Page 32 of Day Shift

“Seriously, stop worrying about it,” he insisted, his voice firm yet kind. “I wouldn’t offer if it was a problem. Focus on getting better and sorting out your memories.”

Reluctantly, I nodded, accepting his generosity with a heavy heart. “I don’t know how I’ll ever make it up to you guys, but I promise, somehow, I will.”

Samantha smiled. “You don’t owe us anything. Just get yourself back on your feet. That’s payment enough.”

Conan glanced at his watch, his brows rising. “Shit, break ended ages ago. Gotta get back to the ED.” He turned to leave, then paused at the door. “Just hang in there, all right?”

Samantha stepped back. “I’ve got to head home as well. I’ll set up a room for you. You focus on getting your strength back. We’ll handle the rest.”

When they left, I lay back against my pillows. The room abruptly felt too big and too empty. I was alone with my swirling thoughts again. It was almost too much to believe that Conan, Sam, and even Dr. Thorin were willing to help me so generously. To them, I was a complete stranger, yet here they were, coming to my aid. Their support was surprising and hard to accept, but I guessed there truly were good people out there, and I just happened to have been lucky enough to meet them in my darkest hour. They hadn’t asked for it, but they had my utter loyalty, and somehow, one day, I would figure out a way to repay them.

Samantha’s stories about the Volkov family consumed my mind, stirring a dark fear. Was I connected to the mafia? The thought terrified me. Despite the support from Samantha and Conan, anxiety about my past—and my potential ties to an organization as sinister as the Volkovi Notchi—nagged at my conscience. I shivered, hoping against all odds that my past was not as dark as I was beginning to think it might be.

Chapter nineteen

The TV hummed as I flicked through channels, looking for something, anything, to distract myself from my constantly churning thoughts. My hand froze on the remote when the local news logo flashed onto the screen underneath the scene of a horrific car wreck that evoked a feeling of déjà vu. A second later, a newscaster, poised and polished, appeared on screen.

“Tonight, we update you on the mysterious Jane Doe case,” the anchor began. The screen split, with the image of his face on one side and a series of disturbing images on the other. My heart pounded as I realized with a sickening jolt that the bloodied woman in those pictures was me.

While the anchor droned on, details of my accident materialized in my mind like a nightmarish, slow-motion film—metal twisting, glass shattering, the caustic, metallic taste of blood. The sharp, visceral memory of pain shot through me as I remembered fleeing the dark Volkov garage. I’d been in a panic, the urgent need to escape overriding everything else. I still couldn’t piece together why I’d run or what I’d been running from, but the anchor’s mention of the Volkov name kindled a flicker of recognition.

“And as police prepare for her discharge from the hospital, they hope she will be able to shed some light on the incident that left her hospitalized and with amnesia,” the reporter continued.

My battered face appeared on the screen again, and anger surged through me. It was invasive, seeing myself like that, displayed for all the world as some evening-news spectacle. I’d received no calls from worried family or friends—just endless speculation from strangers. No one had come forward to claim me. I’d had no tearful reunions with relieved friends. Just silence. Was I really so alone? Did no one miss me at all?

The news shifted to another story, but the damage was done. I turned off the TV. The screen went dark and plunged the room back into silence.

Lying back, I tried to process the flood of emotions—the fear, the frustration, the loneliness.

The realization that no one cared about me, that I was utterly alone in this world, hit me hard. Tears welled in my eyes. God, was I such a terrible person?

I stared up at the sterile white ceiling. At least there were a few kind people who’d reached out to help me. My thoughts drifted back to one of Conan’s visits—how he’d swaggered in with that cocky grin of his and a bag of those disgustingly sweet treats he claimed were “just what the doctor ordered.”

“Yeah, ’cause sugar comas are totally therapeutic,” I had teased, but he’d just winked and ruffled my hair, his large hands surprisingly gentle. He loved those doughnut holes and could pop two in his mouth at once.

His presence always seemed to make the room warmer. I found myself drawn to his tattoos, curious about each one and the story they told. His rough exterior contradicted the kindness in his eyes when he looked at me. This paradox drew me in—it was a mystery I wanted to unravel. The protectiveness in his voice when he spoke to me sent fiery little tingles straight between my legs.

Then there was Samantha, with her fiery attitude and that unfiltered sass that made even Conan blush. Chuckling, I thought about how she and Dr. Thorin were such an odd match—him with his formal and meticulous ways, and her with her feisty, unapologetic gusto. Outside the hospital setting, I wondered how they managed to get along. I was curious about their unlikely pairing and eager to get to know them better. Was Dr. Thorin more relaxed at home?

I sighed, rolling onto my side as I tried to find sleep, my mind stubbornly replaying Conan’s last visit. I hoped I wasn’t tied to some other man, because there was no denying my attraction to him. As sleep finally began to claim me, my last thoughts drifted to what it might be like to be held by him, for him to touch me not just in passing but with intention—with desire.

The sun was barely up when Samantha burst into my room, one arm laden with what looked like an entire rack from her favorite boutique while she dragged a suitcase behind her with the other hand. She flopped the armful of clothes onto the small round table in the corner and turned toward me; her face lighting up with excitement and mischief.

“Rise and shine, Angel! It’s makeover time. I brought you some essentials.” She lugged the suitcase up onto my bed, flipping it open to reveal more clothes, some shoes, and an array of toiletries and makeup. “I figured you’d want something other than hospital chic for the rest of your stay and grand exit.”

I eyed the contents, my cheeks heating up. It was all so overwhelming. “Sam, this is too much. I can’t accept all this. You planning on dressing me up for a runway or a mug shot?” I joked, trying to infuse some humor into the situation to mask my embarrassment.

She shot me a knowing look, placing her hands on her hips. “Girl, with how good you’re going to look, you’ll be ready for either.” She tossed me a pair of leggings, a sports bra, and a tee. “Here, start with these. Comfy enough for physical therapy and loads better than the hospital gown you’ve been sporting.”

“Sam, you’ve practically brought an entire store here.”

With a smile, she waved off my protest and started pulling out more items. “Here, you’ve got some comfy stuff to relax in, some workout gear for your PT, and something a bit nicer for your…um, photoshoot down at the station.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle at her phrasing. “Photoshoot, huh? If only the booking and arraignment were more like a day on vacation.”

As I stepped into the bathroom to change, I heard her rummaging through the suitcase. “You know,” she said contemplatively, “when those mafia goons trashed my place, I was left with pretty much nothing. It sucked having to accept help, especially from Atticus. I was so used to handling things on my own.”

“Yeah, boy can I relate,” I said as I slid into the clothes she’d tossed me. Wearing real clothes for the first time in weeks felt so nice. I’d never appreciated how great everyday things were until I had to go without them. These comfy leggings and this T-shirt made me feel like a million bucks. Oh God, how badly I wanted out of this hospital and out from under whatever legal matters I’d gotten myself into.

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