Chapter 6
Tuesday
Slipping my arms into the hotel robe, I tighten the belt as I hurry from the bathroom to answer the door. I peek through the hole first. “Who is it?”
“Delivery for Ms. Westcott.”
Nervousness claws at my chest as I’m unsure of what to expect.
I know what Loch sent, but I’m still uncertain of what to take from this situation.
I unlock the chain and turn the bolt. When I open the door, a uniformed valet has Nordstrom bags draped on his arms. He asks, “Would you like me to bring them inside?”
I open the door wider. “Yes. Thank you.” He sets the four shopping bags on the dresser, lining them up in presentation. When he returns to the door, I realize I don’t have any tip to give him. I hate the feeling of shame that I succumb to. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any money to give you.”
Bowing his head briefly, he says, “Not necessary. Mr. Westcott already took care of it. Have a good day.”
Mr. Westcott did, did he?
I close the door and lean my back against it, not sure what to make of Loch.
His moods are as mercurial as Edward Cullen's. How do I remember trivial things like Twilight but not my own life? Shouldn’t my life have left a more significant impact than a fictional character from a book? That says a lot about it, right?
Pushing off, I walk to the bags. Loch practically had me eating out of his hand, happily accepting any help he offered. He’s generous to a fault to a stranger with whom he only chatted briefly at a coffee shop. Or maybe he just likes flashing his wealth around.
But the change in his demeanor toward me still sticks in my mind. I know he was joking about the manager thinking I was a call girl, but the distraction seemed to work well for him to get me off the scent of the last name debacle. Was he truly bothered by choosing his own last name for me?
I huff, knowing I’m not cracking that nut anytime soon. As for the packages . . . I cheer up, feeling like it’s Christmas morning. I probably shouldn’t be this excited about clothes, but I’ll be thrilled not to have to put on that skirt again.
Based on the style of the outfit I wore to the hospital, I assume I enjoyed nice things. I add that tidbit to my growing list of clues that I hope can lead me to who I am.
Pulling the tissue from the bag, I drop it to the floor and discover a pair of black pants.
I pull them out and hold them against my body.
The flowy material hits just above my ankles when I hold them to my body.
I raise an eyebrow, impressed. Very nice, Mr. Westcott.
I’ll give him a point for choosing something that will go with pretty much any top I choose.
Next out of the bag is a white, silk, long-sleeve button-up blouse similar to the ruined one.
It’s pretty. Another solid staple for a wardrobe, so great first pieces to add to mine.
With the pants, a classic look. Both are from the same designer.
Judging from the material and cut, I’m thinking these weren’t inexpensive like I asked.
I hang those in the small closet by the door, then open the next bag. Black leather flats tucked into a shoebox tied with a ribbon. Cute and a nice reprieve from the heels I already own.
Having other clothes than the ones I’ve been wearing is already a treat, but having nice things delivered that seem to be made for you feels indulgent. Such luxury. I’m wondering if this is something I was used to in my previous life.
I’m still curious as to how he got my sizes right when I don’t even know what they are.
The third bag has a cozy black coat that hits at my hips.
I hadn’t even thought about needing a coat since I gave mine away.
Being whisked from a warm Escalade to inside a hotel and then straight into a hot bath, I haven’t thought about the weather outside.
I haven’t had to so far. Not sure how I feel about that.
If he hadn’t shown up when he did, would I have been able to stand on my own two feet?
I flip the tissue paper over my shoulder and then rummage through the last bag.
There are packages of underwear and a few bras.
When I hold them up, I can tell they’re not cheap—and when I see the price tag, I gasp in shock.
And there are a few accessories added—like a beautiful YSL bag and a pair of gold earrings.
He spared no expense and was meticulous to ensure that I had literally everything I needed. Does he know what a woman truly needs?
Does he have a sister?
A girlfriend?
Or a wife?
Oh God, I hope he doesn’t have a wife.
My mind starts to wonder to my own life and who is in it. Wonder if I have any siblings?
I place the items in the closet. These luxuries remind me of the little bag of my jewelry the nurse gave me before I left—diamond earrings and a pendant necklace. I go to the skirt in the laundry bag where I’ve put it and dig the bag out of the pocket. Thank God.
I can’t afford to lose these.
When I fold the bags, I realize there’s one more small box tucked inside the last bag. A phone.
Nope, he doesn’t miss a thing.
But this is too much. How can I possibly thank him for what he’s done? Besides the beautiful clothes and accessories, he’s given me a way to stay connected to the world.
Wait . . . will I be able to connect with him again?
My focus doesn’t need to be on him when I have so much other stuff, like my life, to worry about, but he makes it impossible to deter my thoughts.
A note with the phone number is taped to the bottom of the box.
I stare at it. A flash of something I can’t interpret comes to mind. But it’s gone too fast.
I rub my temple to ease the onslaught of an ache and close my eyes.
I was given instructions to take it easy since I hit my head.
I wouldn’t describe my morning as easy based on how twisted in knots with worry my stomach has been, but when it growls in demand, I decide that might be the best course of action.
Sustenance will do me good.
I flip through the menu and call room service.
When I hang up, I take the phone and turn it on.
As soon as it’s activated, I retrieve Loch’s number and enter it into my contacts.
He may be a little Billy goat gruff on the surface, but his generosity is unparalleled.
For this gift, he deserves the honor of being my first contact.
Thinking of phones, I’m reminded that I haven’t heard from the police since I left the hospital. Glancing at the hotel phone, I didn’t miss any calls while in the bath. Oh God, they don’t know I’m here.
I remember the business card from the detective assigned to my case and call to check in and give him my new number. He’s not available, so I leave a message and lie on the bed with the phone next to me. I hope he calls me back because the waiting is torture.
Exhausted, my body is weak, my head hurts, and my hair feels like straw and is a complete mess. I could look in the mirror, but what’s the point? I’m already mortified that Loch saw me like this. Squeezing my eyes closed even tighter, I cringe.
Does it matter if he saw me looking horrific? No. I was attacked. He knows that. So why do I care what he thinks of my appearance?
I know why.
The man is gorgeous, and I can’t say for certain what my type was before, but visually, I feel like he would fit it . . . since he does now.
The food arrives, and I settle on the bed with the tray, dipping the fries in ketchup, then devouring half before I tackle the burger. When my mouth is full, my phone rings. I recognize the number and chew faster before I answer. “Hello?” I ask just after swallowing too fast.
The detective replies, “Hi, Tuesday?”
“This is she.”
“I only have a minute, but I wanted to return your call.”
“I appreciate that. Have you heard anything from my family? I bet they’re worried.”
“Unfortunately, there’s no new news. It hasn’t been twenty-four hours, so no reports of your disappearance have been filed.
As much as you hate to hear it, it’s a waiting game.
We did receive some footage from across the street from where you were mugged, confirming the details already filed.
The footage is grainy. From that distance, it will be hard to identify anyone facially.
We’ll be able to build out a profile, though.
I should tell you that a lot of times, bags turn up in alleys or trash bins.
Most of the time, the muggers just want cash or something they can resell.
So time is not our friend in cases like yours, so we need to rely on the missing persons report to come in to get you home. ”
“What about the fingerprints you took at the hospital?”
“They didn’t pull anything. That’s not a bad thing. Just means you haven’t been booked before. Ran your photo but nothing popped up. Those are the initial steps. We’re digging deeper, don’t you worry.”
I had hoped that would lead me home. I mean, I’m glad I’m not a criminal, but how is there no trace of me using photos or fingerprints?
“I’ll contact you when I have more to share.”
“Thank you, Detective Langley.” I can’t hide my disappointment. I’ve seen enough movies and crime shows to know twenty-four hours is standard procedure, but when your life hangs in the balance, that period might as well be a mountain I have to climb to get to the other side.
I’ve lost the rest of my appetite. I lie back on the bed, wishing for the hours to pass.
When I check the time on the phone again, it’s been two minutes.
“Ugh!” I slam my hands down beside me. I want to scream, to kick my feet in protest, to get the answers I so desperately need to the questions plaguing me.
Who am I?
Where do I live?
Where am I from?
Is anyone searching for me?
When my anger causes my body to heat, I stand and strip off my robe. Ah, a detail Loch overlooked. Pajamas.
I climb under the covers, thinking he’s probably the type who sleeps naked.
It’s not a bad image since he sure has the body for it.
But then his mood kind of ruins it. That won’t stop me from texting him, though.
I grab the phone to type: Thank you. You did more than necessary, but I truly appreciate the gifts.
Hope you were able to finish some business.
I hope he can find the humor in the last part like I did. I stare at the screen, but when nothing happens, I set it down next to me, closing my eyes again. Maybe he’s thinking of something clever to say . . . The phone buzzes on the bed, and I roll to my side to read the message: You’re welcome.
Huh. Or maybe not.
Polite but abrupt. Maybe I should have expected as much. He’s an attorney, of all things, and based on how we parted ways, I’m not surprised that he doesn’t placate me and fall into the opening I left for him with my text.
I can’t fault him entirely. He tried to turn it around at the end, but it was too late. I’d already raised my defenses.
My body aches in places that don’t make sense. My head pounds, and my mouth feels like I ate cotton. I wedge open my eyes like I’m coming out of a long winter’s hibernation but slam them shut when I see the light from outside flooding the room. I roll onto my back and try again.
This time, more slowly, I open my eyes and raise my head.
I reach for the glass of water, lifting just enough to take a few sips to wet my throat and clear it.
I fight through my heavy head and foggy mind, and force myself to get up.
With my legs draped over the side of the mattress, I glance at the phone on the bed and tap the screen.
My heart sinks when I see the time—four hours later—and no notifications.
No calls.
No messages.
Nothing.
Twenty-four hours have officially come and gone.
A yawn catches me off guard before I force myself up, grabbing the robe and wrapping up again.
I use the bathroom and splash my face with cool water to help wake up.
It’s a slow process, something Belinda told me not to rush.
By how fast my heart beats, she’s probably right. I shouldn’t push myself.
Once I feel steady on my feet and in my thoughts, I walk to the window, pushing the sheers aside, and stare out. I feel lost and so alone.
Knocking on the door pulls me away from my troubled emotions. When I open the door, the earlier valet hands me a Bergdorf Goodman bag. “Delivery, Ms. Westcott.”
“Thank you.” Maybe these contain pajamas. That would be a wonderful surprise.
I let the door close automatically and set the bag on the bed. Taking hold of two spaghetti straps, I slowly pull the ruched black material out until I hold it in front of me. It’s stunning, but it’s not pajamas.
Peeking back in the bag, I find a shoebox. I think these heels go with this beautiful dress. I’m just confused as to why he had this sent over. Where on earth am I going to wear this?
The phone buzzes on the bed, drawing my attention back to it. When I pick it up, only two words are on the screen: Dinner tonight?