Hiding in the Shadows

FAITH

She opened her eyes abruptly, as though waking from a nightmare, conscious of her heart pounding and the sound of her quick, shallow breathing in the otherwise silent room. She couldn't remember the dream, but her shaking body and runaway pulse told her it had been a bad one. She closed her eyes and for several minutes concentrated only on climbing down.

Gradually, her heart slowed and her breathing steadied. Okay. Okay. That was better. Much better.

She didn't like being scared.

She opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling.

Gradually a niggling awareness of something being different made her turn her head slowly on the pillow so that she could look around the room.

It wasn't her room.

Her other senses began waking up then. She heard the muffled, distant sounds of activity just beyond the closed door. She smelled sickness and medicine, the distinct odors of people and machines and starch. She noted the Spartan quality of the room she was in, the hospital bed she was lying on — and the IV dripping into her arm. All of that told her she was in a hospital.

Why?

It took a surprising effort to raise her head and look down at herself; her neck felt stiff, and a rush of nausea made her swallow hard. But she forced herself to look, to make sure all of her was there.

Both arms. Both legs. Nothing in a cast. Her feet moved when she willed them to. Not paralyzed, then.

Good.

With an effort, she raised the arm not hooked to the IV until she could see her hand. It was unnervingly small, not childlike but ... fragile.

The short nails were ragged and looked bitten, and the skin was milky pale. She turned it slowly and stared at the palms, the pads of her fingers. No calluses, but there was a slight roughness to her skin that told her she was accustomed to work.

Afraid of what she might find, she touched her face with light, probing fingers. The bones seemed prominent, and the skin felt soft and smooth. There was no evidence of an injury until she reached her right temple. There, a square adhesive bandage and a faint soreness underneath it told her she'd suffered some kind of cut.

But not a bad one, she thought, and certainly not a big one. The bandage was small, two or three square inches.

Beyond the bandage, she found her hair limp and oily, which told her it hadn't been washed recently. She pulled at a strand and was surprised that it was long enough for her to see. It was mostly straight, with only a hint of curl. And it was red. A dark, dull red.

Now why did that surprise her?

For the first time, she let herself become aware of what had been crawling in her subconscious, a cold and growing fear she dared not name. She realized — she was lying perfectly still now, her arms at her sides, her hands clenched into fists, staring at the ceiling as if she would find the answers there.

She was only slightly injured, so why was she there? Because she was ill? What was wrong with her?

Why did her body feel so appallingly weak?

And far, far worse, why couldn't she remember...

"Oh, my God."

The nurse in the doorway came a few steps into the room, moving slowly, her eyes wide with surprise.

Then professionalism took over, and she swallowed and said brightly, if a bit unsteadily, "You...you're awake. We were ... beginning to wonder about you, Fa... Miss Parker."

Parker.

"I'll get the doctor."

She lay there waiting, not daring to think about the fact that she hadn't known her own name, and still didn't beyond that unfamiliar surname. It seemed an eternity that she waited, while cold and wordless terrors clawed through her mind and churned in her stomach, before a doctor appeared. He was tall, on the thin side, with a sensitive mouth and very brilliant, very dark eyes.

"So you're finally awake." His voice was deep and warm, his smile friendly. He grasped her wrist lightly as he stood by the bed, discreetly taking her pulse. "Can you tell me your name?"

She wet her lips and said huskily, "Parker." Her voice sounded rusty and unused, and her throat felt scratchy.

He didn't look surprised; likely the nurse had confessed that she had provided that information. "What about your first name?"

She tried not to cry out in fear. "No. No, I... I don't remember that."

"Do you remember what happened to you?"

"No."

"How about telling me what year this is?"

She concentrated, fought down that icy, crawling panic. There was nothing in her mind but blankness, a dark emptiness that frightened her almost beyond words. No sense of identity or knowledge. Nothing.

Nothing.

"I don't remember."

"Well, try not to worry about it," he said soothingly. "A traumatic event frequently results in amnesia, but it's seldom permanent. Things will probably start to come back to you now that you're awake."

"Who are you?" she asked, because it was the least troubling question she could think of.

"My name is Dr. Burnett, Nick Burnett. I've been your doctor since you were admitted. Your name is Faith Parker."

Faith Parker. It didn't stir even the slightest sense of familiarity.

"Is ... is it?"

He smiled gently. "Yes. You're twenty-eight years old, single, and in pretty good shape physically, though you could stand to gain a few pounds." He paused, then went on in a calm tone completely without judgment. "You were involved in a single-car accident, which the police blame on the fact that you'd had a few drinks on top of prescription muscle relaxants. The combination made you plow your car into an embankment."

She might have been listening to a description of someone else, for all the memory it stirred.

The doctor continued. "It also turned out to be highly toxic to your system. You appear to be unusually sensitive to alcohol, and that, along with the drug, put you into a coma. However, aside from the gash on your head, which we've kept covered to minimize scarring, and a few bruised ribs, which have already healed, you're fine."

There were so many questions swirling through her mind that she could grab only one at random.

"Was... was anyone else hurt in the accident?"

"No. You were alone in the car, and all you hit was the embankment."

Something he'd said a minute ago tugged at her.

"You said ... my ribs had healed by now. How long have I been here?"

"Six weeks."

She was shocked. "So long? But ..." She wasn't sure what she wanted to ask, but her anxiety was growing with every new fact.

"Let's try sitting up a bit, shall we?" Not waiting for her response, he used a control to raise the head of the bed a few inches.

When she closed her eyes, he stopped the movement. "The dizziness should pass in a minute."

She opened her eyes slowly, finding that he was right. But there was little satisfaction in that, with all the questions and worries overwhelming her. And panic. A deep, terrifying panic. "Doctor, I can't know I have insurance, and if I don't, I don't know how I'll pay for six weeks in a hospital. I don't even know what address to give the cabdriver when I go... go home."

"Listen to me, Faith." His voice was gentle. "There's no reason for you to worry, especially not about money. Your medical insurance from work hadn't started yet, but arrangements have already been made to pay your hospital bill in full. And I understand that a trust fund has been set up for you when you leave here. There should be plenty of money, certainly enough to live on for several months while you get your life back in order."

That astonishing information made her panic recede somewhat, but she was bewildered. "A trust fund? Set up for me? But who would do that?"

"A friend of yours. A good friend. She came to visit you twice a week until..." Something indefinable crossed his face and then vanished, and he went on quickly. "She wanted to make certain you got the best of care and had no worries when you left here."

"But why? The accident obviously wasn't her fault, since I was alone ..."

Unless this friend had encouraged her to drink or hadn't taken her car keys away when she had gotten drunk?

"I couldn't tell you why, Faith. Except that she was obviously concerned about you."

Faith felt a rush of pain that she couldn't remember so good a friend.

"What's her name?"

"Dinah Leighton."

It meant no more to Faith than her own name.

Dr. Burnett was watching her carefully. "We have the address of your apartment, which I understand is waiting for your return. Miss Leighton seemed less certain that you would want to go back to your oh, apartment i believe is one of the reasons she made it possible for you to have the time to look around, perhaps even return to school or do something you've always wanted to do."

She felt tears prickle and burn. "Something I've always wanted to do. Except I can't remember anything I've always wanted to do. Or anything I've done. Or even what I look like ... "

He grasped her hand and held it strongly. "It will come back to you, Faith. You may never remember the hours immediately preceding and following the accident, but most of the rest will return in time. Coma does funny things to the body and the mind."

She sniffed, and tried to concentrate, to hold on to facts and avoid thinking of missing memories. "What kinds of things?"

Still holding her hand, he drew a visitor's chair to the bed and sat down. "To the body, what you'd expect after a traumatic accident and weeks of inactivity. Muscle weakness. Unstable blood pressure. Dizziness and digestive upset from lying prone and having no solid food. But all those difficulties should disappear once you've been up and about for a few days, eating regular meals and exercising."

"What about ... the mind? What other kinds of problems can be caused by coma?"

The possibilities lurking in her imagination were terrifying. What if she never regained her memory? What if she found herself unable to do the normal things people did every day, simple things like buttoning a shirt or reading a book? What if whatever skills and knowledge she'd needed in her work were gone forever and she was left with no way to earn a living?

"Sometimes things we don't completely understand," the doctor confessed. "Personality changes are common. Habits and mannerisms are sometimes different. The emotions can be volatile or, conversely, bland. You may find yourself getting confused at times, even after your memory returns, and panic attacks are more likely than not."

She swallowed. "Great."

Dr. Burnett smiled. "On the other hand, you may suffer no aftereffects whatsoever. You're perfectly lucid, and we've done our best to reduce muscle atrophy and other potential problems. Physical therapy should be minimal, I'd say. Once your memory returns, you may well find yourself as good as ever."

He sounded so confident that Faith let herself believe him, because the alternative was unbearable.

Trying not to think about that, she asked, "What about family? Do I have any family?"

"Miss Leighton told us you have no family in Atlanta. There was a sister, I understand, but I believe both she and your parents were killed some years ago."

Faith wished she felt something about that. "And I'm single. Do I... Is there..."

"I'm sure you must have dated," he said kindly, "but evidently there was no one special, at least not in the last few months. You've had no male visitors, no cards or letters, and only Miss Leighton sent flowers, as far as I'm aware."

So she was alone, but for this remarkably good friend.

She felt alone, and considerably frightened.

He saw it. "Everything seems overwhelming right now, I know. it's too much to process, too much to deal with. But you have time, Faith. There's no need to push yourself, and no reason to worry. Take it step by step."

She drew a breath. "All right. What's the first step? "

"We get you up on your feet and moving." He smiled and rose from the chair. "But not too fast. Today, we'll have you gradually sit up, maybe try standing, and monitor your reaction to that. We'll see how your stomach reacts to a bit of solid food. How's that to start?"

She managed a smile. "Okay."

"Good." He squeezed her hand and released it, then hesitated.

Seeing his face, she said warily, "What?"

"Well, since you might want to read the newspapers or watch television to catch up on things, I think I should warn you about something."

"About what?"

"Your friend Miss Leighton. She's been missing for about two weeks."

"Missing? You mean she she stopped coming to visit me?"

There was sympathy in his dark eyes. "I mean she disappeared. She was reported missing, and though her car was found abandoned some time later, she hasn't been seen since."

Faith was surprised by the rush of emotions she felt.

Confusion. Shock. Disappointment. Regret. And, finally, a terrible pain at the knowledge that she was now completely alone.

Dr. Burnett patted her hand, but seemed to realize that no soothing words would make her feel better. He didn't offer any, just went away quietly.

She lay there staring up at the white, blank ceiling, which was as empty as her mind.

He laughed at her, the sound rich with amusement.

"Well, bow was I to know you couldn't boil water without ruining the pot?"

"I just forgot," she defended herself with spirit. "I had more important things on my mind."

He shook his head, fair hair gleaming like spun gold and a wry expression on his handsome face. "To be honest, I'm glad there are a few things you don't do well. If you were Perfect, I wouldn't know how to cope. "

She reached out a hand and touched his face, the backs of her fingers stroking downward in a quick caress. Her hands were strong and beautiful, well kept, the neat oval nails polished a vivid red. She felt the slight bristle of his evening beard, a scratchiness that was familiar and pleasant, even erotic. It made her breath catch at the back of her throat, and her voice emerged more husky than she had expected.

"I may not be Perfect, but I'm starving. And since I ruined dinner, I thought maybe we could go out."

"Only if you're buying," he said, still humorous even though his eyes darkened in response to what he heard in her voice. "I refuse to buy dinner for a woman who ruined three pots and really stunk up my kitchen.

"You needed new pots anyway, she said, and danced away, laughing, when he lunged at her. But she didn't try too hard to escape, and when his hands were on her, strong and sure and exciting, she let herself melt against him. Their bodies fit together as though they'd been designed to, and his mouth on hers was still a shock of wild, overwhelming pleasure, instantly seductive. But as always, the warning voice in her bead told her not to yield completely, to hold back something of herself because she knew how this would end, she knew it. And as always, she ignored the warning and reached eagerly for what he offered.

A burst of heat raced through her and her heart began to pound, and when his hands slid down her back to curve over her bottom and hold her even tighter against him...

Faith woke with a start, shaken yet also exultant.

There was a man in her life. Or had been.

She closed her eyes and tried to recapture the image of his face, pleased when it rose easily an vividly in her mind. That gleaming, spun-gold hair, a little longer than the current fashion, even a bit shaggy — and decidedly sexy. Gray eyes steady and intelligent, going silvery with laughter. Firm, humorous mouth, determined jaw. Deep, strong voice.

And the way he'd looked at her ... Faith shivered and opened her eyes, realizing that her cheeks were hot and she was smiling helplessly, that the quiver deep inside her was something other than fear and panic. She swore she could smell the cologne he used, that pleasant scent mixed with the sharper, clean fragrance of soap.

Then that sensory memory abandoned her, leaving only his face distinct in her mind. She held on to it — fiercely.

Her room was quiet but for the murmur of the television, tuned to CNN.

She was almost sitting up, the head of the bed raised because she'd been looking through magazines before she'd suddenly fallen asleep.

She still did that sometimes, even though it had been almost a week since she'd come out of the coma. Days of painful transition, of moving from a patient who was bedridden and totally dependent on the nursing staff to one slowly and cautiously reclaiming independence.

Small movements had required a great effort at first, and walking even more so. Her muscles were weak and slow to obey her, though daily physical therapy was gradually changing that. Her blood pressure had stabilized, but her stomach still had trouble with solid foods.

The removal of the feeding tube had been surprisingly painless and would leave only a tiny scar, but having the catheter taken out had not been pleasant.

Three days ago she had actually made it into the bathroom on her own, and had spent long minutes staring into the mirror at a face she didn't know. A thin, pale face, framed by mostly straight, dull red hair that fell just below her shoulders. Her green eyes were very clear and strong, but the remainder of her features struck her as less than memorable. Straight nose, generous mouth, determined chin.

Some might call her pretty, perhaps.

She had discovered that she was only a few inches over five feet, very slender, and fine boned. She had small breasts and virtually no hips — minimal curves at best. She thought her legs were okay, or would be once they began to hold her up for more than a few minutes at a time.

Yesterday morning she had taken a long, luxurious bath, and though a nurse had had to help her dry her hair afterward because she'd used up all her strength, the results had been worth it. She felt much better.

As for her hair, the dull red had become a rich auburn, which made her pale face look luminous.

It was a face, she thought now, that in lit attract a handsome man with gleaming blond hair. A man with intelligent gray eyes and a way of leveling them when he spoke that said he was accustomed to getting what he wanted.

What was his name? And if they were so involved that physical intimacy had been very much a part of the relationship, why had he never come to visit her?

That bothered her. A lot. But the flowers from Dinah Leighton continued to arrive once a week, even after her own disappearance.

Faith had gotten up the nerve to call the florist and had found that the order had been paid ahead for another week.

Obviously, no one else cared enough even to acknowledge Faith's presence in the hospital — or her absence from the life she had led before the accident.

Where was that blond man?

How could he be so vivid in her mind — her only real memory — if he had not been a recent part of her life?

A nurse came in carrying a stack of magazines. "I brought you a few more, honey." She was a motherly woman with a warm voice and gentle hands, an dover the last few days she had been the most helpful and encouraging of the nurses.

"Thanks, Kathy." She eyed the short, neat, unpolished nails of the nurse, then looked at her own still-ragged ones. "Kathy, do you happen to have a nail file?"

"I'll get one for you." Kathy put the magazines on the bed and smiled at her with genuine pleasure.

"You're looking much better today, honey. And obviously feeling better."

Faith smiled at her. "I am, thanks."

"Dr. Burnett will be pleased. You're one of his favorites, you know."

Faith had to laugh. "Because he wants to write that paper on me, and we both know it. Not too many long-term-coma patients wake up."

"That's true," Kathy said soberly. "And those who do tend to be in much worse shape than you are, honey. With you, it's almost like you were just sleeping."

Faith didn't feel as though she had just been sleeping, but said only, "I know how lucky I am, believe me. And you and the other nurses have been terrific."

That makes a difference.

Kathy patted Faith's shoulder, said, "I'll go get that nail file," and left the room.

It was easy enough to say the right words. Faith had been doing that for days now. She had been positive and upbeat. She had listened closely to the psychiatrist on staff and obediently followed her advice to take things one step at a time. She had agreed with the nurses' cheerful predictions that her life would get back on track sooner rather than later. She had read newspapers and magazines and watched television to catch up on current events. She had made herself smile at Dr. Burnett when he visited and had not mentioned the devastating panic that was always with her and how she often woke in the night terrified by the blankness inside herself. She had some knowledge now, but almost all of it dated from the moment she'd opened her eyes in the hospital. The nurses' faces were familiar, as were the doctors'. The layout of her floor and that of the physical therapy rooms two stories above.

These things she knew.

And there was, absent from her mind until someone asked her a direct question, the sort of knowledge that came from a normal education. She had completed several crossword puzzles, and a game show she had found on television had shown her that she had some awareness of history and science.

Facts. Dates. Occurrences.

Fairly useless trivia, for the most part.

But of memories, all she had, all she could claim as her own dating from that otherwise blank part of her life, were the dreams of a blond man she thought she had loved.

There had been two other dreams before today, and they were brief and very similar; just scenes from a relationship, casual and intimate. Each time, the scene had erupted into laughter and ended in lovemaking.

But she still didn't remember his name.

She hadn't mentioned the dreams to anyone. They were something all her own, a piece of herself not given to her by someone else, and she held on to them as to an anchor.

"Here you go, Faith." Kathy returned to the room and handed her the nail file. "Before you start working on those nails, how about a trip around the floor? Doctor's orders."

Faith was more than ready to move. Painful as it still was, at least it allowed her to concentrate on muscles and bones and balance, instead of having to keep thinking and wondering.

"You bet," she said, and threw back the covers.

On November fourteenth, three weeks after waking up from her coma and nine weeks after the accident, Faith went home.

She was not fully recovered. She still got tired very easily, her sleep was erratic and disturbed by dreams she remembered and nightmares she didn't, and her emotional state was, to say the least, fragile.

Dr. Burnett drove her to her apartment, claiming it was on his way home but fooling nobody. He had several times shown himself more than a little protective of Faith.

Faith was more than happy to accept his escort.

She was nervous and panicky, afraid the place where she lived would add memories. Terrified it would not.

She wore her own clothes, thanks to Dinah Leighton's foresight in packing a bag for her and taking it to the hospital just a week after the accident, but though the slacks and sweater fit fairly well, she was uncomfortable in them. Perhaps it was because she had spent so much time in a nightgown.

Her apartment was on the sixth floor of a nice but ordinary building in a suburb of Atlanta. No doorman or guard greeted them, but everything looked clean and in good repair, and the elevator worked smoothly.

Dr. Burnett came in with her, carrying her small overnight bag, which he set down by the door. "Why don't we take a look around?" he suggested, watching her. "I don't want to leave you until you're comfortable here."

Faith accepted the suggestion because she didn't want to be alone.

The apartment was ... nice. Ordinary. There was one bedroom; the queen-size brass bed had a floral, ruffled comforter set, with lots of pillows tossed against the shams. Curtains at the single window matched the comforter. There was a nightstand and a chair, both white wicker and a white laminated dresser with an oval wicker-framed mirror hanging above it. The color scheme was white and pink.

Faith thought it an odd choice for a redhead, and rather girlish.

The one bathroom was small and standard, with white tiles and plain fixtures. The rugs, towels, and curtains on the window and shower bore another floral pattern, this one with pink and purple predominating.

The kitchen was also standard, white cabinets and a neutral counter top blending perfectly with the vinyl floor. There was a small breakfast table, again of white wicker and glass, with a cheap area rug underneath it. Little attempt had been made to personalize the space as far as Faith could see. There were no place mats on the table, and except for a coffeemaker, nothing cluttered the counter tops.

The living room struck her as having been recently decorated, and she had the feeling — certainly not a memo that some picture in a magazine had been the inspiration. The intended style might have been shabby chic, with distressed wood, lots of texture in materials, and antique-looking accessories.

It didn't quite work, though she couldn't have explained why.

"Nice place," Burnett said.

She nodded, even as she wondered why the little apartment felt stifling to her. Was it the several locks on the door, an indication of someone who had shut the world out herself in? Faith didn't know, but it disturbed her.

She shrugged out of her jacket and left it over a chair, then returned to the kitchen and checked the cabinets and the refrigerator.

"Sloan was as good as his word," she noted, seeing the stock of foods.

The lawyer had come to see her several days ago, after being notified by Dr. Burnett that she was up to having visitors. He had explained the financial situation, including Dinah Leighton's arrangements to pay the hospital bill and the trust fund she had set up for Faith's use. Her disappearance, he had explained without emotion, changed none of that.

In addition, Faith's regular monthly bills had been paid, including recently incurred debts. She wasn't to worry, everything had been taken care of.

Then he had promised to have her apartment cleaned and stocked with food, ready for her return.

All per Dinah's careful arrangements.

Faith had been given a generous amount of cash, and her checking account, he told her, had been credited with even more. In add' on to that, her rent had been paid for the next six months.

it had been too overwhelming for Faith to think about then, and now she felt a prickle of uneasiness.

All this from a friend? Why?

"My advice," Burnett said cheerfully, "is to fix yourself something simple for dinner or order in a pizza, and have an early night. Familiarize yourself with where everything is. Make yourself comfortable here." He smiled at her perceptively. "Stop thinking so much, Faith. Give yourself time."

She knew he was right. And she was even able to say bye to him calmly, promising to return to the scheduled appointments in a few days for a checkup and hospital another session with the physical therapist.

Then she was alone.

She locked the door, turned on the television in the living room for company and background noise, and looked again through the apartment.

This time, she looked more closely.

Her initial puzzlement took on a chill of unease.

There was no history here. No photographs, either displayed or tucked away in drawers. And very little to indicate her interests. A few books, mostly recent bestsellers that ran the gamut of genres, and many of those apparently unread.

She found plenty of clothes in the drawers and closet, and the bathroom held the usual supplies of soap and shampoo, moisturizers and bubble bath and disposable razors, and a small toiletry bag of makeup containing the basics, all new or nearly so. A blow dryer and a curling iron were stowed in the cabinet below the sink.

What there was not was evidence that a woman had lived here for more than a few weeks or months.

No old lipsticks or dried-up mascaras in the drawers.

No unused foundation compacts that had turned out to be the wrong shade. No nearly empty tubes of moisturizer or hand lotion. No fingernail polish or remover. No samples given out at cosmetics counters in practically every store in the world.

Either Faith Parker was the neatest woman alive ... or she had spent very little time here.

She went into the living room and sat down at the small desk tucked away in a corner. The single drawer held only a few things. A small address book showing meager entries—names, addresses, and phone numbers that meant nothing to her. Her checkbook and a copy of her lease, both of which indicated that she had lived here for nearly eighteen months before the accident.

There were regular deposits made on Fridays, obviously her salary, which was enough to live on without living particularly well; some months it appeared that ends had barely met. Checks had been written to the usual places, some of which matched entries in the address book. Grocery stores, department stores, hair salons, dentist, a couple of restaurants, a pharmacy, a women's clinic, a computer store.

A computer store.

Faith looked slowly around the room with a frown. According to the register, she had bought a laptop computer on a payment plan only a few weeks before the accident. It should be here.

It wasn't.

She'd had only a purse with her when she rammed her car into that embankment, they'd told her. So why wasn't the computer here?

On the heels of that question, the phone on the desk rang suddenly, startling her. Faith had to take a deep, steadying breath before she could pick up the receiver.

"Miss Parker, this is Edward Sloan." The lawyer's voice was brisk. "Forgive me for disturbing you on your first day home, but I thought there was something you should know."

"What is it, Mr. Sloan?"

"The service I hired to clean your apartment this week found it in ... unusual disarray."

"Meaning I'm a slob?" she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

"No, Miss Parker, I think not. Many drawers had been emptied onto the floor, pillows and other things scattered about. It had all the earmarks of a burglary, perhaps interrupted in progress, since nothing appeared to have been taken. This was three days ago. Knowing you were still in the hospital, I took the liberty of acting in your stead. I reported the matter to the police, then met them at your apartment. They took the report, took photos of the place, and questioned others in the building. But since no one saw or heard anything out of the ordinary, and since your television and stereo were still there and nothing had been damaged as far as we could determine, no further action was taken."

"I see," she murmured.

"The cleaning service was allowed to do their job immediately afterward. They were instructed to put things back in place as neatly as possible, and to use their judgment as to where everything belonged. Do you have any complaints on that score, Miss. Parker?"

"No."

"Have you discovered anything missing?"

He knew about her amnesia, but it seemed an automatic, lawyer's question.

"No," Faith repeated, looking down at the checkbook entry concerning the computer. She did not want to mention it, though she couldn't explain why, even to herself. "Nothing."

"If you do discover anything, you'll let me know?"

"Of course, Mr. Sloan." She hesitated. "There is one thing. You said that all my recently incurred debts had been paid?"

"Yes."

"How did you know about them, Mr. Sloan?"

"Miss Leighton supplied that information, Miss Parker. I believe she took the liberty of going through your desk to get a correct accounting. Other than regular monthly bills such as utilities, rent, a small credit card balance, and so on, there were two recently incurred debts. One for a laptop computer, which Miss Leighton informed me had been in her possession since your accident, and the other for new living room furniture. Both accounts were paid in full."

"I see." She swallowed. "Thank you, Mr. Sloan."

"My pleasure, Miss Parker." He hung up.

So Dinah Leighton had the laptop that Faith had bought weeks before her accident. Why? And where was it now?

Her thoughts were whirling, confused. Then, to make matters much, much worse, she caught a glimpse of something on the television. She lunged for the remote and turned up the sound.

"Kane Macgregor, one of those closest to the missing woman, expressed his trust in the efforts of the police to find her," the off-camera voice intoned solemnly.

The blond man before the cameras looked tired, his face drawn and thin, his gray eyes haunted. Numerous microphones were thrust at him. A question Faith could barely hear was asked, and he replied in a deep voice that made a warm shiver course through her.

"No, I have not given up hope. The police are making every effort to find her, and I believe they will do so. In the meantime, if anyone watching has any information they believe could help locate Dinah" His calm voice quivered just a bit on the name-"they should call the police and report it as soon as possible."

"Mr. Macgregor, have you called in the FBI?" one reporter shouted out.

"No, the matter is not within their jurisdiction. We have no evidence that Dinah has been kidnapped," he answered.

"Have you hired a private investigator?"

Kane Macgregor smiled thinly. "Of course I have. I'm doing everything in my power to find Dinah."

"Which is why you're offering a million dollars to anyone providing evidence that would locate Miss Leighton alive and well?"

"Exactly." He drew a breath, the strain really beginning to show on his lean face. "Now, if you people don't mind..."

"One last question, Mr. Macgregor. Are you engaged to Miss Leighton?"

For an instant, it seemed Kane Macgregor's face would crack open and all his wild emotions would come spilling out. But it didn't happen, and only his voice, harsh with pain, revealed what he was feeling.

"Yes. We are engaged." Then he pushed his way through the reporters, followed closely by a tall, dark man with a scarred face, and both disappeared into a waiting car.

Faith found herself sitting on the couch, her arms hugging a pillow to her breasts, dazed, no longer hearing the news broadcast.

Kane Macgregor was the man in her dreams. And he was Dinah's fiancée. She was having dreams about Dinah's fiancée? Intimate dreams?

Pain, hot and cold like a knife made of ice, sliced through her. She heard herself breathing in shallow pants, felt her heart thudding, her body trembling.

Had he been her lover first? Had their relationship ended a long time ago, before Dinah came along? Or was Kane Macgregor's haunted, grieving face hiding the knowledge that he'd been involved with her and Dinah at the same time?

Then Faith went even colder.

Dinah was missing. Faith had been in a serious accident.

Did it mean something?

Her apartment had been broken into after her accident, and though she couldn't know for certain if anything had been taken, the lack of personal papers and photographs was decidedly unnatural.

Did it mean something? Anything?

Why couldn't she remember?

"Oh, God," she whispered. "What's happening?"