People don’t bury themselves for no reason and she had her past erased—buried like she had died.
I rub my hand over my jaw and lean my head back against the seat. I bang it a couple of times hoping it will give me more answers than I have. Getting myself involved with a woman without a past has red flags waving in front of myeyes.
It should be enough that she trusted me enough to admit what happened. Enough that she let me hold her and make love to her. Enough that she fell asleep in my arms. The softness of her hips against mine. Enough that her face glowed when she woke up this morning like I was exactly what she needed.
Instead, I’m restless. Because no matter how I look at it, there seem to be more questions than answers.
My phone buzzes in my cupholder.
Witt.
I answer immediately, desperate for any more information. “What did you find?”
There’s a long pause and I swear he does this to annoy me.
“You sound needy,” Witt says in his usual dry tone.
“You called me.”
“True.”
“Did you find out anything about her?” I ask.
“Her original name.”
I close my eyes for a second. “She already told me.” I can’t believe I know more than Witt.
This gets a reaction from him.
“She what?”
“She told me,” I repeat. “Annika Pencheski.”
“Huh.”
“What are you huffing about?”
“I’m surprised she gave it up that easily.” I hear him clacking on his keyboard.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel. “She didn’t give up anything … easily.”
Another pause. More typing on his end. “Do you want toknow what I found or are you just going to defend her all day?”
Ignoring his comment, I say, “Tell me.”
“Nothing recent, which is weird. Aggressively weird. But I did find an old article from where she was born, Novadia.”
“How old?”
“Ten.”
I frown. “The article is ten years old?”
“No genius. From when she was ten years old.”
I sit up straighter. “What?”
“Your girl played hockey. What are the odds?”
