Chapter 3
Jada
The curtain surrounding my tiny section of the emergency room didn’t do much to block out the world. I could hear everything—the murmur of nurses at the station, the beeping monitors from other patients, the shuffle of feet on tile. A man two beds down kept groaning like he was dying, but no one seemed too concerned.
I pulled the thin hospital blanket tighter around me, curling my fingers into the paper fabric like it was an anchor. My stomach twisted as I fought against the terror pressing in from all sides. It had been two days. Two days of staring into hotel mirrors, trying to make sense of the woman looking back at me. Two days of studying bruises I didn’t remember getting, of touching a scar on my elbow and wondering how long it had been there.
Two days of waiting for Hunter to come back. But he hadn’t. He’d left me money and paid for a week at the motel. A kindness, I knew. But he was gone. And that meant I was on my own, so this morning, I’d decided I couldn’t just stay in the motel anymore.
I pressed my thumb to the inside of my wrist, feeling my pulse thrumming just beneath the skin. It was too fast, my body still locked in some kind of survival mode. I’d spent the past forty-eight hours trying to talk myself out of coming here. But doing nothing was worse. Sitting alone in that motel room, feeling like a ghost in my own skin, was worse.
The curtain shifted slightly as someone walked past, the glimpse of movement sending a spike of unease through me. I clenched my jaw, breathing in slowly. I had no name. No ID. No past. And yet, I was still here.
Who the hell was I?
I’d spent hours in front of that motel room mirror, studying myself like a puzzle I should be able to solve. Every bruise, every mark, every inch of my body should’ve told me something. But none of it did.
The woman staring back at me had pale skin, dark-brown hair, and frightened eyes. Nothing familiar. Not even a whisper of an answer in my mind. Why couldn’t I remember who I was? Where I came from? Anything at all?
I traced my fingers along the small scar on my elbow, feeling its smooth ridge beneath my touch. It had been there long before two nights ago, but I had no memory of how I’d gotten it. I pressed harder, hoping for some kind of response—pain, recognition, anything.
But there was nothing.
The bruises across my arms, ribs, and face told a story, but not one I could read. I knew the burn on my side had come from a stun gun. I didn’t remember the moment it happened, but my body did. That flash of pain, the way my muscles had locked up—it had jolted through me when I’d caught sight of the mark in the mirror. So my body knew things. My brain just wouldn’t share.
That was the worst part. I still knew how to do everything. I could read. Write. Drive. The motel remote hadn’t been a mystery. I’d made coffee in the tiny room’s pot without thinking twice. But when I tried to think about if I liked cream or sugar? Nothing.
A favorite book? A meal I loved? What my house looked like? Just a hollow space where memories should be. I was a person without a past. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t claw it back.
I’d obeyed Hunter’s warning. For two days, I’d laid low, just like he told me. And it had nearly driven me insane. I’d spent the better part of this morning pacing the length of the motel room, going back and forth in my own head. Maybe I should just wait. Maybe Hunter would change his mind and show up again. Maybe whatever I was running from—the thing that made him tell me to “lie low”—was worse than I realized. But how the hell was I supposed to hide when I didn’t even know who I was?
And Hunter was gone. I couldn’t blame him. He’d said he hadn’t really known me, so expecting him to stick around, or come back, had been completely unreasonable.
I’d finally snapped. My hands had trembled as I’d checked my reflection one last time. It hadn’t made any difference—I still didn’t recognize the woman staring back.
By the time I made it to the emergency room, my nerves were shot. The lady at the front desk barely looked up when I told her I had no ID, no money, no memory of who I was. She just typed something into her computer and handed me a clipboard like this happened every damn day. Maybe it did. Maybe Denver had more lost souls than I thought.
I’d spent an eternity in the waiting room, surrounded by sick kids and exhausted parents, a guy who smelled like he hadn’t showered in weeks, a woman dabbing at a deep gash in her palm. I kept waiting for someone to demand answers I didn’t have, to ask why I’d waited so long to come in.
But no one did.
And now, I was here. In a tiny, curtained-off section, waiting for someone to tell me what the hell I was supposed to do next.
As if she could hear my thoughts, the curtain rustled, and a woman stepped inside, her gaze sharp and assessing. Late forties, maybe early fifties, with a no-nonsense air and dark-framed glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. She scanned the tablet in her hand before looking at me directly.
“Jada Doe, is it?” Her tone was calm, but there was a thread of curiosity underneath.
“That’s what they put on the intake form.” I shrugged, the fabric of the hospital gown stiff against my shoulders. “Seemed better than ‘Jane.’ I was told my name was Jada.”
Her lips twitched, like maybe she appreciated the dry humor, but she didn’t comment. Instead, she took a step closer, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took me in. “I’m Dr. Hensley. Let’s start simple—how are you feeling?”
How was I feeling? Terrified. Unsteady. Like I was standing on the edge of a cliff with no idea what was at the bottom. But none of that would help her.
“Tired,” I said instead. “Sore.”
She nodded like that made sense. “You’ve got a lot of bruising. Some of it older, some newer. Do you have any idea how you got them?”
“No.” The word felt heavier than it should. “I don’t remember anything before two nights ago.”
Her expression didn’t change, but something in her posture shifted. A quiet concern. “And no head trauma that you know of? No dizziness, nausea?”
I hesitated. “No head wounds that I could find, but—” I swallowed. “When I woke up, my whole body hurt. My muscles were stiff, and there was this deep, bone-level exhaustion.” My fingers twitched on my lap. “Like I’d been hit by a truck.”
Dr. Hensley’s brows pulled together as she reached for a penlight and gestured for me to look at her. I blinked against the sharp beam as she checked my pupils.
“Any flashes of memory? Even small ones? Faces? Names?”
I shook my head, something twisting in my chest. “Nothing. Just…instincts. I know how to do things—read, drive, tie my shoes—but I don’t know anything about myself.” My hands clenched against the blanket. “I don’t know if I have family. If anyone’s looking for me.”
The doctor didn’t immediately respond. Instead, she set her tablet aside and moved to the side of the bed. “Let’s take a look at those injuries.”
I stiffened as she carefully prodded along my ribs, her fingers pressing gently against the bruised skin. A sharp sting shot through me when she touched a particularly sore spot near my side, and I sucked in a breath.
“Sorry,” she murmured, her brow furrowing. “No fractures, but definitely some deep tissue bruising.”
She moved lower, her fingers brushing the small burn on my side. “This is from a stun gun.” It wasn’t a question.
I swallowed. “I figured.”
Her gaze flicked up to mine, quiet understanding there. “You remember the feeling of it?”
I hesitated, then nodded. “Not the moment it happened, but…it’s like my body knows what it feels like.”
She studied me for a long beat before nodding. “I’m ordering a CT scan. Your memory loss could be neurological, but we need to rule out anything physical.”
I barely nodded before she continued. “You’re not homeless.” Her voice was matter-of-fact. “Your clothes are high quality, your shoes too. You don’t look malnourished or like you’ve been on the streets.” She hesitated, eyes scanning my face again. “And you don’t seem like you’re on drugs.”
I frowned. “I don’t think I am.”
“No signs of withdrawal,” she agreed, tapping something into her tablet. “But we need to find out who you are. Would you be okay with us taking your fingerprints? We can run them through the system, see if we can get an ID. It could help us notify family.” A pause followed. “And the hospital will want you to know who you are for insurance purposes.”
I should’ve immediately said yes. It made sense. It was the logical thing to do. But my mind flashed back to Hunter, to the warninghe gave to lie low. I still didn’t know why. Didn’t know what I was running from. But how could I keep hiding when I didn’t even know from whom?
I forced myself to nod. “Okay.”
Dr. Hensley offered a small, approving nod of her own. “I’ll get security to set up fingerprinting, and someone will be by to take you for your CT scan.”
Then she stepped out, letting the curtain sway back into place.
I exhaled slowly, curling my arms around myself as I stared at the thin fabric. Something told me answers were coming.
I just wasn’t sure if I wanted them.
Hours later, I sat in the waiting room, and every second I sat there made my skin feel tighter and my breath harder to pull in. It had been hours since the CT scan. Hours since they’d taken my fingerprints. And I didn’t feel any closer to answers. If anything, I felt worse.
The murmurs around me were normal—nurses chatting, someone at the front desk checking in a patient, a kid whining about his scraped knee—but they felt directed at me. Every glance in my direction sent a sharp prick down my spine. Were they whispering about me? Talking about the woman with no name, no past? The mystery patient?
I pulled my sleeves over my hands, curling my fingers into the fabric. I shouldn’t have come here. The waiting had been unbearable. The not knowing. But this was worse. I should’ve done what Hunter said and just laid low.
I needed out. I needed air.
Just as I started to push to my feet, Dr. Hensley appeared, her expression unreadable. “Come with me.”
Her tone wasn’t unkind, but it wasn’t the same as before. The warmth from our last conversation had dimmed. Something about her posture—stiff, professional—sent a fresh spike of unease through me.
I followed her down a quiet hallway, past nurses and closed doors, until we stopped in front of a private room. When I stepped inside, the change in atmosphere hit me immediately. This wasn’t like the curtained-off space from earlier. This room had walls. A door.
Dr. Hensley turned to face me, tablet in hand. “Your CT scan didn’t show anything abnormal,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “There’s no indication of head trauma or anything physically wrong that would explain your memory loss.”
I should’ve felt relief. Instead, my stomach twisted tighter. “Then why can’t I remember?”
“It could be trauma-induced. Something your brain is protecting you from.”
The words settled like a lead weight in my chest. Protecting me from what?
Dr. Hensley didn’t offer any theories. Instead, she exhaled, glancing at the tablet before looking back at me. “I need you to stay here for a little while longer while we gather some more information.”
Something in her tone made my breath catch. More information? What kind? And from whom?
She stepped toward the door, and I barely heard her murmur, “I won’t be long.”
Then came the sound. A soft but distinct click as she left. I froze. Heart hammering. I turned slowly, hand reaching for the doorknob. Twisting.
Locked.
My breath hitched. Not just a closed door. A locked door. I stared at it, pulse pounding against my ribs.
They were keeping me here.
I pressed my palm against the cool metal, forcing myself to breathe, to think. Maybe it was just protocol. Maybe Dr. Hensley had locked it by mistake. Maybe?—
The handle rattled.
I jumped back as the door cracked open, and a man in a suit stepped inside, holding a file in his hands. Late fifties, maybe early sixties, with thin gray hair and a tired expression. He wasn’t a doctor. He didn’t have the same detached professionalism as Dr. Hensley. No, this guy looked at me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve.
“Miss…Doe,” he said, his voice measured. “I need to ask you some things.”
I swallowed hard, nodding.
He glanced at the folder, flipping it open. “Does the name Jada Banks sound familiar to you?”
Only because that’s what Hunter had said to me. I wasn’t sure what to admit.
“I don’t know,” I said, voice tight. “It doesn’t sound…wrong. But it doesn’t feel familiar either.”
The man studied me, his gaze giving nothing away.
“Why?” I demanded. “Is that my name?”
He didn’t answer my question, just went into another of his own. “How about the family name Moyer? Does that ring any bells?”
“No,” I answered honestly.
A quiet beat stretched between us, thick with tension. Then he gave a small nod, tucked the file under his arm, and turned for the door.
“Wait,” I said, stepping forward, panic creeping up my throat. “Can you tell me what those names mean? Is one of them my name?” Had Hunter been mistaken and my real last name was Moyer?
The man didn’t turn around. Didn’t say a word. The door shut behind him with another soft click.
Locked. Again.
I sagged against the exam table, gripping the edge so tightly my fingers ached. I never should’ve come here.
Voices drifted in from the hallway, pulling me from my thoughts. I stilled, inching closer to the door.
“Yeah, I’m here for the transfer,” a man said, his tone clipped, efficient. Professional. “She’s being moved.”
My stomach clenched. Transfer?
“That’s not what I was told,” a nurse countered, irritation creeping into her voice. “We were supposed to wait for the police.”
Police . The word sent ice through my veins.
“There was an email sent out about it,” the man said smoothly. “I’ll wait here while you check.”
A pause. Then footsteps, fading down the hall.
A few seconds later, the door opened. I barely had a moment to process the man stepping inside. White coat. Glasses. Shoulders slumped and unassuming—obviously some sort of doctor. I wondered if I could push him out of the way and run past him. This might be my only chance.
But then before my eyes, the man became someone else. His posture shifted. The stiffness in his stance melted away, the cowed expression gone in an instant.
He straightened, squaring his shoulders, and became the warrior I recognized.
Hunter .
His green eyes locked on mine. My breath hitched.
“You—” I swallowed, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. He looked so different. Sounded different.
“We have to get out of here.” His voice was low, urgent.
I took a step forward, heart hammering. “How did you?—”
“Not now.” He wrapped his fingers around my wrist, firm but not rough, the same way he’d grasped me the night at the cabin. His grip was steady, an anchor against the chaos threatening to pull me under. “We don’t have much time. Let’s go.”
I didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask questions. Staying here wasn’t an option.