A perfect shave.
Underneath that suit, she would’ve bet he owned a pair of thin, muscular arms. Wiry strength. Scrappy. A fighter when it came down to it. God, she would’ve loved to have encountered him in a hotel bar. She’d have marked him as a lawman right away-he had superficially cold eyes from his training. From the Academy and possibly a few years in state law enforcement. Maybe law school. From toting that big badge around and all the bullshit respect he’d convinced himself he deserved. But there wasn’t real ice underneath. Just a thin, crusty layer that she could’ve shattered in about thirty seconds.
In her entire life, she’d only seen real ice, deep ice, in a handful of people.
“Special Agent Raymond Nash,” he said, flipping open a black, leather wallet and flashing his credentials.
“Hi, Special Agent Nash.”
“Are you cogent enough to speak with me?”
“I think so.”
“Do you know why I’m here?”
Lucy smiled. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t know why I’m here. Like how I got here, I mean.”
“You have no memory of the accident?”
“No sir, Special Agent Nash.”
She thought her voice sounded all right-a husky girlishness, her just-woke-up voice, the kind of voice Agent Nash would probably imagine begging him to stop while he turned her over his knee and spanked the eighty-five percent of her bottom she could still call her own.
He stared at her through those hard, unblinking eyes and said, “You were found at the bottom of a ravine, chained to the back of a car. You’d been dragged for two miles down a rough country road. The car crashed through a guardrail and took you and another man for a three hundred-foot ride down a mountainside.”
In an instant, it all returned to her.
Donaldson -now there was a man with ice eyes. Deep ice eyes.
She recalled the car ride.
His trick seatbelt.
Drugging him.
Hiding from him.
Overcoming him.
Helmeting him.
She’d had him all set to go for a nice little road trip, but he’d handcuffed her leg at the last second and then the parking brake on his cheap-ass Honda had failed.
A smile came at the memory of the pain.
Two of the longest miles of her life.
Her last memory-striking the guardrail at thirty miles per hour.
Nothing after.
“Who was I with, Special Agent Nash?” she asked.
“Just Agent Nash is fine.”
“You aren’t special?”
He didn’t acknowledge her playfulness, only said, “You don’t remember?”
“No, sir. Doctor Lanz told me I suffered a hairline fracture to my skull and that maybe it gave me amnesia or something.”
If this frustrated Nash, he didn’t show it.
“You were with a man named Gregory Donaldson. Do you know him?”
“I don’t know anyone by that name. Was he injured, too?”
“Yes.”
“Badly?”
“I would be in violation of the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act to disclose any information regarding his condition.”
“We wouldn’t want that. Can you at least tell me if he’s, like, alive?”
“He’s alive.”
Lucy realized there was a question she should have asked the moment the agent had come into the room, wondered if Nash had noticed that she hadn’t.
“Why am I handcuffed to the bed?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk with you about. The man you were with, Mr. Donaldson-he’s a killer. The car that you were dragged behind was in his name, and we found evidence of multiple crimes inside.”
“Crimes?”
“Murders.”
“Do you think he was trying to kill me?” She let her voice wander up an octave. “Could that be why I don’t remember? Because I was, like, traumatized and stuff?”
“You didn’t have any identification on you when the paramedics arrived.” Nash fished a notepad out of an inner pocket of his jacket and clicked a pen. “What’s your name?”
“Lucy.”