Debra Webb - Identity Unknown

“I’m Madge,” the older woman said, “but you don’t look like a Sande to me.”

Sande didn’t know what to say to that statement. The name didn’t set off even a flicker of recognition within her. And other than her height and weight, she didn’t know anything about how she looked. Fear surged inside her once more. How could she not know her own hair color? Or eye color?

She grasped a strand of her hair and pulled it in front of her face. Blond. She had blond hair.

“You from out of town?”

Sande shook off the disturbing questions churning in her brain and nodded, then, with resignation, wagged her head. “I really don’t know.”

Equal parts suspicion and sympathy stirred in the woman’s eyes. “Something wrong with you, girl?”

“Maybe.” Sande shrugged. “I’m not certain. I woke up in a—” she cleared her throat “—in a hospital.” She swallowed hard. “Dressed like this.”

“You don’t know how you got there?”

Another shake of her head answered that question.

Madge’s eyes narrowed with increasing suspicion. “You ain’t got no strange disease, do you?”

Sande bit her bottom lip. She hadn’t thought of that. The possibility took her anxiety to a whole new level. “I don’t think so.”

“Well.” Madge considered the situation a moment. “I tell you what.” She stooped down and dug through a large plastic shopping bag. The colorful words printed on the bag were partially worn off, as if its owner had lugged it around for quite some time. “You get these clothes on—” Madge offered Sande the items she had retrieved “—and we’ll go down to the church and have us some lunch. There’s a man who serves there on Thursdays who might be able to help you out.”

Did that mean today was Thursday? Didn’t really matter. Sande hastily tugged on the clothes. She didn’t care what they were or their condition, or even how they fit, as long as they covered her body and protected her from the cold that had settled deep into her bones.

The memory of those men chasing after her back at the hospital reignited her fear, which had lessened a fraction.

“Who is this man?” she asked, a little hesitant to speak to a stranger, considering recent circumstances. Whatever instincts she possessed were screaming at her to use extreme caution.

“His name is Lucas Camp.” Madge scrounged around in the bag once more until she came up with a pair of beat-up sneakers. “His wife runs some fancy private investigation agency.” She made a humming sound as she mulled over what she wanted to say next. “The Colby Agency.”

Colby Agency?

Didn’t ring any bells for Sande.

“Yep.” Madge fished a tattered jacket from her stockpile of personal goods. “They say the Colby Agency is the best of its kind. I bet you they’ll be able to figure out just what happened to you and where you come from. Seems like the best plan.”

Sande sure hoped so.

She couldn’t remember her name or where she lived…but she had a feeling. A very bad feeling that if she didn’t get help, something terrible was going to happen…

To her.

Chapter Two

Patrick O’Brien.

Dr. Patrick O’Brien.

No. Not anymore.

Patrick had given up his practice as a psychologist more than two years ago.

He wasn’t going back there.

Not ever.

Patrick surveyed his office. He liked working for the Colby Agency. Profiling clients and the subjects associated with cases had proved to be interesting work. The pay was outstanding and the benefits unmatched.

His work kept him busy. He didn’t have to think about the past…

Then what the hell was wrong with him today? He couldn’t keep his mind on the task in front of him. He felt restless. Out of sorts.

He knew the reason. Pretending wouldn’t make it otherwise.

It was the anniversary of his wife’s death. Three years ago today she had left their Oak Park home for a day of shopping with friends, but had never made it to the mall. Never even made it across town. A carjacking had left her dead on the street.

And that had only been the beginning of his life’s unraveling.

Patrick pushed away the memories, the images that instantly flooded his mind. He couldn’t live in the past, couldn’t keep looking back. Forcing his focus forward was the only way to survive.

Despite his determination not to dwell on the worst of his history, his thoughts appeared to have a will of their own. For the first few weeks after his wife’s murder he’d asked himself why it couldn’t have been him. Why her? An angel as surely as he lived and breathed. His angel. That was what she had been.

Or so he had thought. Slowly but surely, as the investigation into her death had played out, he had learned that he’d never really known his wife at all. She had led a double life. Beautiful, devoted wife to him, to all appearances; obsessive-compulsive adulteress when no one was watching.

That old familiar knot formed in his gut. How could he have studied and worked to heal the human mind when he hadn’t recognized for a moment that his own wife was a habitual liar and cheater? Not once had he suspected her extramarital activities, and yet there had been dozens of men during their five-year marriage. The wife of one had hired a thug to kill the woman who had lured her husband into temptation.

Nothing Patrick did or felt could change the facts. He couldn’t let those painful memories distract him from the present and drag him back into that pit of agony and depression he had slowly risen from two years ago. Wallowing in self-pity and doubt would accomplish nothing, then or now.

He had started over. He had a life here at the Colby Agency. Patrick liked his work. For the most part he kept to himself after hours. No family ties, no social obligations. He didn’t need anything else. Nor anyone else.

He trusted no one outside his colleagues at the agency. Even that fledgling bond was strictly in the professional sense. His personal life would remain his alone. If he didn’t venture into that trust territory, he wouldn’t have to worry about being deceived.

The intercom on his desk buzzed, dragging him from the painful past. Mildred Ballard’s voice followed. “Patrick, could you come to Victoria’s office? She has a new case she’d like to discuss with you.”

“Thank you, Mildred, I’ll be right there.”

Work was the one thing he depended on now. He could trust his work. It never let him down.

The stroll to Victoria’s office was uninterrupted. Most of the investigators on staff were engrossed in cases, with no time for idle chatter. Admittedly, the entire staff operated more like a large family, but that atmosphere of camaraderie never got in the way of solving any case. Meeting or exceeding the client’s needs and expectations was paramount to Victoria Colby-Camp.

That was another thing he liked about the agency; no corners were cut, no underhanded business tactics were used. Top-notch investigative work was the order of the day. Patrick was surrounded by the best of the best in the field of private investigations. The Colby Agency’s reputation was unparalleled. No one lied. No one cheated.

“She’s waiting for you,” Mildred said as Patrick approached.

Mildred Ballard had been with Victoria for two decades. Through thick and thin, both would say. As the personal assistant to the woman in charge, Mildred ran a tight ship. She missed nothing and kept everyone in line. Mildred was outranked only by Ian Michaels and Simon Ruhl, Victoria’s seconds in command.

Patrick nodded in acknowledgment of Mildred’s broad smile and entered the private office of Victoria Colby-Camp. Lucas Camp, Victoria’s husband, rose from one of the chairs flanking the massive desk as Patrick crossed the room.