“Denise…” I say.
“Yes?”
“When you fingerprinted me yesterday, did you find out anything about me? My address, for instance?”
“You still don’t know where you live?”
I shake my head. “I’m staying at my boyfriend’s house.”
She raises her eyebrows. “So you trust him?”
“He might be the more trustworthy one between the two of us.”
This almost gets a laugh out of Denise.
“I would like to know where I live, though.” So far I’ve only seen myself in relation to JP, Max, and now Jules the underwear model. At this point am I really figuring out who I am, or am I just figuring out what kind of girlfriend I am—who JP and MaxthinkI am? Should I even care? Who the hell are they, even? I’m so fucking confused.
“Come with me to the station,” she says. “I pulled your record yesterday.”
“Are we done here?” I ask in surprise.
“I’ve seen all I need to see,” she says with another arched eyebrow.
Denise doesn’t drive a real cop car, which is a slight disappointment. No lights on top or cage in the back. It’s not even an unmarked Dodge Charger or anything sexy. It’s tan and nondescript. If it were a guy, he’d be named Mike Nelson and I would be surprised to remember I went to school with him every time I scanned the yearbook. This is the car equivalent ofoh yeah, that guy.Then again, I wouldn’t have remembered my own name if Siri hadn’t told me, so nothing against Mike.
At any rate, it’s a lame car and I bet Denise wishes she’d been something cooler than a cop. Look at me. I have no money or memories prior to the last few days, but at least I’m driving a Ferrari.
Once we’re in the car, she looks at me very seriously, like a mom about to have a conversation with her daughter about herpes or consent—definitely something sex related. Those are ninety percent of serious conversations with daughters, which is fucked up, right? Shouldn’t we talk about self-actualization or what to do if you wake up without your memory?
“Miss Wallace, do you have any family or friends to rely on?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Do you feel safe where you’re staying? Have you been seeing the man you gave all your money to?”
“I feel safe. And I know who I gave the money to. It’s all legit, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t coerce it out of me.” I pause, afraid to ask the one question that’s been lingering all day. “Did you find out something about JP that I should know?”
“Nothing,” she says. “He has a clean record.”
I can tell she’s thinking about saying something else, but she bites her tongue. Before we know it, we’re at the police station, five minutes away from Wells Fargo, just long enough for one almost-conversation about herpes, or about how women shouldn’t define themselves through the men they’re with, et cetera, et cetera. But we all have to define ourselves in relation to something, and let’s be honest—a hot guy with a Ferrari isn’t a bad point of definition.
“Follow me,” Denise says, charging ahead to her desk so she can hand me another pile of clues about my life. “I’ve got a list of known addresses and your criminal record. I made a copy for you.”
“Criminal record?” I didn’t see that coming, though the minute she says it, it seems obvious.
“Yes. It’s mostly juvenile. Shoplifting and then one arrest a few years ago.”
“I’m a criminal,” I say flatly. That’s who I am. I should have known that I wasn’t a supermodel princess ballerina with a yacht.
“You were arrested. That does not make you a criminal.”
Nice of her to say. “What was I arrested for recently?”
“Theft. And you have some outstanding unpaid tickets.”
I take the papers. “Thanks, I really appreciate it.”
“Good luck. I’ll let you know if I find out anything about your assault.” She gives me a hard look. “Mia, now that we know that no one stole your money—well, at least it doesn’t look like it—it’s important to consider the consequences.”
