Page 29 of Day Shift

“Sure, I could use some company. So far, no one claims to know me.” I rolled my eyes and gave a half-shrug.

“God, that has to suck. At least when I fell and cracked my head on the concrete, I woke up with most of my memories and was surrounded by people who cared about me. I didn’t recall what happened just before, but it was a crazy scene, so that was probably for the best.” She pulled a chair closer and plopped down onto it.

I shifted slightly on the bed, trying to get more comfortable as I turned toward where she sat—intrigued by her openness and willingness to not sugarcoat my situation. “It’s nice to meet you, Sam. Conan has mentioned you a few times.”

Sam smiled. “Oh, God, can that man talk. Am I right? He’s been worrying over you since the moment you came through our doors.”

The thought of him worrying about me sent a thrill skittering down my spine. “Yeah, he can for sure talk a lot. But I have to admit, though, that I loved him singing to me. I swear it was his music therapy—as he called it—that triggered me to wake up. His voice was like warm honey on a hot buttered biscuit. I could listen to it all day. And, oh, was he particularly pleasant to wake up to!” I sighed.

Sam laughed again. I guessed she could tell by the look on my face where my thoughts had drifted off to.

She leaned in a little, and the playfulness in her face faded into a more serious expression. “I wanted to come and see you because, not too long ago, I was pretty much where you’re at now. I had a traumatic brain injury and figured I might be able to offer some…I don’t know, insider advice, or just an ear. Conan told me a bit about what you’ve been dealing with…the amnesia and all. I can’t imagine how discombobulating it must be. After my injuries, there were so many things I had to work through just to feel safe again.”

I appreciated her straightforwardness. There was no pity in her tone, just an understanding that came from a lived experience.

“Conan said you were involved with some serious stuff,” I probed, curious despite myself.

She let out a bitter chuckle. “Yeah, ‘serious stuff’ is one way to put it. A Russian mafia organization called the Volkovi Notchi kidnapped me. Ever heard of them?” At my shake of the head, she continued. “Well, it was terrifying. They’re really bad news. There was a shoot-out in a warehouse at the Port of Tacoma. Atticus, Conan, and their brother, Braxton, came to the rescue along with a security team.”

It sounded like the plot of a crime thriller, not something that could happen to a person in real life. “That’s insane. I can’t believe that happened to you.”

“It’s definitely one of my least-fond memories,” Sam said dryly. “The head of the mafia syndicate in this area, Viktor Volkov, managed to escape with a couple of his thugs. They’re probably in Russia now. We don’t know who all is involved or if they’re still trying to hurt us. But we know he’s out there somewhere.”

I sat up a bit straighter, my heart thumping. The idea of such violence was horrifying. “That sounds awful, Sam,” I said. An icy shiver made the hair on my arms stand up.

“It’s like living with a constant shadow over your head, knowing that someone could be lurking around waiting to kill you.” She paused, glancing down at her hands. “And the not knowing is the hardest part. I still get nightmares, and it sucks because it’s not just me it affects—it’s Atticus too.” A wave of melancholy crossed over her face.

“Having to look over your shoulder all the time… You’re brave, Sam. No one should have to live in that kind of fear.”

She shrugged, brushing off the compliment. “We do what we have to, right?”

As she revealed more details about her abduction and the sinister dealings of the mafia, the name “Volkov” snagged in my subconscious. With each mention, the unease grew in my mind.

Samantha leaned back in the chair and sighed. “And honestly, Viktor Volkov is just the worst sort of scum. It’s like his heart is made of that cold Russian ice or something. The stuff they were into—drug dealing, human trafficking, kidnapping, you name it—was so, so bad.” As she spoke, her hands moved to emphasize each word.

At the third or fourth mention of that name, something snapped inside me, triggering a rush of fragmented images. A vivid, jarring memory burst through the fog that had clouded my past. I saw a ruthless man with a snarl on his face. Power and danger rolled off him in waves. Next to him stood a striking woman. She had sharp features, and her lips were painted a bold red.

The room faded, and Samantha’s voice became a distant buzz as the memory consumed me. My face twisted in pain, my body went rigid, and my gaze locked onto something only I could see while I began to relive a heart-wrenching separation.

The scene played out on the steps of a massive estate. A giant, ornately decorated wooden door loomed behind the man and woman. The woman’s hand reached out and clutched my forearm painfully tight, pulling me away from a boy who stood frozen next to the vile man. The boy’s eyes met mine, helplessness and anger filling them as the woman forcefully dragged me toward a waiting car. In desperation, I kicked my legs against the stone pavers, my screams piercing the air, but it was no use. The man shoved the boy through the door before disappearing inside the house and slamming the door shut.

“Angel? Hey, are you okay?” Samantha’s voice penetrated the haze. She gently touched my arm.

I blinked, the room snapping back into focus. She was now standing next to the bed. “I…I just remembered something,” I said in a shaky whisper.

“What was it?” she asked, stroking my arm reassuringly.

“It was…confusing. Children being pulled apart. It was just so sad.” The words were inadequate to describe the intensity of the memory, but they were all I could muster. The pain of being dragged away from someone I loved twisted my insides, but I couldn’t tell if it was my own memory or something I’d seen on TV.

“Children?” Sam repeated, her brow furrowing in confusion.

“Yeah, it’s all a bit jumbled. But it felt very real.” I rubbed my temples, as if I could smooth out the creases of my disheveled thoughts.

“Was it someone you know?” she prodded gently.

“I’m not sure. It was too disjointed for me to make sense of it fully.” The connection to the name Volkov lingered in my mind, but I chose to keep it to myself, unsure of what it meant or how it tied everything together.

Sam gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay. These things might take time to piece together. And hey, if you need someone to talk to, or if anything else comes back to you—any memories or feelings—just know I’m here, okay?”

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