The bed rises, and I settle against it while he reaches for the cup. He offers it to me, and this time when I accept it, and our hands and gazes collide, I don’t look away. I can’t look away. “Déjà vu,” I whisper, feeling the sensation clear to my soul.

“Yes,” he agrees. “Déjà vu.” While I could dismiss it as just that, I have this sense that there’s more to this moment than a simple repeat action.

I down the contents of the cup, drinking quickly before he can stop me, and when I’m done, he takes the cup from me. “More?”

“No, thank you.” I glance down, unnerved to realize my IV is gone. “It’s hard to comprehend that I woke up twice and don’t remember.”

“You not only woke up—the last time you were awake, you ate some soup and had a nurse help you shower.”

“Shower? Okay, I’m even more freaked out now. How can I not remember that? How bad is my head injury?”

“Your tests were all normal aside from the concussion, which is healing. Your back should be healing as well.”

I flex my shoulders and nod. “It feels better, and my head doesn’t hurt the way it did. But I’m not encouraged that I can’t remember the last two times I woke up.”

“It’s the drugs they gave you after you had the panic attack.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the second time you woke up and didn’t remember the first time, I was worried and asked.”

“Could my entire memory loss be the drugs?” I ask, hopefully.

His lips tighten. “No. Sorry. I asked the same as well.”

“Of course it’s not the drugs,” I say grimly. “That would be too easy a solution. At least I showered, I guess.”

“As did I,” he says. “I was afraid they’d kick me out if I didn’t.”

It’s then that I notice he’s now in a light blue T-shirt and faded jeans, which indicates, I assume, that he went home, changed, and made the decision to return here to me. “It’s been thirty-six hours since my test, and at least another eight before that, and you’re still here.”

“Yes. I’m still here.”

Reality hits me with gut-wrenching clarity. “No one came looking for me.”

He gives a grim shake of his head. “No.”

I inhale and then let the breath out, devastated by this news. Kayden is here out of obligation or some sense of responsibility. Whatever the case, he won’t admit it, and I’m not going to pathetically drive home the topic. I need out of this place, and so does he.

“Do you know when the doctor will be back around?” I ask.

“Not until tomorrow.”

“I can’t wait until tomorrow; I need to talk to him now,” I insist. “Please call him.” I realize I’ve grabbed his arm and I’m squeezing. “I’m sorry.” I jerk my hand back, and it’s trembling. I’m trembling. All over. “I just need them to fix me. They . . . they have to make me remember who I am.”

“The doctors keep saying that you will,” he assures me, reaching to the table beside the bed and presenting me with a leather book.

“What is that?”

“A journal. The staff psychologist left this for you. She wants you to write down your thoughts and dreams. Apparently there’s reason to believe it will help you regain your memories sooner.”

In disbelief, I ask, “That’s my medical treatment? A journal?” I take it from him, my brow furrowing with a memory that’s here and then gone, leaving me frustrated and ready to throw the darn thing. “How is this supposed to help me?”

“It’s one part of a treatment plan they intend to present to you on Monday.”

I set the journal on the bed, rejecting it along with the “treatment plan.” “They seem to believe that your brain is suppressing memories to protect you from some sort of trauma.”

“Leaving me homeless and without a name?” I ask. “That’s a horrible way to protect myself. And I don’t even have memories to write in it.”

He shifts on the bed, his hand settling on my leg. It’s a strong hand, the hand of a man who knows what he wants and goes after it, while I know nothing at all. “Maybe if we talk, it’ll help.”

“That’s no different than writing in the journal. I can’t talk about what I don’t remember.”

“My memories might stir yours.”

I sigh. “Okay. But it would be so much easier if there was a pill for this kind of thing.”

His lips hint at a smile. “Most of us would agree with that at some point in our lives. Why don’t we talk about the night you were mugged?”

“That’s exactly why I’m here,” says an unfamiliar male voice.

My attention shifts to the doorway, where a man in his mid-thirties leans on the doorjamb, his suit and dark brown hair a bit rumpled and his tie slightly off center.

“What the hell are you doing here, Gallo?” Kayden demands, shoving off the bed to face him.

“My job,” the man states, striding toward us. While his features are too hard and the lines of his face too sharp to be called good-looking, there is something about him that refuses to be ignored, and he stands at the end of my bed, fixing me in a steely gray stare. “I’m Detective Gallo. I hear you were mugged, and I want to ask you a few questions.”

“You don’t handle muggings,” Kayden points out.

“I do when your name’s on the report,” the detective says shortly. It’s pretty clear these two don’t just know each other; they don’t like each other.

“Of course,” Kayden replies, sounding amused. “Because I’ve broken so many laws.”

The detective is not amused. “Just because you haven’t been caught doesn’t make you innocent.” He gives me a pointed look. “I’m guessing you aren’t Maggie.”

I blanch. “What? I . . . no. Or . . .” I look to Kayden for help. “What is he talking about?”

“He’s being a smart-ass,” Kayden states. “I registered you under that name and told them you were my sister.”

My brow furrows. “What? Why?”

The detective takes it upon himself to answer. “Because it gave him access to you.”

“Exactly,” Kayden confirms, offering no apology or explanation.

He doesn’t need to, and yet I want more. More what, though? I don’t know. Just . . . more.

“At least he put you up in the ritzy end of the hospital,” the detective points out, demanding the attention again, and making a big show of glancing around the room. And as obviously intended, I follow his lead, and for the first time since I’ve been lucid, I look at it, as well. Really look at it—and realize it’s larger than expected, with a sitting area to the left and a mini kitchen.

I look at Kayden in shock. “How much is this costing? I don’t even know if I have a bank account, let alone money to pay for this!”

“Don’t worry about money. I have this,” he says softly.

“You mean you’re paying my bills. Kayden, I can’t let you do that. I don’t know if I can pay you back.”

“Let him pay,” the detective interjects. “He’s got a boatload of cash. But I do have to say, his registering you under a fake name, on top of the upgraded security in this wing of the building, does make it damn hard for anyone looking for you to find you.”

“The staff know to direct any inquiries that might fit your description to me,” Kayden assures me, flicking the detective an irritated look. “Obviously—since you found her.”

“I found you, not her.” He looks at me again. “And I’d ask for your real name to connect a few dots, but I understand that you don’t remember it.”

“That’s right,” I confirm, resisting the urge to fidget, like I have something to hide, when I don’t. Do I?

“What do you remember?” he asks.

“Nothing before the moment I woke up here.”

He arches a brow. “Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Not even the actual attack?”

I shake my head.

“I see,” he says, stroking his clean-shaven jaw. “I was hoping the actual attack wasn’t a part of your memory loss.”

“I’m completely blank, Detective, and it’s really quite terrifying to think about being in that alleyway, passed out and alone. I’m thankful Kayden was there to get me help.”