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  “Let’s do it.” He stood and grabbed his coat.

  After asking the Berkshire County SPDU to keep an eye out for any empty houses or campsites that should have residents, they spent the rest of the day and the following morning checking the sites closest to Taltingham. Nobody recognized Zoë’s picture, or reported an abandoned campsite of any sort.

  They’d just begun to widen their circle when Jo’s phone rang. “Marzillo. I have you on speaker. What’s up?”

  “You remember I put a rush on Zoë Doe’s DNA results? I didn’t want to get your hopes up, so I didn’t tell you I called in a favor to get the results back fast. They just came in.”

  “Remind me to send them a few dozen doughnuts,” Arnett said.

  Marzillo continued, “First, and not surprising, they confirmed that the blood on Zoë’s shirt was not her own.”

  “As you say, not surprising.”

  “Second, we can’t find a match for either sample in CODIS.”

  Frustration pricked at Jo. “Damn. It’s good she doesn’t have any priors, but I was hoping the blood would pull up a known rapist or murderer.”

  “Nope, neither she nor the blood donor is known to us. However, don’t despair just yet.” Marzillo paused.

  “You’re enjoying this a little too much.” Jo’s eyes narrowed.

  “It’s not often I get a twist like this. Zoë’s related to the bleeder.”

  Jo sat up in her seat. “Related? How?”

  She could hear the smile in Marzillo’s voice. “She’s Zoë’s daughter.”

  “You’re sure?” Arnett asked.

  “Positive.”

  A slew of thoughts flooded Jo’s mind. “Here’s a question for you. I’ve heard about some cases where analysts were able to identify the race of an offender from a DNA sample, even eye and hair color. Any chance we can do something like that?”

  “Not cheaply, and not quickly, and I have to warn you, the technology isn’t quite as advanced as you might think. The lab we use doesn’t do that sort of analysis, so you’d have to get an approval from Lieutenant Martinez to justify the expense. And since we’re not even sure a crime was committed…”

  “It’s not likely he’ll go for it. Got it. I don’t suppose you have another bomb you’re waiting to drop on us?” Jo asked.

  “Nope, that’s it.”

  Jo thanked her and hung up, then turned to Arnett. “At least that has to narrow down the problem space to some degree, if we’re looking for a mother-daughter pair, or two women likely from the same area rather than just one?”

  Arnett tilted his head skeptically. “Maybe, if everything is aboveboard. But if it isn’t, I’m not so sure. Because we haven’t seen anything that looks even close to that in all the missing persons files we’ve gone through.”

  “Not aboveboard. You mean like, if she gave the daughter up for adoption and their reunion went terribly wrong, something like that?”

  “Roughly. And normally I’d question how likely that was, but given these circumstances…”

  “Your normal preference for simplicity and rejection of coincidence is turned on its head. In an odd way, Occam’s razor is still preserved, if you believe that the best way to explain bizarre circumstances is bizarre coincidence.”

  Arnett glared at her. “Keep going like that and you’re gonna give me a migraine.”

  She laughed. “I’m already giving myself one. So our question is, how do we use this to our advantage? And I think the first thing we need to do is have another chat with Zoë.”

  Chapter Ten

  They found Zoë watching TV in her room, slouched in the cushy chair with a throw blanket pulled up over her shoulders.

  “Hello again,” Jo said from the doorway.

  Zoë sat up. “Please, come in. Have you found anything out?”

  “Yes and no.” Jo stepped inside the room.

  A worried expression flashed across Zoë’s face, and she started to stand. “Please take my chair.”

  “No, please, I can sit here.” Jo perched on the edge of the bed while Arnett took the smaller chair. “How are you? Are they treating you well?”

  “They try to give me whatever I need. But…” She turned to stare out the window. “It’s hard to explain.” She turned back and met Jo’s eyes. “I can’t get my feet under me. Like I’m floating in the ocean with no land in sight. Bobbing, hoping desperately that something appears. With no idea how I ended up in the middle of the ocean, or how I’ll ever get out.”

  Jo nodded. “My grandmother had Alzheimer’s disease. Pretty different, I know, but there were times when I could see on her face that she didn’t know where she was or who she was, or even who I was, and she was terrified.” She fought back the tears that came into her eyes, surprised at her reaction—her grandmother had been gone nearly fifteen years, but in this context, the memory of her grandmother’s fear and helplessness were as clear as if they’d happened yesterday.

  Zoë nodded, and spoke quietly. “But it’s even weirder than that. See this scar right here?” She pulled the jeans up off her ankle, revealing a white slash. “I can’t tell you how I got that. But this morning? They gave us pancakes that were raw on the inside, and I mentioned to the young intern who made them that she has to wait until the bubbles pop on the first side before flipping them, and make sure her pan isn’t too hot. How did I know that?” She gestured toward a deck of cards on the table. “I know how to play solitaire. I know how to use a curling iron to style my hair. How is that possible?”

  Arnett chimed in. “We did some googling. Turns out there are different memory systems in the brain. You’ve lost your autobiographical memory, but your semantic and procedural memory are intact. Facts, and how to do things.”

  Zoë shook her head. “Whatever it is, it’s really weird, and scary. Like a stranger’s living inside my head.”

  Jo nodded. “Well, we have some news for you. We can confirm you’re a mother.” Jo braced for her reaction.

  A combination of fear and pride played on Zoë’s face. “So that footprint is my child’s?”

  “That seems most likely. Does it call up anything for you? Any memories of a baby, or a little girl, or…”

  Zoë stared out the window, eyes flicking left to right, then filling up with tears again. “Still nothing. How is that possible? What kind of a mother can’t remember her own daughter?”

  Jo hurried to reassure her. “During our research, I read about a woman who didn’t recognize her husband. She refused to go home with him because she didn’t believe they were married, and kept screaming that she felt nothing for him. But when she did finally remember, she was just as much in love with him as before. So don’t worry if you aren’t feeling anything right now, it’s normal.”

  Zoë jumped up, shaking her head. “Oh, I’m feeling plenty. I’m angry because I can’t remember my own flesh and blood, and I’m terrified that I never will remember her. She needs her mother, and I’m stuck in here, useless!” She whirled around to face them. “How old is she? Do you have a picture?”

  Jo shook her head. “We don’t know any of that.”

  Zoë stuck her hands on her hips, head jutted forward, and her tone took on an accusatory edge. “Then how do you know I have a daughter?”

  Jo took a deep breath. “There’s no easy way to tell you this. You remember how the clothes we found you in were covered in too much blood to be your own? We analyzed it, and compared it to a sample of your blood. The DNA results indicate the blood belongs to your biological daughter.”

  Zoë’s hands flew to her face as the implication hit. “If all that blood was hers—oh, God—is she dead?”

  Jo winced at the pain and fear in Zoë’s voice, but she had to plow forward. “It’s very possible she’s perfectly fine. Plenty of non-fatal injuries bleed profusely. But it won’t help for me to sugar-coat this—no matter what, she was hurt badly. And I know all of this is a shock, but, this also means you were with her when she was bleeding, so we
need you to think. Do you have any memory of that at all?”

  Zoë’s head dropped back into her hands, and shook back and forth. “No, I— Oh God. No— No.”

  Jo sensed a shift, and stepped forward. “Did you see something?”

  “No, nothing,” she said, her voice muffled through her fingers. “It’s just—oh God, what could have possibly happened? What would cause her to bleed like that?”

  Jo laid her hand on Zoë’s back, and realized the woman was trembling. “It’s okay, don’t push yourself. We’ll figure out what happened.”

  Zoë’s head shot up, her expression angry. “How? When you don’t even know how old she is? When you can’t even figure out who I am?”

  Jo reached out for Zoë’s hand, but she snatched it away. Jo gave a quick rundown of the steps they’d already taken, trying to calm her. “We can expand our search now that we know you have a daughter. She may have been reported missing, which gives us another avenue to investigate, and—”

  Zoë cut her off. “You just said nobody with matching injuries turned up at any area hospitals. But she’d need help if she were still alive, right? Which means she’s in danger.” Tears filled her eyes. “What if she’s dead? What if she’s dying? We need to find her, I need to help her—”

  Jo’s heart sank—she’d been hoping Zoë wouldn’t go down that path. “The only way you can help her is by staying calm and not jumping to any conclusions. It’s very possible that she’s just fine. But you’re right, she may need help. Which is why our next step is to release a picture of you to the media, see if anyone recognizes—”

  “No!” The word ripped from Zoë’s mouth like buckshot.

  Jo froze, and watched Zoë’s mouth open and close, searching for words that wouldn’t come, until they all came out in a sputtering rush.

  “You can’t. I mean—” Her glance darted between Jo’s and Arnett’s. “Don’t you see? Someone tried to hurt us. They might still be looking for us, especially if they think I can identify them. If you go to the media, that will lead them right to me!” The final words burst out in a sob.

  Jo put an arm around her and led her back to the chair, shooting Arnett a questioning look over her shoulder. “I know this is scary for you, but I need you to stay calm.”

  Arnett brought a glass of water from the bathroom, and held it out to Zoë. “Please, drink.”

  Jo waited while Zoë sipped, then sipped again.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell at you. I know you’re trying your best,” Zoë said. “But please, you just can’t. It’s not safe.”

  “I understand you’re afraid. We threw a lot at you just now, and you need some time to process it all,” Jo said. “We want to make sure you feel safe, okay? So let’s talk it through.”

  Zoë nodded, and took another sip of water.

  “First of all, the media report won’t mention where you’re located. Second, this is a secured facility.” Jo pointed to the visitor badge hanging around her neck. “Not even police can get in here without permission. Nobody’s going to reach you.”

  Zoë’s eyes flashed to the window. “You think that, but look. There are no bars on the windows, and someone could push right through those hedges. They could climb right over that wall with a ladder.”

  Jo peered out at the fifteen-foot hedge and the wall. Crossing it would be nearly impossible, but Zoë’s reaction wasn’t fueled by logic. Jo needed to switch tactics.

  “I promise you, it’s designed to look pleasant from in here, but it’s very secure. And we have a bigger problem—if your daughter’s in trouble, we need to find her as quickly as possible. To do that we need to figure out who you are as quickly as possible. We need to get you to people and places that will trigger your memory, so you can tell us what happened.”

  Zoë reached out to set the glass on the table, her hand shaking so hard that water spilled from the glass. She took another deep breath, and looked up at Jo, her face rigid. “You’re right, it doesn’t matter what happens to me. Finding her is the most important thing, and that’s the fastest way. I’m just going to have to push down the fear and trust you. But can I at least get a guard or something like that? Or maybe I can talk to another doctor besides Doctor Soltero? Maybe someone that can hypnotize me or something?”

  Arnett took the glass from Zoë and set it down for her. “Tell you what. We’ll talk to our Lieutenant about a guard for you, okay? And we’ll have Doctor Soltero call you as soon as he can to talk through your options. And we’ll talk to the director here to make sure the staff is alerted that the information about you is going out to the public tonight on the news.”

  Zoë wrapped her arms around her abdomen, and nodded. “Yes, okay, thank you so much. Just do whatever you need to do to find my daughter.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll find her and keep you safe,” Jo said. “And please, if you remember anything at all, let us know as soon as possible, no matter what time it is. Even a small thing that seems meaningless to you might help, okay?”

  Zoë nodded, and took another sip of water. “Okay, I will. Thank you so much.”

  Jo and Arnett left the room, and asked the nurse at the security desk to check on Zoë once they’d gone.

  Then, as soon as they exited the building, Jo turned to Arnett. “She remembered something.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Arnett pulled open the passenger’s side door of their vehicle. “Are you sure? She seemed pretty upset. Maybe the patented Fournier instinct doesn’t work on people who have no idea who they are.”

  Jo slid into the driver’s seat. “Maybe. But she balked for the tiniest moment, then suddenly panicked at the idea of us going to the media. I think she remembered part of the attack—not her attacker’s face, because she would have jumped to identify whoever did this. But maybe a glimpse of him from behind hurting someone else, something like that. Whatever it was, she’s terrified he’ll come after her again.”

  “Or maybe she saw herself murdering her own daughter,” Arnett said.

  Jo shot him a sharp glance and tapped her nail on the steering wheel. “Maybe, but what would that scenario look like? She kills her daughter, then runs off into the woods for some reason, hits her head, and can’t remember who she is? Except why would she run off into the woods in the first place?”

  “Maybe she’s faking this whole thing. Maybe she killed her daughter and realized she’d never be able to make it look like self-defense, so she figured she’d pretend it was a random attacker.”

  “And you’re saying she’s been faking the amnesia the whole time?”

  “I’m not saying it’s likely, I’m just saying it’s possible.”

  “But why? Wouldn’t it be easier to just say from the start that someone attacked your daughter, and you got away? Why add the additional complication of the amnesia? And if that’s so, why is she so terrified of us going to the media?”

  Arnett wagged his head. “You’re right, it’s a stretch. And it doesn’t really matter in terms of our next step anyway. She gave permission to go to the media, but we don’t need it. This isn’t just about her.”

  Jo switched on the ignition. “I agree. Whatever else happened here, her daughter’s the main victim.”

  Arnett nodded. “If we hurry, we can get her picture up on the local news affiliates tonight.”

  As they hurried to put together the information for the public appeal, Arnett’s theory nagged at Jo. When she was able to break away, she stepped into an empty conference room, and put through a call to Matt Soltero.

  “Jo. What a nice surprise.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint, but I’m calling about work.”

  “Ah, well. But I’m still happy to help.”

  “We talked before about the psychological reasons for amnesia, particularly someone wanting to forget something traumatic that happened to them. But what if rather than the victim, the amnesiac were the perpetrator, say if they killed someone? Could that lead to amnesia?”

>   He paused. “It would definitely count as something to be upset over. Do you think Zoë was the attacker here?”

  Jo tugged at her necklace as she considered her answer. “Bob suggested it. But it doesn’t seem plausible when I follow it through and I don’t get a sense of anything like that from her. So I thought I’d see if I could rule it out from a psychological perspective. Would the memory loss be more consistent with something traumatic happening to her than with something she did?”

  “I’ve seen both types of cases. One in particular involved a Vietnam vet who lost his memory shortly after setting fire to a village full of women and children.”

  “So guilt can trigger the amnesia.”

  “I’d be careful about making judgment calls on the underlying emotional attribution, but in essence, yes.”

  “Damn. Well, that’s good to know, even if it doesn’t help limit the possibilities.”

  “Anything else I can help with?”

  “That’s it for now.”

  “Then I’ll look forward to Saturday.”

  She said her goodbye and hung up. Jo hurried back inside to watch the news segment, praying someone would come forward in time to help Zoë’s daughter—if it wasn’t already too late.

  Chapter Twelve

  The man turned up the volume on the hotel TV.

  He’d been watching every local news broadcast for days, googling every search term he could come up with, and scouring the local newspaper for any mention of her. Just as he was beginning to believe she’d died somewhere in the woods, there she was, large as life, filling up his screen.

  The police had found her, and she was alive.

  “Not much is known about the woman, who police are referring to as Zoë. She’s five-five, one hundred twenty pounds, and somewhere between thirty-five and forty-five years old. Police believe she has a daughter, name also unknown, who may also be missing. If you recognize this woman, Oakhurst County State Police Detective Unit ask that you call the hotline shown below with any information you have.”