Page 10 of Don't Let Go

“What are you keeping from me?” The broadness of the question was almost too wide in scope.

“I’m sure we’re keeping a great many things,” I told her. “I’m afraid you need to be more specific and I can’t answer forthe two of them on everything. Do you want your eggs fried or scrambled?”

Most of the time, she seemed to prefer the scramble. Or so I thought. I’d been getting to know her habits before. Despite her injuries, most remained consistent. Her food preferences shifted some. I suspected that had more to do with the aftereffects of the concussion than an actual personality-level change.

“Hmm, scrambled. The fluffier the better. Might be lighter to eat.” The explanation answered a couple of questions for me, so I saved those. “What caused my head injury? The most recent one.”

When it came to whittling her focus down, she took it to a razor’s edge. An excellent sign. Critical thinking skills and application could be compromised and we had scant few resources for testing them.

“I believe it was a ricochet, but I don’t have the evidence to validate it fully. We were on our way to a meeting. We walked into a sniper’s ambush. Multiple shots were fired and exchanged. One of them creased your head.”

She traced the line of her injury with her fingertips. I studied it every single time I saw it. Four centimeters in length, curved at the ends. Slightly flatter on the anterior versus the posterior. The bullet creased her along the curvature of her skull.

The line was still pink, the skin around it flushed. Too recently healed to hide against her hair. It stood out, the stain of color against her pale golden hair. Once I had the eggs going, I dropped the toast to cook.

I gave her another minute to process the direct answer. She’d been shot. Ricochet or direct, the only thing that mattered was she survived. That said, it was still a harsh reality to realize that someone really had tried to kill her. The holes in her memory aside, she didn’t seem shocked by the news.

Good sign? Bad?

Undetermined.

“How is your headache today?” It had been rather ongoing, easing off but then returning for several days. Partially eye strain, or so I suspected. “And do you know where your glasses are?” The last question slipped out even though I had already asked one. Choice in eyewear hadn’t made it to the list of our earlier discussions.

“It’s not bad,” she answered slowly, as though she had to do an assessment first. “Actually, I don’t really have one this morning.”

“Are you sure?” Because the lack of certainty echoed under the last few words.

“Pretty sure,” she murmured, then lifted her shoulders. “I think I had one when I woke up, but more of a nagging one. It went away with my shower. So—that’s good.”

I was in no rush to agree or not. Not without more information. Patch continued to be something of an enigma, and while it intrigued me on so many levels, it also frustrated, because I needed to know all her tells. I needed to know she wasn’t holding anything back that might indicate something more was wrong.

“Yeah, I don’t. That’s kind of weird.” Her laugh was far more bemused than entertained. Not that I could blame her. So much she didn’t remember yet. Some parts, I would never be eager for her to reclaim. “Anyway… no, I barely know where I am, Remy. Besides, I only need them when my eyes are tired.”

I nodded. “We need to find yours then or get you a new set made. I should have realized.” She hadn’t had them when we pulled her out, but she hadn’t even had clothes. Then we were too focused on getting her out and safe. While she hadn’t complained before, now I had to wonder how much eyestrain she’d been subjecting herself too.

The toast popped up as I turned the heat off under the eggs. It was into that silence that she asked, “Why don’t you want to tell me what happened?”

This close to her, I couldn’t miss the vaguest note of hurt in her voice nor the way her gaze latched on to mine. Protecting her shouldn’t involve leaving her vulnerable. This question, however, closed off the easier avenues to avoid it.

“Because we aren’t sure if the reason you don’t remember is due to physical or mental trauma.” It was the truth. I carried the plates over and set hers in front of her before I grabbed the silverware and the butter dish. “The missing days are fairly specific…”

“And you know what happened?” She asked as if it were almost an involuntary reaction.

“Yes.” I nodded once before pulling out my chair and twisting to focus on her and not the food. Leaning forward, I held out a hand. Would she take it?

She didn’t hesitate and that helped to ease a jagged weight off my soul. A weight that had fallen in and begun to crush me from the moment I’d realized she’d been shot.

“I know you want to know,” I said, closing my hand around hers. “I know you want to dig and to look. We aren’t answering you because we don’t know if telling you will do more harm than good.”

She searched my face and whatever she was looking for, she must have found because she gave a slow nod. “Something happened to me. I need to know what it was.”

“Can you give yourself a few more days to heal?” She was doing so much better now, and I wanted that improvement to continue. The last thing she needed was to suffer a setback. Particularly more than an hour away from the closest medical intervention.

“If I say no, will you answer me?”

I saw things so much better from a distance. I lacked the kind of distance I needed to be as cool and rational as she deserved. She was so much more than a job.

So. Much. More.

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