Page 48 of Found By You
“You think this Pete guy will recognize me?” she asked, her voice small.
“Only one way to find out,” I replied, keeping my tone casual despite the tension coiling in my gut.
The closer we got to Casper, the more I wondered what we’d find. If Sky had been running from someone, would our investigation lead that person straight to her? Were we walking into danger?
I checked the gun holstered at my side, a reflexive gesture that didn’t go unnoticed.
“You’re worried.”
“Just being cautious.” I tried to give her a reassuring smile. “Not every day I chase down the past of a beautiful amnesiac.”
That earned me a small laugh, the sound easing some of the tension between us. “Is that your professional assessment, Officer Armstrong?”
“Absolutely,” I said, playing along. “Standard police protocol.”
But the lightness didn’t last. As we passed the “Welcome to Casper” sign, she went quiet again, her eyes scanning our surroundings with increasing intensity, as if expecting recognition to hit her at any moment.
Pete’s Trucking wasn’t hard to find; it was a modest building with a fenced lot full of rental trucks and cars. The sign was weathered, the paint peeling at the edges.
I parked the cruiser and surveyed the area, my cop instincts automatically cataloging possible threats, exits, and sightlines.
“Ready?”
She nodded, her knuckles white where she gripped the door handle. “As I’ll ever be.”
A bell jingled as we entered, announcing our presence to the man behind the counter. He was older than I expected, maybe in his mid-sixties, with leathery skin and sharp eyes that narrowed when he saw us. His gaze lingered on my uniform before shifting to Sky. Recognition flashed across his face.
“Well,” he said, his gravelly voice filling the small space. “You’re back.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. I watched Sky’s face, saw her eyes widen with confusion.
“You … know me?” she asked tentatively.
The man—Pete, I presumed—frowned. “Course I do. You remember yet? I had plenty of calls.”
She looked confused.
“Officer McCrae Armstrong,” I said, introducing myself. “She still can’t remember.”
He scoffed, peering at her more intently. “Hmph.”
“It’s true,” Sky said, stepping closer to the counter. “I can’t remember anything from before the accident. Not even my name.”
Pete studied her, then let out a low whistle. “That’s rough.” He paused, then added, “You don’t remember comin’ in here and rentin’ a car? Don’t you remember saying you needed to get to Colorado quick and you’d return the car in two weeks?”
She shook her head, her eyes pleading. “Did I tell you why I needed to get to Colorado?”
“Nope. Weren’t much for conversation.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Seemed in a hurry, though. Nervous-like.”
I leaned forward, my cop voice taking over. “Did she say anything else? Anything that might help us figure out who she is or what she was running from?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Pete turned and pulled open a filing cabinet. “Got your paperwork right here. Paid cash, which ain’t usual, but not unheard of.” He extracted a manila folder and laid it on the counter, flipping it open.
I stared at the rental agreement, focusing on the signature at the bottom: T. Carter, written in a hasty, almost frantic scrawl.
“That your signature?” Pete asked Sky.
She stared at it, her brow furrowing. “I … think so? It looks familiar.”
