The first thing I needed was clothing—simply because the last thing I needed was to attract attention.
I glanced over my shoulder, studying the rolling waves for a moment, then resolutely made my way to the cliffs and the nearest trail.
No one but goddamn goats had been using that particular trail, let me tell you.
I was sweating, shaking, and wheezing by the time I finally got to the top. I leaned my hands on my aching knees, sucking in great gulps of air as I studied the surrounding countryside.
The slope rolled down to a small cottage. The area around the cottage wasn’t fenced, and a blue car sat out front, indicating that someone was home. Beyond the house, the slope rose again, and the tops of pine trees were evident behind it.
I glanced back at the house. The cottage didn’t look big enough to be a permanent residence, so maybe it was one of those places vacationers rented out short term. I hoped so, because vacationers were more likely to go out for the day, leaving their possessions—or, more particularly, their clothes—unprotected.
Of course, to steal their clothes, I first had to get there. Right now, collapsing in a heap seemed a much better option.
I blew out a breath and forced my feet down the grassy slope. My legs protested the activity, and warmth began to trickle down not only my shin but the side of my face as well. I swiped at it with a hand, and it came away bloody.
Maybe Egan wasn’t the only one who’d sustained serious injury. And a decent blow to the head would certainly explain the gaps in my memory.
I rubbed my hand down my thigh and kept on walking. What else could I do? I was in the middle of goddamn nowhere, with no idea who I was or how I’d gotten here. And no idea who I could trust. If I could trust.
As the slope flattened, the grass became long enough to brush my butt. Which in turn made me wonder if the grass was actually long, or if I was short. I felt long—long and rangy—but self-perception is an odd thing when the memory can give no references. I held my hands out and studied them critically.
Dirt-covered as they were from scrambling up the goat trail, they were still somewhat elegant—all long and slender. Neither my fingers nor my palms had calluses of any kind, so I obviously didn’t do anything too strenuous for a living. A fact backed up by the length of my nails—or at least what remained of them after the climb.
I glanced down at my feet. There was nothing elegant about those. Given their length and width, they could be described only as paddles. Getting shoes had to be hell.
The thought intrigued me for some reason, and I stopped to lift a foot. Thick, hardened soles. Obviously, I didn’t wear shoes all that often, if that foot was anything to go by.
A door slammed, and laughter ran across the meadow. I dropped to my knees, my bruised left leg hitting a rock and making me wince. Two people emerged from the cottage, the woman still laughing and touching her companion. Newlyweds, I thought, for no particular reason.
They climbed into the blue car sitting in the driveway, the man opening and closing the door for the woman before getting into the driver’s side and driving off.
On the right-hand side of the road. And though three quarters of the world drove on that side, I was suddenly sure that I was in America. Which in itself wasn’t much help, because America was a damn big country, but at least it was a starting point.
I waited until they were out of sight, then rose and made my way quickly toward the house. The front door was locked, as was the back. But a window along the side was open enough to slide a hand in and push off the screen. After that, it was a simple matter of pushing up the window and sliding in.
Which I did. I hit the floor with an awkward thump and sat there listening, waiting to see if there was anyone else in the house. Which is something I should have done before I started breaking in.
Obviously, I could cross “thief” off my list of possible past professions. Unless, of course, I was a very bad thief.
The only sound to be heard was the soft ticking of a clock. The air was still, and smelled faintly of age and lavender. This particular room had been made up as a bedroom, but the bed was a single and obviously unused. Which probably meant I wouldn’t find anything in the wardrobe or small dresser. I checked them anyway. Nothing but mothballs.
I walked to the door, my footsteps echoing noisily on the polished floorboards. The room directly opposite was a bathroom, complete with an old claw-foot bath and a shower big enough for two. The main bedroom sat to my right, and the kitchen to my left down the end of the hall.
I glanced back at the bathroom, eyeing the shower and wondering how much time I had. Surely enough to get cleaned up. I could no more run around looking like something the sea had coughed up than I could run around naked. Not if I wanted to avoid detection.
Besides, I might not have noticed the bite of the sand when I was sitting o
n it, but I sure as hell did now, and it was nasty.
“Stop with the excuses,” I muttered, even as I wondered if dithering was a habit of mine.
I marched into the bathroom. After a quick, hot shower that seemed to uncover a dozen more cuts and bruises, I toweled myself dry, then moved across to the mirror.
It was an odd feeling, seeing a face I knew was mine and yet having no memories to correlate to the fact. The loss was so complete that part of me wondered if I’d ever been in front of a mirror.
My face was lean and angular, with a nose that was almost too big and a mouth that looked prone to dimples. My eyes were the green of a deep ocean, framed by long lashes that were as black as my hair. Under the bright bathroom light, highlights of dark green and blue seemed to play through the black, as if the sea itself had kissed it.
My gaze moved to the massive black-and-purple bruise smeared from my temple to my cheek. Someone had hit me really hard. Hard enough to split my skull open. The bruise, and the almost-healed three-inch gash on my head, proved that. It could also explain why my memory was working in fits and starts.