Chapter 12
Pushing the sunglasses onto her eyes, Britt sat on the middle row of the jitney near the window next to a grandfather and his two grandsons headed to Shell Bay for fishing.
The fishing rods leaned across her knees as he struggled to hold the tackle box and keep the rambunctious boys from bothering the other locals crammed into the island’s most popular form of public transportation.
After leaving the clinic, she’d left the touristy part of Conrad along the waterfront and checked into a bed and breakfast. The chase had been blasted on the local news with several grainy cell phone videos of her.
She’d watched the coverage on the small television in her room, satisfied that none of the footage showed a clear picture of her face.
But that didn’t mean the police didn’t have her image.
The police chief, a pretty woman with an American accent, held a press conference and emphasized that finding the menace who’d brazenly chased a woman through the streets of Conrad was their top priority.
They’d found evidence the man had been shot, but it was not clear by whom.
He was still at large and considered armed and dangerous.
They also wanted to question the victim, who may have shot the pursuer in self-defense.
They implored the public to call in with tips.
Britt made sure no one would recognize her.
Pulling her hair back into a tight bun, she’d gone to a boutique and purchased a floral skirt, shell shirt, and a crossbody purse, blending in with the typical attire of working Palmchatter women.
The exact opposite of the wild-haired woman in leggings and a t-shirt who’d been chased through the streets the day before. As harrowing and terrifying as the man hunting her had been, she knew one thing was true—she’d saved the little girl.
You look like my mommy. She’s in heaven.
Britt’s heart broke for the little girl who’d lost her mother.
She couldn’t imagine what the child must be going through.
It was hard to imagine when she didn’t remember her own life, family, parents.
All she had were the stories of Brittany Freeman tattooed on her brain.
Memorized despite her efforts to resist taking over that woman’s life.
Britt dragged her hand down her face, then reached into the pocket of her crossbody purse. She pulled out the dark red metal card. Her fingers traced over the edges of the stingray etched into the surface.
Dr. Rocco Forrester had stepped up and helped her out of a tight situation without demanding anything in return. Like it was something he did regularly for people like her … people who needed help and had nowhere to turn.
But Britt wasn’t sure that was true about her life.
Her family and all the answers she needed could be at 67 Nova Lane.
The jitney slowed at the next stop. The grandfather and his grandsons grabbed their boxes and rods and exited. Two women boarded together, and quickly took the vacated seats.
“Good afternoon,” they said in unison, giving Britt a once over.
“Good afternoon,” she replied, knowing it was impolite in Palmchat culture not to greet anyone back.
Britt pressed against the window as the first woman with deep mahogany skin and dark curls swept up in a bright madras headwrap slid in beside her.
The woman’s friend, an older woman with a neat halo of silver-streaked locs and gold bangles clicking softly against her wrists, took the spot on the end of the seat.
“Like I was saying,” the elder said, “if I do see that woman who was chased all over Conrad, I’m not calling the police. She’s safer if no one knows where she is.”
“I just hope she’s somewhere safe.” The younger woman nodded her head emphatically. “It’s a shame how much crime we have now on the island. We’re becoming as bad as St. Killian. The next thing you know, the PC-5 will run our towns like they do there.”
“Maybe they already are,” the elder said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Any man that bold to chase a woman with a knife through the crowded town has to be a gang member, don’t you think?” She raised an eyebrow toward Britt, inviting her into the conversation.
Britt nodded in response, which seemed to please both women.
“I swear, when Bernadette King was still around, she stopped all of this foolishness from happening on our island. God rest her soul,” the elder continued.
“That’s who we need to step up and fix this,” the younger said. “The King Family owns half the land on this island. They are the ones who should use some of those billions to make our streets safe again.”
Britt listened intently, relieved that neither woman recognized her.
The tidbits about island politics and the rise and crime were intriguing but didn’t trigger any new memories.
She had no clue who Bernadette King or the King Family were, but she knew the PC-5, the dominant criminal organization in the Palmchat Islands.
She clenched her fists in frustration. The little she was starting to remember was the tiniest tip of the iceberg of her life. And she was growing impatient to find out more. She closed her eyes, praying she’d find answers at 67 Nova Lane.
Would the people there recognize her? Were they her family? Did they know she was missing? Had they been hoping and praying for her return? More importantly, would she recognize them? Or would they be as unfamiliar as the face she looked at in the mirror?
“Miss in the yellow,” the jitney driver called out, slowing the minivan to a stop along the side of the road. “This is your stop.”
Britt glanced down and realized he was talking to her.
“Nova Lane is two blocks down that street.” He pointed toward a stop sign intersecting with the road they were on.
Britt apologized to the two women as they gathered their bags and stood, giving her room to maneuver out of the seat. As she stepped off the jitney, she stared at the street sign that read Copper Road. It didn’t ring a bell.
“Just cross the street and walk down two blocks,” the driver reiterated. “Then you’ll see the sign for Nova Lane.”
“Got it,” Britt said, gripping her crossbody purse. “Thank you.”
Minutes later, she stood at the corner of Nova Lane and turned right as an avalanche of memories flooded her.
She walked slowly, recognizing each house she passed.
Some hadn’t changed from what she remembered.
Others had been painted or slightly remodeled, but she clearly remembered what they looked like before.
This was her neighborhood. She’d lived in one of these pastel-colored homes with wraparound verandas, decorative gingerbread trim, and steep metal roofs to withstand tropical storms.
Her pulse quickened as the numbers on the homes increased—55, 59, 61. In the distance, she saw the house she’d lived in. She didn’t have to be close enough to read the numbers to know it was the right place.
Closing her eyes, she tried to remember what it was like on the inside. Who lived there with her? But that part was a blank, out of her reach. But she was about to find out if someone who knew her still lived there.
She walked with more purposeful steps as a dark truck raced past her down the road. She ducked between two homes out of view, eyes locked on the truck as it parked in the driveway of 67 Nova Lane.
The driver’s door swung open, and she stifled a scream as The Visitor stepped out. What the hell was he doing here? How did he know about 67 Nova Lane? Had he always planned to check the island for her, or had the man who chased her yesterday tipped him off?
The answer was pointless.
He was here, and there was only one reason he’d shown up at 67 Nova Lane—to find her.
Britt ducked below the hedges, peering at The Visitor as he jogged up the porch steps and knocked on the door. He waited a few minutes, then knocked louder.
Britt held her breath, hoping that no one would come to the door.
That whoever was inside the house stayed safe from him.
The soft creak of a door opening filled her with dread.
An elderly man emerged from the house, back hunched over as he greeted The Visitor. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” The Visitor said, his voice dripping with manufactured charm. “Have you lived in this house for long?”
The elderly man said, “About five years now. Why do you ask?”
The Visitor nodded his head. “My sister lived here six or seven years ago. Probably was the last person who rented this place before you bought it. She … umm …” he paused, emotion clogging his throat.
“She’s dealing with medical issues and ran away from the facility where she was receiving treatment.
Her memory is impaired, and I’ve been trying to find her—”
“And you thought she might come back to a place she lived before,” the man said, nodding. “Well, no one unexpected has come by here at all. Just the normal folks that come to see me and my wife. Do you have a picture of her?”
The Visitor nodded eagerly, reaching into his pocket to produce a photo.
“Pretty girl. Such a shame she’s missing,” the elderly man said. “Can I hang on to this? I’ll ask my neighbors if they’ve noticed her around.”
“That would be great. I appreciate it,” The Visitor said, then handed the man a card. “Please call this number if you or your neighbors see her. We really need to get her back to the facility. Every day she’s not being treated, the worse her memory loss and other injuries will get.”
The elderly man studied the card. “Sure thing. I really hope you find your sister soon.”
“Me too,” The Visitor said, his gaze sweeping down the street. “Her life depends on it.”
The words sent a chill over her as she reached a shaky hand into her purse. Pulling out the dark red metal card and the burner phone, she slid down against the house, hidden in the shadows, and texted the number on the back.