waterproof exterior. Oh, Lord. The words slipped from his mouth with deepest gratitude.

For the first time since dragging himself onto the shelf, he felt true hope, not just wishful thinking. With what he had in the pack, he could hold on. Gentry would have climbed back the way they’d come and found her way out. If she was uninjured and able to hike.

He prayed again that she had not struck the rocks that had battered his legs. If she was out there, wounded . . . He couldn’t think it. He’d seen her surface just before he went over. She’d been carried out and away. She had to be all right. But it bothered him that he’d heard nothing.

Was the cave visible from the other side? The mouth was low, admitting only a half-moon of light, the largest portion underwater, and the waterfall sheeted it. If not for the shelf, he’d be lost. Once again he offered thanks. It was going to be all right. Those details helped him see it. He wasn’t young, but he wasn’t that old either. And he was fit. Remarkably fit. He’d endure the pain. He’d be smart. He’d make it.

After sitting outside between misty showers in the garden, Jade had lain down to rest again in the little porch room in Nica’s house. Sleep seemed to steal up and erase hours at a time, and now the day was waning. Her headache and dizziness had subsided, along with the nausea, though she was still stiff and sore. Her ears rang faintly, but her vision had cleared. And her mind?

She pressed her fingers to her temples and tried . . . but could not come up with the answer to Nica’s most basic question. Sighing, she went upstairs and found a note saying, I’ve gone out. Help yourself for dinner if you’re hungry before I’m back.

Amazingly trusting. A strange woman in her home who refused conventional help and offered no understandable explanation. Why, even she didn’t know. And Nica treated her like a guest.

She wasn’t hungry—only frustrated, discouraged, and a little afraid. For that she had to get outside and think . . . or whatever her brain was doing instead. Taking a walk, she jotted, to the shore. Nica had said the bay was within walking distance. Maybe it would trigger something.

She had a sense of having walked along a shore, wet sand, frothy water licking her ankles. She couldn’t place herself, couldn’t name the strip of beach where her feet had impressed their form, but she could almost feel the sand beneath her toes. Not a memory she could hang a date and location on, but something.

She went out the front door, through the front garden, teeming with a profuse and varied horticulture. She made her way to the road that led past the neighbors’ houses and, with the broad valley and the mountains behind her, headed toward the ocean.

It was farther than she’d thought, but walking felt good, in spite of her aches. The damp evening was redolent with wet earth and vegetation, and she drew the aroma into her lungs. The white leather sandals Nica had lent her grew slippery from the wet ground. No rain fell, but moisture so infused the air that the borrowed cotton sundress, a grayish blue batik, grew thick and clingy.

Balmy winds caught her hair as she waited for a few cars, then crossed the two-lane highway. She passed elegant island estates and neared the grass and sand that stretched down to what Nica had told her was Hanalei Bay. Disappointingly fatigued, she took a seat on a low stone wall and watched a handful of distant surfers bob in the swells.

The setting sun broke through the clouds and spilled gold over the deepening blue of the sea. Whitecaps rolled in, catching the rays in their glassy turquoise arcs before tossing themselves on the sand. By the damp state of things, it must have rained most of the time she slept, but she was still surprised more people were not out enjoying the scene.

She supposed familiarity could leach the magic from anything—unless one was in the unique position of finding nothing familiar, not even oneself. A wave of panic rushed in like the breakers before her. Each time she had awakened, she’d expected it all to come back . . . but found the same blank wall. She didn’t like walls.

And how did she know that? She half smiled. On what did she base such self-awareness? Her smile faded.

Shifting her focus to the bay, she watched her drama played out in nature as the waves rushed in, forgot what they’d come for, and withdrew. She breathed deeply the salt tang of the sea and something smoky cooking nearby. She’d had fresh fruit for breakfast and a plate of rice with strips of grilled chicken for lunch. She might eat again when she returned to Nica’s, but in the meantime, she accepted the gentle caress of the island in contrast to its previous rough handling.

There was no reason to take it personally. Nature was nature. The error would have been hers. A misstep, a wrong turn. If only she could remember.

A brown-and-white sparrow flitted to the path and hopped about at her feet. She watched him court her, darting in and tipping his head, pecking the ground to make his point.

I’m sorry. I have nothing to give you.

The bird hopped along the beaten dirt path, turned his chest to the sun, and flew off for more promising beggary. Or maybe the approaching footsteps sent him off. She glanced at the roundshouldered man who approached from the right and paused.

Hey, aren’t you . . . nah. He shook his head. Sorry. You looked like . . . He gave a little laugh. Name’s Sam. What’s yours?

His question echoed in her void. In golf shirt and baggy, flowered shorts, he seemed anything but dangerous, but wariness crept in nonetheless.

Jade.

Sure. For your beautiful green eyes. The cliché floundered, but he didn’t stop there. What would you say to a fun night on the island? Sam shook the thermos he carried. Mango-passion mai tais. He wiggled eyebrows that, like the pale mustache over his fleshy red lips, bore an unfortunate likeness to mold.

No, thanks. I can’t drink.

He rubbed his cheek, mottled pink from too much sun. A.A.?

Brain damage.

He half laughed before he realized she might be serious, then covered it with a cough. How about a walk on the beach?

She shook her head. Sorry.

Undeterred, he perched himself about five feet from her on the rocky wall. A chunky gold and emerald ring jutted out from his index finger like a promontory when he poured himself a mai tai. He drank it heartily, then bestowed on her the conversational gem, Ice melts quick here; have you noticed?

THREE

She almost left the wall to Mai-Tai Sam and went back to Nica’s, but even as she hoped he’d lose interest and, like the sparrow, leave her for better prospects, someone else approached from the direction she’d come. As he moved toward her without shifting his gaze, she strained to recognize him.

The closely trimmed beard outlined his mouth and jaw in a way she’d always found dramatic—She stopped with a jolt and replayed that thought. Yes. Ever since grade school. She had looked at the posters of the Spanish Conquistadors in their shining armor and crisp beards, and even though their conquests had been rough for the natives, she couldn’t help the thrill that came over her at the sight. The sense of power, even danger.

Dressed in Teva sandals, worn cargo shorts, and a faded navy T-shirt, this man who looked more Hamlet than Cortez had elicited a real glimpse into her past. Could she know him? He stopped beside her perch and fixed her with a piercing indigo stare. No one would be so bold with a stranger. Hope flared.

Jade?

She deflated like a pricked balloon. Yes?

I was told I’d find you here.

She studied his brows, the slight lump on his nose, the chestnut hair cropped and either gelled or naturally unruly in the damp air.

Apprehension touched her spine. Who told you?

Nica.

Sam poured a second mai tai and reestablished his position on the wall. With his trusty thermos he’d gained confidence, mellowing into a better opinion of himself. Or maybe the appearance of a competitor awoke something fierce inside his soft shell. Should she be glad he was there?

We need to talk.

So talk.

He glanced at her companion. I’ve got my truck. Let’s take a drive.

I don’t think so. Her head spun. Her breath quickened. Malice, Nica had said. Was he there to see if she could identify him? He could claim to be anyone, and she wouldn’t know.

What’s the matter? His eyes glinted.

Nothing. Everything. Why couldn’t she think? Concussion. Brain injury. And if she’d been injured why hadn’t she gone to the police? The resistance had been so strong, yet now it seemed foolish in the extreme.

He frowned. Look, Nica’s—

How do I know you know her? You could be anyone. You haven’t even given me a name. Which at least Sam had done right off.

He took out his wallet and flipped it open. Pierce. His last name matched Nica’s. Cameron Pierce. Great picture. Who took a good driver’s license picture? That alone was suspicious. Except that the resemblance to his sister was striking, more obvious in the photo than in person, where his masculine presence superceded their similar features.

She looked up. Even if that’s real, I’m not leaving with you. We can talk here.

You might find my questions sensitive. Again he glanced at Sam.

At Nica’s, then. I’ll meet you—

No. He shook his head. I don’t want her upset.

Do you plan to be upsetting?

Nica’s way too trusting. She wouldn’t see through the Invisible Man.

Under other circumstances she might enjoy his wit.

A couple of teenagers passed by them, toting their boards, and the breeze wafted their sea-soaked scent. Cameron must have seen her digging in her figurative heels, because he slipped his wallet into his pocket and said, There’s not really a choice here.

Au contraire. She shifted position on the wall, adjusting the drape of the dress over her legs and sending the silent message that this location suited her fine. If she’d been the victim of an attack and had no recollection of whom to blame, everyone was suspect. The way he got under her skin could be nothing more than his arrogance, or it could be an internal warning.

Add to that the frenetic way her mind kept processing every detail of his face, physique, and manner. . . . Frustration took hold, then aggravation. Before she could voice it, his cell phone rang. He checked the source and turned away to take the call.

She glanced to her side, wondering if she should bolt.

Sam had developed a glaze. Walk on the beach? He grinned.

She’d underestimated Mr. Mango-Passion. The more buzzed he got, the better his chances seemed.

I’m sorry, no.

You’re tough. He nodded toward Nica’s brother. I don’t feel so bad anymore.

You will in the morning.

He laughed as though it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

That was good. Quick and snappy.

‘Brevity is the soul of wit.’ The instant rejoinder sent a quiver of familiarity. She’d used that phrase before. Not just in conversation, but what? Instruction?

Sam’s mood shifted from amused to melancholy. He looked ready to beg, but Cameron finished his call and turned.

Ready?

Flanked by pathetic and pathological, she almost laughed. For what?

I’m parked right over there. He splayed his fingers toward someplace behind her.

Saves you wandering around.

He hung his thumbs from his cargo shorts. Let me put it this way; I’m half owner of the house Nica calls home. I have eviction power.

One for and one against.

His eyes took on the deepest ocean hue, the part where chance of survival would be negligible. I’m persuasive.

A brown gecko skittered across the path as the sky grayed around them, silhouetting a fringe of coconut palms. Her beautiful evening was drawing to a close and had been anything but peaceful. I don’t know what you hope to accomplish. You can ask all the questions you want, but I can’t tell you anything more than I told Nica. I wish I could. She countered the plaintive note with a square-shouldered pose that said back off. She had enough to deal with.

Cameron Pierce was spectacularly slow on the uptake. He motioned toward his truck, and this time she turned enough to see a black Tacoma parked with the bed toward them, sea turtle decals on the rear window. Hardly a symbol of malevolence, but still.

She didn’t recognize the vehicle, but that meant nothing; she didn’t recognize herself in the mirror. Even without her vague, sustained anxiety, common sense would keep her from accepting the ride. She shook her head.

If I were a predator, I wouldn’t have wasted time arguing.

Maybe I know karate.

Maybe you don’t.

He didn’t seem the predator type, but her senses were raw, her mind washed clean of any recollection that might identify him. She had nothing but her impressions to go by.

Sam burped discreetly, watching without interfering. While he didn’t mind begging, she must not be worth fighting for. Maybe he’d assessed his chances in a clash with Cameron Pierce as nil. Nica’s brother exuded a confidence one either respected or resented, but couldn’t ignore.

So he took her by surprise when he heaved a sigh and said, Okay. I’ll walk you back to Nica’s. She hadn’t expected a concession from the conqueror god with the clipped beard and haughty countenance. But then, how accurate were her perceptions? Maybe Sam was the psychopath and Cameron—

Walk, amble, before it gets dark. . .  He swept his hand in the direction they should go.

By whatever means her mind currently operated, she decided to accept his graceless offer. If they stayed in the open, where she had room to run and scre—

She felt the vibration in her throat, chords stretched, tissue inflamed. Her fingers went to her throat. Something flickered like a minnow gleaming for a second in a sunlit stream. Another flick and it was gone. But it had been there and left a residue of fear.

She had expected to remember something by now, but there’d been nothing until Nica’s brother triggered, if not memories, at least the sensation of memory. And even though the sensation seemed closest to fear, she clung to it—nature abhorring a vacuum. For that reason more than anything else, she got up and started back the way she’d come.

Cameron fell into step, slowing when they neared his truck, then picking it up when she stalked past. Let me get this straight, he said.

You don’t know who you are or how you got here.

Yet.

You have no ID, no money, nothing but a swelling on the brain.

Are you saying I have a big head?

He slid her a sidelong glance, acknowledging her attempt at humor without finding it humorous. Sam was a better audience. Again a sensation of déjà vu.

You have no idea what happened?

A pang squeezed her. I must have had an accident.

But you haven’t reported it.

How could she explain her unease without raising his suspicions?

Getting lost isn’t a crime.

And yet no one’s reported you missing.

She stopped. How do you know?

I asked.

Her jaw fell slack. You went to the police?

His eyes turned flinty. Is that a problem?

Was it? She didn’t know. She could have gone to the authorities herself, but hadn’t. Nica had respected that. Her brother must not be so inclined. My situation is not your business.

Your situation involves my sister.

And that obviously gave him carte blanche.

I asked the local authorities if there’d been any recent missing-person reports.

And there hadn’t. She didn’t know how to feel about that. You told them about me?

Nica asked me not to.

She started walking again. Nica at least had sway with him, and he was possibly not as unreasonable as he seemed. No report, she mused. Then there must be no one here to miss me.

I wouldn’t lay long odds on that.

Why not?

You’re not the type to travel alone.

She turned. And you would know this because . . .

It’s my job.

You’re a fortune-teller?

The corners of his mouth quirked. I investigate fraud.

What kind?

Insurance. Criminal schemes. False claims.

You think I’m faking?

It’s possible.

Honest. Direct. Irritating. Who could ask for anything more?

And how would I file a claim? What name would I use? Her steps had quickened with her agitation. What social security number?

You’ve considered the angles.

She shook her head. You’re like a hypochondriac physician. You see fraud in every face. But believe me, I’d rather know— Would she? What if she’d blocked her memories because they were too painful, or too frightening? And why was she trying