“You…” Now I’m certain my brain is short-circuiting. Time slows, dragging on so I can process what she just said. “You don’t remember anything before that?”
Stephanie just shakes her head, her eyes fixed on her lap. Then, as if it takes a considerable amount of effort, she brings her gaze to mine. “They had to put fifteen staples in my head from some kind of blunt force trauma that led to a TBI—a traumatic brain injury, that is.” Her fingers go to her temple as she curves her neck and parts her hair, revealing a thick, raised scar that runsfrom the edge of her hairline to the cowlick at the crown of her head.
“Jesus,” I breathe, sitting up to get a closer look.
Maybe it’s presumptuous of me, but I can’t seem to stop myself from touching her.
Stephanie’s breath catches as I gently run the pad of my thumb along the jagged scar, both awed and horrified at the evidence of her trauma.
It looks like the injury must have been incredibly deep.
Stephanie’s laugh is soft and humorless. “Yeah. Whatever happened to me, it knocked every last memory clean out of my brain. All I know is that some good Samaritan found me on the banks of the Chicago River while he was out kayaking, and he brought me in. They never could identify who I used to be—said I didn’t have any form of identification on me, no fingerprints in the system, and in the weeks I was there, no one ever came looking…”
She shrugs, the gesture casual, though her expression is overwritten with pain. “The hospital signed me in under the name ‘Jane Doe’ while they were waiting for me to wake. I guess that’s common for cases where they can’t find the person’s identity. But after I was released, I didn’t really want the constant reminder that I was no one to anybody. I considered a few different options, but Jane seemed like as good a name as any. So, I changed my name to Jane Cook.” Another shrug. “And here we are today.”
Stunned, I don’t know what to say as my heart starts to race.
Stephanie has amnesia.
She hasn’t been playing some game with me. She didn’t change her name to hide from me, and it’s not that she just doesn’t recognize me now.
The truth hits me like a ton of bricks—straight to the face.
The reason Stephanie never told me she’s alive is because she genuinely doesn’t remember who I am.
She doesn’t even remember whosheis.
The realization is as painful as it is relieving.
Because as glad as I am that she didn’t choose to walk away, all I can think about is how scared and alone she must have felt waking up in that hospital bed.
It makes my chest ache to think of her lost and confused, with no clue who she was or how she got there.
In truth, I never thought to look for her in any hospital.
Not after the message my father received from the rival family who took her.
They made it perfectly clear they’d killed her.
But they must have failed to do so.
Most likely, they cracked her over the head hard enough to think she was dead, then tossed her into the Chicago River, assuming the water would do the rest.
My stomach roils at the thought—knowing that anyone could be capable of doing something so horrific to my girl, recognizing that I wasn’t there to protect her.
I couldn’t save her.
And even after she survived it all, I failed to bring her home.
“Why haven’t you mentioned it before?” I ask softly, the shame in my failure coming down on me with crushing force.
Stephanie snorts a laugh, her hands dropping into her lap once more as she turns to meet my eyes. “Believe it or not, that’s not the best icebreaker when you like a guy. Hi, I’m Jane, and I suffer from amnesia. Don’t worry. It’s not contagious—at least, I don’t think it is. But I can’t quite recall…”
I’m laughing before I can stop myself. “I don’t know. That sounds like a great line to me. At least he would know you have a good sense of humor right off the bat.”
I cringe as soon as the word “bat” leaves my mouth, because now I can’t help picturing those bastards bringing one down on Stephanie’s head with enough force to requirefifteenstaples.
“See, you say that, but your face is saying I should have kept my mouth shut—because you look like you’re about ready to run screaming for the hills,” she says, her tone playful.
