Page 46 of Found By You
Denver. Brain experts. Tests. The words echoed in my head, bringing a fresh wave of anxiety.
And there was another fear, one I didn’t want to admit even to myself; what if I remembered a life that took me away from McCrae?
I stared at my reflection in the small bathroom mirror. My red hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, and the bruising around my eye had faded to a yellowish green. The cut on my head was healing, but I still looked fragile. I barely recognized myself, which was ironic, given that I couldn’t remember who I was supposed to be.
“You ready?” McCrae’s deep voice came through the door.
“Coming,” I called back, taking one last deep breath.
When I stepped out, McCrae was leaning against the wall, his police uniform crisp and official. Something about seeing him like this—professional, authoritative—made my heart skip.
He straightened when he saw me, his blue eyes searching my face. “You okay?”
I nodded, forcing a smile. “Better. So you’re going to work and I’m hanging out with Kayla?”
He shook his head. “If you want, we can stop by the impound lot to see your car. Then we’ll head to the station to check in with Damon.”
Understanding dawned on me. “You think seeing the car might help me remember something?”
“Worth a try.” His tone was casual, but I could tell he was trying to be encouraging.
The drive to the impound lot was short. I spotted rows of vehicles behind a chain-link fence, everything from beat-up trucks to what looked like abandoned RVs.
McCrae parked and came around to open my door. I’d noticed he always did that, and despite my initial protests, I’d come to appreciate the gesture. It wasn’t about thinking I couldn’t open my own door; it was just the way he showed respect.
“You ready for this?” he asked, his voice gentle.
I nodded, squaring my shoulders. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
We approached a small office where a heavyset man in his fifties sat behind a desk, flipping through a car magazine. He looked up as we entered, his face breaking into a smile when he saw McCrae. “McCrae Armstrong! How’s it going, son?”
“Morning, Carl. We need to see the black Civic that was brought in last week. The one from the accident by the state line.”
Carl’s eyes shifted to me, curiosity evident. “This the owner?”
McCrae nodded. “Well, she was the one driving.”
Carl nodded. “Right. The whole amnesia thing.”
McCrae nodded again.
Carl led us through the lot, past vehicles in various states of disrepair, until we came to a black Honda Civic. The sight of it hit me like a physical blow. The passenger side was crumpled,the windshield shattered in a spiderweb pattern. It had clearly rolled at some point, the roof was dented inward.
“This is it?” I whispered, my voice catching.
McCrae nodded, watching me carefully. “It’s a miracle you’re actually okay.”
“Right.”
“Take your time.”
I approached the car slowly, like it might suddenly come to life. Something about it felt familiar, yet completely foreign at the same time. I ran my fingers along the driver’s side door, which was remarkably intact compared to the rest of the vehicle. “Can I look inside?” I asked.
Carl jangled a set of keys. “Sure thing. Door might be stuck, though.”
It took some effort, but McCrae managed to get the driver’s door open. I peered inside, and the smell of plastic and something metallic—blood, I realized with a shudder—hit me immediately. The interior was relatively clean, with just a few personal items scattered about: a water bottle in the cup holder and some change in the center console.
I slid into the driver’s seat, my hands automatically finding the steering wheel. It felt … right. I had definitely driven before. My fingers found the adjustment lever for the seat, and I noticed it was pushed pretty far forward.
