Michelle Celmer - Running on Empty

She gestured to his French fries. “You planning to finish those?”

He slid his plate across the table.

She squeezed out a glob of ketchup and dipped one in. “So what if I get to the store and don’t remember anything? What’s our next move?” She noticed his wary look and corrected herself. “I mean your next move. Can’t you run my picture on the news or in the paper? Maybe someone will recognize me.”

“Not a good idea. Not until we figure who’s behind this. They could use the amnesia to get to you.”

“Oh. I didn’t think of that.”

“It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. Any official missing-person report wouldn’t be filed for at least forty-eight. Don’t give up hope. We could have you back with your family soon.”

She frowned, shaking her head lightly.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s this whole family thing. It just doesn’t feel right. I keep thinking I would know if I had children.”

“I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Stretch marks,” she said, pointing a ketchup-soaked fry in his direction. “If I had children, wouldn’t I have stretch marks? Because I checked every inch of my body when I was getting dressed and I couldn’t find any. My skin is practically flawless.”

Every inch, huh? And all of it flawless. He’d been doing his best not to think about her in those terms, or imagine seeing all of that flawless skin firsthand—the parts he hadn’t already seen, that is. And here she had to go and bring it up, putting all sorts of improper thoughts into his head.

“I know that probably sounds arrogant,” she added, “but it is very nice skin.”

He nodded. “Hmm.”

“I have a nice butt, too,” she said, popping the fry in her mouth. “Not spectacular, mind you, but I don’t feel so bad about you seeing it back in the hospital.”

He nearly choked on his coffee. “I didn’t—”

“Of course you did. My gown was hanging open, and you were standing behind me. How could you not look? If our roles had been reversed and it was your butt hanging out I would have looked.”

He leaned back in the booth. “Is that so?”

“Back at the station, when they were fingerprinting me, you bent over to pick up something and I looked at your butt then.”

He stifled a grin. The woman was shameless. It was one of the things he liked most about her. And the thing that was probably going to get him into trouble. “Did you?”

“It’s human nature to look.” She waved a hand in the air. “Hormones or pheromones or something.” She paused, her brow furrowing. “What was my point?”

“Stretch marks?”

“Exactly. So if I had ever been pregnant, I would have at least a few stretch marks. Therefore we can safely deduce that I don’t have children.”

“What about adoption?”

She popped the last fry in her mouth looking thoughtful. “Darn, I never thought of that. You know, you’re pretty good at this detective stuff.”

“That’s what they tell me.” He took a long swallow of coffee then signaled the waitress for the check. His pager began to tremble and he pulled it from his pocket, cursing when he read the display. “We’d better get going.”

“Pressing business?”

He tossed change on the table for a tip. “You could say that.”

He paid the bill and she followed him out to the unmarked, run-of-the-mill blue sedan they’d driven over from the station. As badly as she wanted this to be over, as much as she wanted her life back, the possibilities frightened her. Suppose she was married to a wife-beater, or someone even worse. Something too horrible to put into words.

“You okay?” Detective Thompson was holding the door, waiting for her to get in.

She plastered a smile on her face. “Fine.”

She could tell he didn’t believe her. He touched her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Though she was sure the gesture was meant only to comfort, the weight of his hand made the skin beneath tingle.

“We won’t do more than what you’re ready for,” he said.

Could the guy be any nicer? He waited until she was in, then closed the door.

“I don’t suppose I could talk you into loaning me the money for some new clothes,” she said when he climbed in the driver’s side. “I’m good for it…I think.”

“Buckle up.” He waited until she fastened her seat belt then started the car and pulled out of the lot. “What’s wrong with the clothes you have on?”

“You’re joking, right?”

A grin flirted at the corner of his mouth. “I’m sure they’ll have something more suitable for you at the halfway house.”

They drove along in silence for a minute, then Mitch reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. “I’d like you to look at something. It’s a still shot from the security tape.”

Tentatively, she took the photo. “So this is the man who attacked me?”

“I know the picture quality is poor, but does he look familiar?”

“No. Not at all.” She felt relieved and disappointed all at once. She handed the picture back. “Sorry.”

He folded it up and shoved it into his pocket. “It was worth a shot.”

He made a sharp right into a parking lot, and when she looked at the Save Mart sign looming above, her heart began to pound wildly in her chest. She gasped, clutching the edge of the seat.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

As quickly as the sensation had gripped her, it disappeared. “I don’t know. For a second there, I thought my heart was going to jump out of my chest. I think I may have remembered something.”

He pulled into a spot close to the door, threw the car into Park and turned to her. “Does the store look familiar?”

She peered out the side window at the aging brick building. “Yes and no. When I look at it, I instinctively know what kind of store it is, but I can’t say that I’ve ever been here.”

“So it does look familiar?”

“Sort of, but…” She paused, searching for the words to explain. It was difficult to describe something she barely understood. “If you took me to a gas station I’d never been to before, I would still know it was a gas station. This store is familiar, but only in the sense that I know what type of store it is.”

“Do you want to try going inside?”

“We’re here. I may as well give it a shot.”

She waited for him to walk around and open her door, delaying the inevitable for a few precious seconds. Not only was she afraid of what she may or may not discover about her past, but her time with Detective Thompson had nearly expired. If she didn’t get her memory back now, he would dump her at some halfway house. Then she would really be alone.

She swallowed back the fear crawling up from her belly.

Her door swung open and, steeling herself for what was to come—good or bad—she climbed out. The sun had disappeared behind a line of ominous dark clouds and a chilling dampness skittered the length of her spine. Was it some divine warning? Did she even believe in God? Was she Catholic, Jewish, Muslim?

So many questions and still no answers.

“You sure you’re okay with this?” Detective Thompson asked once again.

“I’m sure,” she said, feeling anything but. Feeling instead as if she’d like to run in the opposite direction, back to the car. Or better yet, into Detective Thompson’s arms. She was reasonably sure she would feel safe there. However, if she planned to get through this ordeal in one piece, she could rely on only one person.

Herself. Wasn’t that the way it had always been?

She stopped dead in her tracks, struggling to hold on to the thought, but it was already slipping away. That had been a memory, she was sure of it. But what did it mean?