Lisa Gardner - The Survivors Club

“You're both wrong,” Tom spoke up. “One, no way some woman made this shot. Like an ad executive or rich socialite is going to go climbing all over the courthouse roof with an assault rifle. Key to this shooting is the first victim. The pretty young coed, Pesaturo-”

“Oh, leave the girl alone.” Jerry looked stern. “Meg Pesaturo doesn't even remember anything. 'Sides, she's just a kid.”

“She says she doesn't remember anything. But that always sounded pretty fishy to me. Maybe she just wanted to keep it private. A family matter. And you know who her family is.” Tom gave them all an expectant look. They obligingly leaned forward, even Griffin. Law enforcement officers were never above a bit of juicy gossip.

“Vinnie Pesaturo,” Tom said, in the waiting hush. “Yeah, the Carlone family's favorite bookie. If Vinnie wanted something done, you can be sure it got done. So maybe pretty little Meg doesn't remember anything. Or maybe she's adopting the party line, while Vinnie sets everything in motion. A rooftop sniper, a nearby explosion. Oh yeah, this has got the Carlone family written all over it. Mark my words, Meg Pesaturo is the one.”

S HE IS LAUGHING. S HE DOESN ' T KNOW WHY. T HE POLICE ARE here. Some girl, her roommate, she is told, is crying. But Meg is standing outside. She is looking up at the dark night sky, where the stars gleam like tiny pinpricks of light, where the breeze is cool against her cheeks, and she is hugging herself and laughing giddily.

The police want to take her to the hospital. They are looking at her strangely.

“It's a beautiful night,” she tells them. “Look, it's a gorgeous night!”

The concerned officers put her in the back of a police cruiser. She hums to herself. She touches her cheek, and she has a first glimmer of memory.

A touch, whisper light, impossibly gentle. Eyes, rich chocolate, peering into her own. The beginning of a slow, sweet smile.

“Who am I?” she asks the officers up front.

“Why don't you wait until we get to the hospital.”

So she waits until they get to the hospital. It's all right with her. She's singing some tune she can't get out of her head. She is daydreaming of whisper-light touches. She is shivering in anticipation of a lover's kiss.

At the hospital, she is whisked through the emergency room doors, led to a tiny exam room where a special nurse, a sexual assault examiner, comes bustling in. She seems to know the officers, which is fine by Meg, because she doesn't know anyone at all.

“How bad?” the nurse asks briskly.

“You tell us. The roommate came home and found her tied to the bed. She claims she doesn't remember a thing, including her name-”

“What's my name?” Meg speaks up.

They ignore her. “She claims she doesn't remember her roommate either,” the police officer says, “not anyone, not anything. The roommate gave us contact information, so the parents are on the way.”

The nurse jerks her head toward Meg. “Original clothes?”

“No, the roommate released her from the bindings and dressed her before calling us.” The police officer sounds disgusted. “Someone's gotta teach these people to know better. We found a ripped T-shirt on the floor, plus a pair of panties. They're already on their way to the lab.”

“I'll bag these clothes as well, just in case any hair or fiber has rubbed off inside them. I'll mark them as second-set clothing. That work for you?”

The officers shrug. “We're just the limo drivers; what the hell do we care?”

“Hey,” Meg says again. “Isn't it a beautiful night?”

The officers roll their eyes. The nurse dismisses them and comes over to Meg. The nurse has blue eyes. The eyes look at her kindly, but they are also sharp.

“What is your name?” she asks as she snaps on a pair of gloves.

“I don't know. That's what I was asking them. That girl called me Meg. Maybe I'm Meg.”

“I see. And how old are you, Meg?”

Meg has to think about it. A number pops into her mind. “Nineteen?”

The nurse nods as if this is an acceptable answer. “And what day is today?”

This is easier. “Wednesday,” Meg says immediately. “April eleventh.”

“All right. I just need to check a few things, Meg. I know this may feel uncomfortable, but I'm not going to hurt you. Please understand we're all here to help you. Even if it seems that we're asking too much, we have your best interests at heart.”

The nurse reaches out. She takes Meg's wrist with her gloved fingers. Immediately, Meg recoils. She yanks back her hand.

“No,” Meg says, though she doesn't know why. She is shaking her head. The night is not so beautiful anymore. “No,” she says again. “No, no.”

“Your wrist is bleeding,” the nurse says patiently. “I just need to look at it, see if it needs treatment.” She reaches out again with her gloved hand and takes Meg's wrist.

“No!” This time Meg flies off the table. She clutches her bleeding wrist against her chest, feeling her heart pound as she searches frantically for some means of escape. The door is closed. She is trapped in the tiny exam room with this woman and those gloves. The gloves smell. Can't the woman smell them? They have a horrible, horrible smell.

Meg turns around and around. No place to go. No way to escape. She shrinks down onto the cold, white floor. She cradles her bleeding wrists against her, and for reasons she can't explain, she whimpers.

The nurse is looking at her. Her face has not changed. Her expression is set, unreadable, but at least she doesn't come any closer.

“Does your wrist hurt?” the nurse asks quietly.

Meg has not thought about it. But now that the woman mentions it… Meg looks down at her wrists. Big, huge welts circle the tiny forms. She can see fresh blood and dark purple bruises marring her skin.

“They… they sting,” Meg says. Her voice holds a trace of wonder.

The nurse squats down until she is eye level.

“Meg, I'm here to help you. If you let me, I will treat your wrists and help them feel better. I also want to help you another way, Meg. My job is to assist in catching the person who did this to you, who made your wrists sting. To do that, I need to take some pictures. And I need to examine the rest of you as well. I know this isn't easy right now. But if you will trust me, I promise I won't hurt you.”

Slowly, Meg nods her head. She isn't afraid of this woman. In fact, she has come to like her stern face and unwavering gaze. This woman seems strong, in control. Meg rises back up. She holds out her raw, torn wrists.

But the moment the woman touches her again, places those latex-covered fingers against her skin…

“I'm going to be sick,” Meg says, and just barely makes it to the stainless steel sink.

The door opens, then closes as the nurse leaves the room. Meg runs the water for a bit. She rinses off her face, which she had already done twice before the police came, another thing that made them growl in disapproval.

Meg's mouth hurts. She finds a mirror and studies her face for a long time. The corners of her mouth are bleeding slightly. The flesh there is torn.

Meg is honestly confused. She searches her memory for some kind of hint, but all she can recall is a faraway sensation of whisper-light touches against her skin. Soft, teasing caresses. And she is holding her breath, hoping he will come closer, closer.