“Lindsey, take a breath or something,” Serena ordered, shaking her head in exasperation. “Geez, you’d think we’d never seen a stranger in this town before.”
“We haven’t very often. And never quite like this—so what did you find out?”
Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Serena gave a little shrug. “You’ve heard as much as I have. He said he was hitching through this area looking for temporary work when two men in a patched-together pickup truck gave him a ride, robbed him, beat him up and left him for dead in t
hat ditch. He can’t describe the men very well because he has very little memory of the beating—a slight memory loss due to the concussion, which the doctor said is normal.”
“Where’s he from? What’s his story?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask many questions. He’s in a lot of discomfort, Lindsey. He isn’t up to being interviewed.”
Lindsey pouted. She was the only twenty-five-year-old woman Serena knew who could actually pout and get away with it.
To her disgust, Lindsey was destined to be thought of as cute, when what she really wanted to be was sharp and sophisticated. After obtaining a degree in journalism, she had gone to work for a newspaper in Little Rock for a couple of years before moving back to her little hometown to be close to her father, who was in ill health. She’d taken a significant pay cut to work for the Evening Star, but she took the job very seriously, attacking it with the same dedication she’d have given a position with the Washington Post or New York Times.
Sometimes Serena thought Lindsey took her job too seriously. She was constantly on the lookout for the “big story”—and the truth was, there just weren’t that many big stories in Edstown. With the exception of a recent rash of burglaries, not much happened around these parts. She mercilessly hounded the mayor and poor Chief Meadows, both of whom held a deep distrust of reporters and an ingrained aversion to any bad press about their town. But there was no doubt that the newspaper had been better since Lindsey arrived.
Speaking of which, Serena glanced around the unarguably shabby offices, which were quiet and deserted now that the evening edition had been printed and delivered. She knew some people were born with ink in their veins, that the smell of newsprint and the sounds of press machines gave them an almost sexual thrill. Serena looked around and saw only clutter and chaos.
She had never wanted to own her great-grandfather’s newspaper. That had been the destiny of her older sister, Kara. Serena was a lawyer, not a newshound, and she would just as soon have kept it that way. Unfortunately, there’d been no one else to take over after their father died last year, and three months later Kara left town with a wanna-be country music star, leaving Serena with Kara’s stupid dog and full responsibility for Great-granddad’s newspaper. Her first impulse had been to sell, but the very idea had distressed her mother so much that Serena had reluctantly agreed to give it a shot.
“Where’s Marvin?” she asked, glancing at the managing editor’s empty office. “He and I were supposed to discuss last month’s ad revenues this evening.”
Lindsey rolled her eyes. “Where do you think he is? He decided to pop over to Gaylord’s for a ‘quick nip’ before your meeting. That was two hours ago.”
There would be no discussing anything with Marvin tonight, Serena thought with a grimace. The aging editor—a longtime crony of her late grandfather’s—had been spending more and more time at Gaylord’s since his wife died two years ago. Marvin was tired and lonely and burned out, resistant to modern technology, nostalgic for the old days, but he didn’t want to retire. He’d said he would have no reason at all to get out of bed if he didn’t have a job to go to. As much as she truly hated the very thought, Serena was beginning to believe that she was going to have to pressure Marvin into retirement. It broke her heart, but it was rapidly becoming necessary.
Damn it, Kara, this should be your job.
Pushing a hand through her hair, she sighed heavily. “I’ll try to catch him tomorrow, I guess. Are you finished for the night?”
Lindsey shook her head and hoisted her oversize macramé bag onto her shoulder. “I’m going to the town council meeting. I’d better get moving, it starts in ten minutes.”
“I thought Riley was covering the council meeting tonight.”
“He is. I’m just going out of curiosity. Maybe I’ll have a chance to corner Dan after the meeting to ask what he’s found out about the men who mugged your stranger.”
“He isn’t my stranger,” Serena protested, though she was uncomfortably aware she’d fallen into the habit of thinking of him that way.
Lindsey waved a hand dismissively. “I’d just like to know exactly what Dan has done. What he’s found out—about the muggers or the victim. And what he’s going to do tomorrow.”
“You know how Dan hates it when you badger him about the way he does his job.”
Lindsey broke into a bright, impish smile—the one that transformed her face from cute to strikingly attractive. “I know. Why do you think I keep doing it?”
Though she would never mention it, Serena had long suspected that Lindsey carried a secret torch for the police chief. If it was true, Lindsey’s case seemed pretty hopeless. Dan was ten years her senior and a lifelong friend of Lindsey’s older brother. He tended to regard Lindsey as his own kid sister—when he didn’t see her as an annoying member of the press. Dan had also been through a divorce so ugly and bitter the townspeople were still talking about it two years later. He had said he was in no hurry to get seriously involved with anyone again. If ever.
All in all, it seemed a distinctly unlikely match. But maybe she was wrong about Lindsey’s feelings. Maybe Lindsey just enjoyed watching Dan foam at the mouth while she buzzed around him with her stubbornly persistent questions.
“Okay, go ask your questions,” Serena said with a quick laugh. “And, Lindsey, if you find out anything, let me know, okay?”
Lindsey sketched an impudent salute. “You got it, boss.”
Twenty-four hours. The man who had dubbed himself Sam Wallace shifted restlessly in the hospital bed, tried to lift his left hand to his face, winced, then raised his right hand instead. The IV pump bleated at him to straighten his arm. He cursed it beneath his breath but laid his arm down just to shut it up.
It had been just over twenty-four hours since Serena found him in that ditch. And his head was still as empty as the tiny closet provided for the belongings he hadn’t brought with him.
Frustration was beginning to eat at him. How could he remember so many trivial details—the president of the United States, the taste of chocolate ice cream, the irritation of too-starched shirts—yet not remember his own damned name? How could he recall the name of every bloodthirsty nurse he’d encountered since he’d arrived in this place and not remember his own mother?