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  Marzillo took a deep breath. “Some injuries, including head injuries, bleed profusely but can close up just fine with a couple of amateur stitches. So there’s hope.”

  “In which case, that other victim could still be alive and in serious danger,” Jo said.

  Arnett nodded. “So we have ourselves a crime scene, and time may still be of the essence.”

  “No doubt about that. I’ll put a rush on the analysis of both Zoë’s blood, and the blood on her clothes. Even so, I can’t see us getting it back in less than a week.” Marzillo clicked open two more photos. “And just to be thorough, here’s the full shot of her shoulders, neck and back. You see what I mean about the bruises—”

  Jo interrupted her. “What the hell. She has a tattoo?”

  Marzillo gawked. “Doctor Clueless didn’t mention that?”

  Arnett leaned forward. “No, in fact, we had to remind her to take pictures at all.”

  Marzillo zoomed in on the tattoo below the left shoulder blade—a baby’s footprint with script just inside the heel.

  Jo stepped up to peer at the picture. “Can you make out what it says?”

  Marzillo zoomed in on the photo, then shook her head. “Too much ink bleed. This part is most likely a name, because this part is formatted like a date. I think that first letter is an S.”

  “Or possibly a fancy P,” Lopez said.

  “And there’s nowhere near enough detail to identify the print?”

  Marzillo shook her head. “Nope. Even if the artist had been fully accurate when they put it on, which I doubt, it’s too blurred out and faded now. We’d never be able to run it through a database of baby feet, even if such an animal existed.”

  “But that’s a good point—any chance you can tell how old the tattoo is? That might give a clue to their ages.”

  Marzillo tilted her head. “Hard to say for sure, but with that degree of ink migration, I’d guess no less than, what, ten years, Chris?”

  Lopez nodded. “At least that. Unless the artist was really incompetent, I’d say most likely longer.”

  Jo stood up. “Well, at least the tattoo should help us confirm when we’ve found the right missing person. I don’t suppose Doctor Brodie also forgot to mention a convenient label sewn inside her jeans, complete with her name and address?” Jo asked.

  Marzillo shook her head. “Sadly, no. And all of this makes me think I should have my tattoo guy put my actual name somewhere on me this weekend.”

  Lopez pointed her can of Rockstar at Marzillo. “I’ll pay for it if you make it a tramp stamp.”

  Marzillo closed her eyes and shook her head. “What makes you think I don’t already have one?”

  “Aaand, that’s my cue to go.” Arnett stood up and left.

  “You’re too easy to mess with,” Lopez called after them as Jo followed.

  Chapter Five

  They started early on Sunday searching hospitals in western Mass for someone whose injuries might match up with the amount of blood found on Zoë’s clothes. When they found nothing, they searched all reported deaths in the county for the same, then checked to see if any new missing persons cases matching Zoë had been opened.

  Jo pushed her keyboard away in frustration. “How is this possible? She was wearing a wedding ring and she has a baby’s footprint tattooed on her back. How can nobody be looking for her?”

  “I get that most people believe the BS that you have to wait at least twenty-four hours before you file a report, but someone should have reported something by now.” Arnett bounced his palm on his desk. “There has to be something we’re not thinking of here—”

  Jo’s phone rang, and Dr. Soltero’s name flashed on the screen. She answered and identified herself.

  His voice was as warm as she remembered. “Hello, Detective. I hope you’re well. It’s good to talk to you again.”

  “I am well, thank you. How can I help you?”

  “You asked me to call and update you on Zoë. Do you want the good news first, or the bad news?”

  “I’m the let’s-get-on-with-it type.”

  “The bad news is, Zoë still doesn’t remember anything. The good news is, I’ve had a look at all her tests. Everything looks excellent—no evidence of a stroke or any other insult other than the contusion to the back of her head. No swelling, nothing. So, no additional physical reason we can find for her memory loss.”

  “Dammit. So we’re back to some psychological trauma. Here’s our problem, Doctor Soltero—”

  “Matt, please.”

  “Matt. Our problem is, not only do we need to find out who Zoë is for her own sake, we need to figure out what happened to the person who bled all over her. Someone somewhere may be in danger, but we have no idea where to start a search. Is there any way we can help her get her memory back?”

  “The best way is to find the right trigger. And the more, the better, so getting an amnesiac back to a familiar environment, surrounding them with people they know, that sort of thing, is best. But, of course, since we don’t know where she’s from or who she is…”

  “We find ourselves in a catch-22.”

  “Exactly. Which brings me to my second reason for calling. We obviously can’t release her when she doesn’t know who she is. In cases like this, we discharge the patient to a government-funded care facility. However, the closest one with an opening is in Springfield. That’s a bit difficult for me to get to with my other responsibilities, and I’d like to keep Zoë under my observation. So I’ve pulled some strings to get her into one in Northampton I’ve worked with before, Sunset Gardens. We’ll be transferring her over there in about an hour. If you want to talk to her, it’s late enough that it’s probably best to let her settle in tonight and visit tomorrow.”

  “Got it.” Jo jotted down the address he gave. “Will you keep us updated about any changes?”

  “Will do. In fact,” he cleared his throat, “I’d love an excuse to talk to you again.”

  Without a doubt, she was tempted. He was good-looking, he was charming, and he seemed compassionate and kind. And, she could stand to blow off a little pent-up sexual energy. She hadn’t had a date since Eric, the last man she’d casually dated, had broken things off with her.

  “Murdered anyone lately?” she asked.

  His laugh was deep, throaty, and sexy. “If that’s what it takes. Or, maybe we could save a life and just have dinner Saturday night?”

  “I’ll let you know.” She hung up, a smile tugging the corners of her mouth.

  Arnett stared at her with an amused expression. “I’m not even going to ask,” he said.

  “Smart choice.” She summarized the rest of the conversation for him. “Normally I’d say the next step is to plaster her picture all over the news and wait for someone to show up looking for her, but…”

  “But the someone who showed up might be the person who did this to her, looking to finish the job,” Arnett said.

  She tapped her pen on the desk. “Maybe that’s exactly what we need to flush them out. But my worry is, if they’re a husband or a relative, I don’t think we’d have any legal way of preventing them from walking off with her before we figure out if she’s safe or not, and before we’ve found out who lost all that blood. Can we legally prevent her from leaving the care facility if she wants to?”

  “I doubt it, but I’ve never seen anything like this. Maybe you should call back Doctor Loverboy and ask him if this falls under anything like a mandatory psych hold. No way we’ll get away with putting her in gen pop when she can’t even remember who she is.”

  “Doctor Loverboy. Very cute. But make no mistake, keep it up and I will cut you.” She tapped the pen on her leg. “I’m thinking we have to find a way to trigger her. Maybe while we’re there we can check with the administrators at Sunset Gardens about what they can legally do and what they can’t.”

  “Great. But how the hell do we trigger her?”

  “I have an idea we can try out tomorrow.”

 
Chapter Six

  Jo woke so exhausted the next morning she fought to get out of bed. She showered in water as cold as she could bear, but still struggled to get through her morning routine. Which was odd—she was generally a morning person unless work disrupted her normal pattern, and her caseload was relatively quiet at the moment. Was she getting the flu? She’d had her shot, but these days they never could guarantee how effective the inoculations would be. She sighed. Probably the best thing would be a stop off at Jamba Juice for some type of immunity-boosting smoothie. She eyed her espresso machine and made herself a double-shot quickly before she could talk herself out of it, then jumped in the car and drove to HQ, stopping off for the drinks.

  She laughed at the grimace on Arnett’s face when she handed him his matching smoothie. “I know, I know. But I think I’m getting the flu, and if I do, you know you’re gonna. Drink up, and we’ll stop through the Dunkin’ drive-thru on the way.”

  “You’re driving, then,” he grumbled. Sunset Gardens was surrounded by a ten-foot gray wall with intermittently dangling fronds of ivy. They pulled up to the gate and identified themselves through the speaker, and an anonymous man buzzed them in.

  Jo surveyed the property. An expansive lawn ringed the main building, lined with a walking path and burgeoning flower beds. “Very pleasant,” she said. “Except for the huge looming wall trapping you in.”

  “Promise me that if I ever end up in a place like this, you’ll shoot me,” Arnett said.

  “I call not it. But I’m sure Lopez will be more than happy to accommodate.”

  The building opened into a small foyer with a check-in counter. A blonde woman in her mid- to late-twenties wearing a name tag labeled ‘Julie’ looked up as they entered. “Hello. How can I help you?”

  Jo introduced them, and explained the purpose of their visit.

  “Oh, right, the director said to expect you. Follow me.” Julie came out from the back of her counter, and led them down one white-painted, white-linoleumed hall and around to another. “She’s in B wing, our lily wing. So far, she hasn’t left her room. Normally we try to get everyone out for a walk in the morning if the weather’s cooperating, but they told me to leave her alone for now.”

  “I can’t imagine any transition is easy when you can’t remember who you are,” Jo said.

  Julie’s brown eyes widened. “No-oo.” She paused in front of a white-paneled door marked 6B. “Here we go.” She rapped on the door and chirped, “Zoë? You have visitors! Isn’t that nice?”

  There was a pause before Zoë answered, “Come in.”

  Jo opened the door. The room, wallpapered with pink-and-white lilies, was larger than she expected. In addition to a bed draped in a pink-and-white coverlet, it featured a large bureau, a television bolted to the wall, a writing desk with chair, and a cushy armchair in the corner. On the wall opposite the door, a large double-paned window overlooked a garden courtyard with paths meandering through manicured lawn and shrubs. Off to the right, an open door revealed a private bathroom.

  Jo stepped in toward Zoë, who sat in the comfy chair, staring out the window. “Zoë, do you remember us?”

  She turned, and smiled. “I do, thank goodness. I remember everything that happened since I woke up in the woods. At least so far.”

  “How are you settling in?” Arnett asked. “Have you remembered anything?”

  “Nothing.” As Zoë looked around the room, her eyes filled with tears and the traces of confusion and fear in her expression intensified. “And I’m not really settling in. The room is fine, but it makes me feel like I’m twelve and like I’m in prison all at the same time. And everyone has been nice to me, but the way they talk to me, like I’m some sort of mental patient, scares me even more.” She met Arnett’s eyes, then Jo’s, with a pleading expression. “Have you figured out who I am?”

  Jo pulled over the chair from the writing desk. “Not yet. Nobody has reported you missing.”

  Zoë held up her wedding ring. “But how can that be? I’m married, shouldn’t someone be looking for me?”

  Jo nodded again. “That’s hard to say. It’s only been a few days since you made it to the hospital. Especially because you were up in the woods, maybe you were on some sort of vacation or getaway and aren’t expected back yet. Hopefully someone will realize soon that you haven’t come home, so we’ll keep checking.”

  Zoë’s face contracted. “Or maybe my husband was with me, and he wasn’t lucky enough to get away. Maybe that’s whose blood is on my shirt—maybe he’s lying out there, dead or dying, while I’m sitting here, helpless.”

  Jo took a deep breath, and made a quick choice. “You’re right, that’s a possibility. Which means the sooner you get your memory back, the better. So we’d like to try something out, if that’s okay.”

  Her eyes widened further. “What?”

  “The doctor mentioned the best way to help someone with amnesia is to bring them to familiar surroundings, to trigger their memories. But we can’t do that, since we don’t know where to bring you. So we thought we’d try taking some guesses.”

  Zoë looked between the two of them. “I’ll try anything you think will help.”

  “Great. Then the first thing I want to ask you about is your tattoo.”

  Zoë eyes widened. “What tattoo?”

  Jo did a mental double take. “The tattoo on your back. Of the baby’s footprint?”

  Zoë bolted up and dashed into the bathroom. Once in front of the mirror she pulled up her green T-shirt and twisted around. “A baby’s footprint.” She whipped back around to Jo, a cascade of emotions flooding her face. “I have a baby? What does it say at the bottom? I need to find him—or her? They must need me—”

  Jo led her back to the chair. “Please, sit back down. We don’t know anything for sure, that’s why we wanted to ask you about it. We think that’s a name and a date at the bottom, but it’s no longer legible. And it doesn’t mean you have a child for sure—sometimes people get a tattoo like that for a niece or nephew, or a godchild. But no matter what, our techs assured us the tattoo is at least ten years old, probably older, so they’re not a baby anymore.” She paused while Zoë perched on the edge of her chair. “Take a deep breath for me. If you’re upset, it’ll be harder for the memories to flow. Then think about the possibilities, one at a time, and see if they bring anything up for you. We think the first letter of the name may be an S or a P.”

  Zoë rubbed her hands together in her lap. “A baby. Or a niece or a nephew, which means I’d have a sister or a brother. Or a godchild? S… or P?” She shook her head, and tears flowed down her cheeks. “None of it means anything to me. How is that possible? They meant enough to me that I tattooed the name on my body, how can I not remember them?”

  Jo grasped one of Zoë’s hands with both of hers. At the touch, Zoë doubled over, forehead on Jo’s hand, and sobbed.

  “It’s okay, let it out,” Jo whispered as Zoë clung to her hands. “I know you’re scared, I know. But we’re going to fix this. We’re going to find out who you are, and we’re going to find out why you have that tattoo, okay? We just need your help to do that. When you’re ready. Can you help us?”

  Zoë’s sobs crested and slowed. She sat back up, took the tissues Arnett had pulled over from the side of the bed, and sniffled. “Please. Whatever I can do to help, I need to do that.”

  Jo squeezed her hand. “Okay, let’s try. Tell us if it gets to be too much and we’ll stop.”

  Zoë nodded.

  “We think it’s possible you were on some sort of camping trip in the woods, since that’s the main reason people go to the area around Taltingham. Does anything like that ring a bell? Driving up to the woods in an RV, or maybe putting up a tent? Building a campfire?”

  She pulled her arms around herself. “No, not camping, not a tent, nothing.”

  “Maybe if you try to visualize it? Call up a campsite in your mind?”

  Zoë squeezed her eyes closed for a long moment, then r
eopened them. “Nothing.”

  “How about a cabin out in the woods? Maybe driving out in the country? Maybe carrying bags into a house?”

  She closed her eyes again, then shook her head.

  Jo continued with several related scenarios, all with the same results, then sent a glance at Arnett. He nodded his agreement.

  “Okay, let’s shift gears a little,” Jo said. “This may be a little harder, but I think we need to try it.”

  Fear flashed across Zoë’s face. “What do you mean?”

  “We think someone may have hit you on the head. Can you try to picture that, someone hitting you on the back of the head?”

  “Nothing’s coming to me.”

  “Okay. We think you may have run away from someone. Does that bring anything up?”

  Zoë’s eyes danced under her eyelids, and her face tightened.

  Jo jumped on the change. “What do you see?”

  Zoë’s face scrunched as she concentrated. “I’m not sure. I mean, I’m not sure when it’s from, exactly. I just got a picture of running through the woods, trying not to crash into the trees, but I couldn’t stop because I was terrified, like something was chasing me. And I had to fight not to slip because I didn’t have real shoes on, my toes were cramping because I had to curl them to keep my slippers on, and I was so scared—” Her eyes flew open. “But it’s gone again.”

  “Keep your eyes closed, see if it comes back. Was it light out or dark?”

  “Dark. It must have been nighttime.”

  “Maybe the night before you found your way to Taltingham? Do you recognize anything?”

  “No, it was all just blurry trees flashing around me— Oh—”

  “What?” Jo asked

  “I just had another, like, flash? Of slipping and falling, then tumbling down a slope out of control. But now it’s gone again.” She opened her eyes and stared at Jo with fear and suspicion. “None of that makes any sense. The doctor says I was thrown from a car.”