Out of Mind Page 3

“What’s your name, son?”

  He cleared his throat. “Reginald.”

  “Reginald what?”

  “Reginald Tate.”

  “Well, Mr. Tate, that’s a fancy car you’ve got there. Is it yours?”

  Regi gulped. That shit pile just stacked on another layer. “It belongs to my mother’s boyfriend.”

  “Hmmm. And he knows you have it?”

  Regi glanced to his left, assessing the distance to the shop corner, and tried to calculate if he could make a run for it.

  The man stepped sideways, blocking Regi’s intended escape route.

  “You don’t want to do that, Mr. Tate.” The man’s voice was calm. Too calm.

  “What?”

  “Run.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  The slap came from nowhere, fast and hard, right across Regi’s left cheek.

  “Shit.” Regi rubbed the sting from his flesh. “What the fuck was that for?”

  “For lying. I don’t tolerate liars.”

  “I wasn’t—” Regi saw the second swipe coming and ducked beneath the blow. But when he saw the fury in the man’s eyes he instantly wished he’d taken the hit. “Look, Mr…”

  “Carson.”

  “Mr. Carson, I’m really sorry about your car.”

  “I know you are. Just hand me your insurance details and—”

  “I, um—I don’t have insurance.” Regi’s gut churned like acid in a blender.

  “Give me your license.”

  Regi fished his wallet from his back pocket and withdrew his license. Carson snatched it from his fingers and studied it. “Looks like you live in a decent neighborhood. We’ll set up a payment plan.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “Who said anything about money?” Carson folded his hand around Regi’s license and turned on his heel. “My men will be in touch, Mr. Tate.”

  Daggers of fear burrowed into Regi’s skin as Carson eased into the Stingray, and without even a glance in his direction he drove away. Regi wasn’t fooled. Despite his fancy clothes and even fancier car, Carson was a thug. He’d just as likely break his fingers as offer him a hundred-dollar martini.

  Regi had collided with the devil.

  Chapter 4

  Three years later

  Holly did a double take at the name written on the front of her mail. Amber Hope. It’d taken her a full month to decide on her new name. Even though she’d changed her name legally a year ago, she still couldn’t accept it as her own. Amber had been her great-grandmother’s name and Hope was her mother’s maiden name. Holly liked to think they’d both be proud of her decision to use their names to create her new identity.

  But that wasn’t all Holly had changed. When she’d woken up from that coma three years ago she was a different woman from the one who had fallen from the helicopter.

  She’d lost Milton, the love of her life, and had been labeled his gold-digging murderer on social media.

  She’d lost her mother, thanks to an aggressive form of cancer that she hadn’t had when Holly had last seen her.

  She’d recovered from so many injuries that her doctors had hailed her survival as a medical miracle.

  She was now riddled with scars, including a hideous burn scar that dominated her right cheek.

  And if all of those changes weren’t enough, Holly was also one-point-seven million richer.

  Two years of treatment, both physical and mental, had fixed some of her problems. Not the unbearable heartache or the profound sense of loss—they were ingrained in her being now. A dark stain smothered her heart from the moment she woke till she drifted to sleep at night. Sometimes it even attacked her in dreams, and she’d taken to trying to remain awake as long as possible, fearing her nightmares more than the sheer exhaustion.

  Leaving the envelope unopened, she went to her kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared at the relatively empty shelves for a full minute before she plucked a Tupperware dish from the middle shelf.

  Holly wished she’d died on that ledge. And not just fleetingly either. She truly, truly meant it. Especially when people blamed her for Milton’s and Kane’s deaths. Milton’s ex-wife had made it her personal vendetta to continue Holly’s suffering. The fact that Milton willed Holly a fair chunk of his money, while Victoria got nothing, probably had something to do with that.

  It was Holly’s therapist who’d convinced her to move to another city and start over. One benefit was that changing her name would hide her from the never-ending lineup of complete strangers asking for money. And a new home would supposedly allow her to move forward rather than dwell on her past.

  She’d been reluctant at first, because other than that horrendous trip to the Canadian Rockies, she’d only been out of Seattle twice. Holly had stewed on the idea for months, but when her therapist put her in touch with a legal practitioner who’d handle her name change and everything else, the whole transaction had taken just nine weeks.

  Holly shoved the leftover mushroom curry and rice into the microwave and set it to cook for two minutes. Then she peeled open the envelope and unfolded the lawyer’s letter. The litigation over Milton’s will was still pending. Not one cent of his money had been allocated. Because his ex-wife had been willed nothing, she’d made it her mission to ensure nobody else got a dime either.

  Not that Holly cared. She had no desire for his money. It was the one-point-seven million inheritance from her mother that Holly had used to buy her small apartment in Brambleton. She could hardly believe her mother had that much to offer. Apparently, she’d invested the insurance payout from her father’s death wisely, and the value of their family home had skyrocketed in recent years.

  With her mother’s inheritance, Holly had purchased a fancy computer and other equipment she needed to set up her home business. The job wasn’t lucrative—it wasn’t interesting either—but it allowed her to live a reclusive life, and it gave her something to do.

  Boredom was a soul-crusher, though, and every second she wasn’t busy, her mind would drift to that day and night she’d spent injured and alone on the icy ledge. The memory was so vivid she could recall every second. Pain was at the top of that recollection. As was the cold.

  But it was the bodies in the ice that played across her mind in endless loops.

  Nobody believed her story. Not one person. Not one of her so-called friends had considered her recollection true, especially since none of her rescuers had mentioned the frozen couple. Their disbelief had hurt as much as some of her deepest wounds. Holly often wondered if she’d imagined the whole thing. On the odd occasion she did speak of it, people looked at her strangely, as if the accident had left her possessed. She was obsessed, she’d admit that.

  Obsessed to find out who those people were.

  If it was a figment of her imagination, then she truly was crazy.

  She could recall every inch of their frozen bodies. They were a man and a woman. A married couple or lovers, she was sure. The man was positioned seated behind the woman, his legs splayed, and she was in his arms, her knees tucked up to her chest, no doubt trying to keep warm. They looked peaceful, like they were sharing a loving embrace rather than the final seconds of their life. The ice preserved their bodies so perfectly Holly could see her eyelashes and his stubble. Their clothing and the battered brown suitcase at the man’s feet were also frozen in time.

  They were so perfect, it was like they’d been positioned there, like a forgotten scene from a movie set. The way they were dressed gave Holly the impression they’d been wealthy.

  A heart-shaped locket on a golden chain had been threaded through the woman’s slender fingers, and if Holly had to guess she’d say the woman had been fondling it when she’d drawn her final breath.

  Holly had been spooked by them at first—spooked was an understatement. Their sudden appearance after the g
iant chunk of ice sheered away from the helicopter explosion had scared the shit out of her. Holly truly thought she’d gone mad.

  But as the minutes had ticked away, then the hours, she was able to examine their bodies. The man’s left shoe had been within reach, and it’d taken some serious mental debating before Holly had convinced herself to touch it.

  Once she did, though, she was relived, because it confirmed that not only were they real, but also that she wasn’t crazy.

  Not that it helped. Her handful of friends had visited in the months following her waking up in the hospital, and each time she told the story of the bodies, she instantly wished she hadn’t. Their looks of pity hurt as much as their unwillingness to believe her.

  She plucked a bottle of Riesling from the fridge and a wineglass from the cupboard. She’d taken to drinking one or two glasses of wine every night to help her relax, and she found she usually slept better. Usually.

  Holly still had no memory of being rescued. One minute she was sharing an ice crevasse with two frozen bodies, then she woke up eight months later in a Seattle hospital. There was nothing connecting the two points.

  Not one damn thing.

  Trauma-induced memory loss was what her therapist had called it. Holly called it her sanity. Her body had shut out the pain she would’ve suffered with all her injuries. Ironically, she remembered everything before the crash and after. She remembered the whiskey-colored mountain glistening in the sun and the twin peaks that rose skyward like ancient stone sentries. She remembered every second of the crash as if it’d happened in slow motion. She remembered the excruciating pain after she fell onto the icy ledge. She remembered Milton’s final moments too, and the helicopter explosion. But her therapist couldn’t explain why she remembered all of that, yet nothing to do with her rescue.

  The microwave dinged and she removed the meal, grabbed a fork, and set it down on the coffee table next to her wine. She sat on her sofa, plonked her heels up on the table, settled the Tupperware dish on her lap, and turned up the volume.

  On the television, the camera panned from a snowcapped mountain to the tail of a plane that protruded from the snow like a blade. A shaggy-haired man with a giant camera around his neck smiled at the screen. The writing across the bottom introduced the man as Carter Logan, National Geographic Photographer.

  Holly recognized his name.

  Carter had survived over a week in the Mexican jungle after being chased by drug runners. His girlfriend Lily had been from Seattle. Holly had followed their story in the local paper because she’d been fascinated by the fact that Lily had found a long-lost ancient temple in the middle of the jungle, while Holly, who was the same age as Lily and from the same city, had barely even left her hometown.

  Holly turned up the volume and ate a forkful of dinner.

  The picture on the television switched to an elderly woman whose red-rimmed eyes glistened with tears. When the woman held a photo up to the camera, Holly gasped, and her dinner went flying as she launched at the remote. She hit rewind, then pressed play. Her jaw dropped and she blinked in shock as she listened to the elderly woman’s sad story.

  Holly watched the news report six times before she sat back, her heart pounding.

  She gulped back the last of her wine and stared at the still image of the photograph on the television.

  Finally, she had a clue.

  For the first time in three years, Holly had a reason to live.

  Chapter 5

  The squeal of tires had Regi running before he even turned to see what it was. He’d been expecting this. Yet he wouldn’t give in without a fight. Couldn’t. Flight or fight was in his blood. Flight first, then, once they got him, he’d put up one hell of a fight. Pounding feet sounded behind him. Adrenaline shot through his veins. He forced his brain to concentrate on planting one foot in front of the other and not the beating that was coming.

  The chain mesh fence ahead wasn’t a problem. Regi threw himself at it and launched over in one swift move. On the other side he shot a glance at his pursuers. Only three this time. Maybe Carson is getting soft. Pumping his arms and legs again, his feet sloshed through one puddle after another as he bolted up the narrow alley.

  Regi cursed himself for taking this route. After each beating, he’d try to learn from his mistakes. Constant beatings were a sharp motivator. Yet this dark alley was another stupid mistake. A squeal of tires echoed ahead of him. He snapped his eyes up and his heart launched to his throat at the sight. A black van blocked the alley.

  Regi was surrounded.

  He looked back. The three thugs weren’t gaining on him, they were simply herding him into their trap. Regi looked upward, searching the red brick buildings lining the alley for an escape route. But it was pointless. These weren’t residential buildings with ladders that could be conveniently plucked from the air. These were the walls of warehouses. Most of them empty. He wanted to slap himself for his stupidity.

  Pretending defeat, he put his hands in the air. “Hey now, fellas. Let’s be reasonable.” Despite his pleas, he knew negotiation wasn’t an option. This wolf pack was out for blood—his blood.

  The beefed-up chumps barreled right at him. The fastest of the three lunged in a full body tackle. Regi used his boxing training to dodge the attack, sending the thug sprawling onto the wet asphalt. Light on his feet, he managed to get off a quick jab and thumped the second brute square in the nose. Bone and gristle shattered beneath his closed fist.

  But his success was brief.

  A fourth man approached from behind, and Regi didn’t see him till it was too late. He spun on his heel, but the blow to his temple knocked him flying.

  Regi hit the asphalt face-first, tearing flesh from his cheek.

  Thick hands launched him to his feet. His arm was yanked up behind his back and Regi howled at the agony.

  “Shut the fuck up.” The fastest man, the one who’d gone sprawling, punched Regi in the jaw. Stars blazed across his eyelids.

  They shoved him forward, manhandling him toward the van’s open door. Each step had his mind stricken and his heart exploding.

  He’d expected the beating. He’d expected blood and pain.

  But he hadn’t expected this.

  Never before had they taken him.

  Chapter 6

  Holly had never thought of herself as pretty. Now, though, with the brutal scar on her cheek, she thought of herself as hideous.

  After the coma, once she’d learned to walk again and was able to leave the rehab clinic, she’d spent months searching for a plastic surgeon willing to offer a miracle. But it wasn’t to be. Not when the burn had damaged all layers of her dermis. There was nothing left for them to work with.

  “You’ll have to learn to live with it.” That’s what they’d said. All of them.

  Live with it.

  She did, of course.

  Her daily battle was trying not to look at the damn scar on her cheek. But she did. Every single day. Holly told herself that becoming reclusive was so people wouldn’t recognize her, but the real reason was way more obvious…her embarrassing scars.

  Hiding from the world made it easier. She didn’t need to see the stares from complete strangers. Some were blatant in their viewing; others would quickly glance away, clearly repulsed by her disfigurement.

  Before the accident she’d worked in a coffee shop, and the best part was getting to know all the regulars. And not just their coffee choices either. Most of them she only saw for about five minutes each day, yet she felt like she knew every single one of them.

  But after she’d emerged from the hospital, she’d found it harder and harder to cope. Her therapy sessions became her haven, which meant they also became the crux of her problem. The only places she felt safe were her own home and Dr. Andrews’s office. Holly was certain her therapist had thought long and hard before she’d advised Holly t
o move to another town and start again. Not only did Dr. Andrews lose a client, she lost a bucketload of income too.

  When they’d discussed what Holly would do in the new town, Dr. Andrews had offered to hire her as a medical transcriptionist. Every day the therapist dictated her findings onto a device that was subsequently forwarded to Holly via email. It was the perfect job—flexible, consistent, and the best part was she could do it from home. In just over a year, Holly had increased her transcription service to nine doctors.

  Holly sat down at her computer, nudged her chair forward, and put her feet on the footstool. Shuffling the mouse, she woke the monitor and opened the document she’d been working on all day. The number of words at the bottom indicated she was just shy of two thousand. She sighed. She normally did that in an hour; she’d already been at it for seven.

  Determined to complete the report before four o’clock, she clicked the play button on the audio file and began typing. The doctor’s voice sprang from her computer speaker at a snappy clip and his English was thick with his Japanese accent, requiring her to concentrate.

  It was usually the perfect distraction. That’s what her life had become, an endless search for distractions. Anything to stop her mind from drifting to her previous life. A life that’d been filled with loving family and friends. A life where she was giddy with love for the most amazing man in the world. A life where she was free from pain and disfigurement.

  Not anymore, though.

  But now, with her new mission, she’d have to emerge from her sanctuary. It was impossible to do what she was planning without it. Ever since she’d seen that National Geographic report she’d been working on a plan. It required lots of little steps. Just like when she’d learned to walk again. But these steps forced her out of seclusion and way beyond her comfort zone.

  Home was her comfort zone, even though it was a small apartment with just one bedroom and a lounge, bathroom, and laundry. It wasn’t homey either. She didn’t care for trinkets and knickknacks, and it showed.