Again.
Frustration mounted inside her.
“Was it a robbery?” she rushed.
“I . . . I don’t think so. From my understanding, the police found your purse.”
“Then why? Why did someone attack me?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe just because . . . because there are evil people in this world, I suppose. I know that probably doesn’t make you feel better, though. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t remember,” she rushed, her voice cracking. “I don’t remember any of it.”
Something flickered across Gio’s face, an emotion that came too fast to name. Relief? Fear?
She couldn’t tell.
Maybe he thought not remembering was a blessing.
Had her attacker left her for dead? Was it only by the grace of God she was still alive right now?
Gio leaned forward slightly, and his eyes searched hers. “What’s the last thing you do remember?”
Naomi closed her eyes. She pulled at the edges of the blank space, searching for something—a meeting, a conversation, walking home, anything.
Nothing.
“I don’t know,” she whispered, her head pounding harder. “I can’t?—”
“Hey.” Gio’s voice was soft. He squeezed her hand. “It’s okay. Don’t force it.”
His touch was warm and steady. It should have helped.
But for some reason it didn’t.
Something in the back of her mind—something she couldn’t name—pulled in the wrong direction. A faint, cold feeling surrounded her like a draft under a closed door.
She opened her eyes and looked at Gio.
He was watching her. Waiting for her to say something.
And for just a second—so brief she almost missed it—she thought she saw something in his expression that didn’t match the concern in his voice.
But then it was gone, and he smiled, and she told herself she’d imagined it.
The doctor came in a few minutes later. She asked Gio to stay as the doctor asked her several questions and reviewed her medical records on a nearby computer.
She braced herself as the doctor turned to address her. “Ms. King, I just want to go over your injuries. We had to place eight staples in your head. There’s a significant gash there.”
That would explain the ache she felt there.
“We believe you were hit with something hard—the police aren’t sure what. Based on the bruising on the back of your head, your assailant most likely pushed you into a wall and then you fell to the ground. Your ribs might be sore, and you have some bruising, but nothing is broken.”
“That’s good news, I guess.”
“Most significantly, you’ve suffered a concussion. Based on what you’re describing, the last twenty-four hours of your life are missing. Is that correct?”
“I . . . I think so.”
