Page 3 of That's Not My Name

“You look pretty bad,” Officer Bowman said after the paramedics failed one final time to get me to go to the hospital. “There’s a process here, procedure we need to follow. You should get checked out by a doctor. Get a rape kit—”

I blocked out the rest. There are some things I can’t even begin to think about. Not today. Maybe not ever. That’s one of them.

When they realized I wouldn’t budge about going to the ER, both paramedics and Officer Bowman exchanged a look and left me alone on a stretcher inside the ambulance to talk outside. If they didn’t want me to eavesdrop, they should have whispered. That creepy road was silent as the grave and did nothing to keep their voices from drifting back to me.

“All her bruises look new. I’d guess within the last couple hours. Fresh swelling,” the tall, wiry paramedic said. “That, plus the injuries to her face, could point to some kind of an impact. Maybe a car accident. She doesn’t have bruising from a seatbelt, but the injury to her nose could be from an airbag or a steering wheel. With a head contusion on the left, it’s possible she might have hit the driver’s side window. But it’s only a guess. Regardless, her vitals are fine. She’s not in any immediate medical danger.”

I clung to that version of events, my hands fisting in the papery stretcher sheets. A car accident was better than the other, darker, possibilities. And it didn’t require a rape kit.

Bowman took notes while Tall-and-Wiry climbed back into the ambulance and handed me a fresh icepack. “Good luck,” he said as he helped me down.

That icepack sits on the table between me and Officer Bowman, though it’s warm now. I’ve been here for hours. He squints at me, likehe’s waiting for me to start screaming or for my head to spin around. And who knows, maybe it will. I mean, I’m basically a character from a teen horror movie.

Covered in blood? Check.

Bruised to hell? Check.

Wandering, terrified, in the middle of the night? Check.

A steaming cup of hot chocolate sits next to the room-temp icepack, but I don’t reach for it. I don’t move. I don’t say a word. Wrapped in the scratchy blanket the officer draped around my shoulders, I try not to think. Because the alternative means navigating the holes in my memory, and I can’t bear to do any more of that than I already have.

Officer Bowman’s chair creaks as he leans forward. He’s young…ish. Maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven. With a baby face and eager blue eyes, he looks like a lemur with a badge. “You should drink that,” he says, nodding at the mug. “You may be in shock.”

I shrug.

When the paramedics left, Bowman switched gears, apparently determined to make me feel better however he could. He brought me to the precinct, though I don’t remember much of the drive. When he noticed my wrecked shoes—I don’t know what color they were before, but they’d become a tie-dye of dried blood and forest sludge—he gave me a clean pair of black socks from his work bag and a sweatshirt. It’s navy blue and says “Alton Police Department” on the upper-right side. It fits like a shower curtain, but the fabric is soft and warm.

Once I was dry, he smiled. “Feel better?”

I did. Right up until I caught sight of my reflection in the dark interior window and didn’t know the person staring back at me. Now I don’t want to talk. Ever. I don’t have anything to share with him anyway. I’m a nobody, with no name, and a stranger’s face.

“Miss?” he says. “Can you hear me?”

I nod.

“Miss, you need to drink something. I really wish you’d let me take you to the hospital. You’re very pale.”

The thought of the emergency room sends another barb of anxiety through my body. Being pale is the least of my worries. I shake my head.

Officer Bowman sighs. “Miss—”

I glare at him. “Stop calling me Miss.”

He sits back in his chair, and it creaks again. “Okay. What should I call you?”

Good freaking question. “I don’t know. But don’t call me that.”

My voice sounds a thousand miles away. Was that one of the concussion signs the paramedic warned me about? I should have paid attention.

Officer Bowman pushes the mug closer to me. “I’ll make you a deal. You drink some of this and try to help me figure out where you came from, and I’ll stop calling you MissandI’ll cool it about going to the hospital. For now.”

I eye him.

“You have a nasty goose egg, but you’re alert and responsive. You can walk unassisted, and the lights in here don’t seem to be bothering you. If you start to slur your speech, lose your balance, throw up, black out, or show any other warning signs of a concussion, we’re going to the ER. Until then, I can get you a fresh icepack and we can talk. Deal?”

Whatever. I nod and take a sip.

I won’t admit it, but the warmth feels good on my throat, and it settles in my stomach like a rock thunking into a puddle, which makes me think I haven’t eaten in a while.

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