Internal Affairs by Jessica Andersen Page A

that gathered in her chest and made her want impossible things, she turned away. “Get some rest.I’m going to call Tucker. He’s a homicide detective with the BCCPD. If I tell him the manhunt has me freaked out, he’ll send a patrol past here every hour or so.” It didn’t seem like nearly enough, but it was all she could think to do just then. She couldn’t leave her patient, couldn’t move him, couldn’t kick him out…and she’d just promised not to turn him in until at least morning.
    “And one other thing.”
    “What?” she asked, but the word came out weakly, as exhaustion rushed over her, swamping her. Her brain was full, her heart heavy. She just wanted to shut it all off for a little while.
    “You called me Romo.”
    She stilled, her heart cracking a little, bleeding for what he’d lost, for the uncertainty of when—or even if—he’d get it all back. “That’s your name. Detective Romo Sampson, Internal Affairs, Bear Claw Creek.”
    “And you?”
    “Sara Whitney.”
    He said her name back to himself. “Pretty name.”
    The offhand comment shouldn’t have touched her as deeply as it did. Because of that, because of the weakness it indicated, she backed out the door. “I’m going now. Sleep. And don’t stress your stitches.”
    She closed the door firmly at her back, not to keep him in, but to remind herself to keep out. Romo wasn’t hers anymore. He hadn’t been for a long, long time.
     
    A S THE DOOR SHUT, he lay still, staring after her, trying on his own name. Romo Sampson. It was a good enoughhandle, he supposed, ignoring the lick of panic that came when he realized he didn’t know what “Romo” was short for, if anything. He didn’t remember the name, didn’t remember the parents who’d given it to him, or the woman he’d instinctively come to for help.
    An ex-girlfriend, he thought, trying to align that information with his almost overwhelming desire to roll across the big bed with her, and do something to blunt the roiling, churning lust that had gripped him low in the gut the moment he’d pressed his body against hers, the moment he’d kissed her.
    Mine, his entire being had said at that moment. And she had cooperated fully, making it something of a shock to learn that they weren’t together, hadn’t been for some time. Somewhere in his banged-up head, he’d been sure they were a couple. Apparently, he’d forgotten their breakup. He’d forgotten a whole lot of things, and he had a feeling lots of what he’d forgotten wasn’t at all pleasant.
    Sara seemed convinced he’d been undercover. He wasn’t so sure. But as he lay there, trying to remember something—anything—the gray-brown crept in on the edges of his vision, taking over everything. Willing or not, he slept.
    Hours later, he awoke stiff and sore, with an excessively foul taste in his mouth. A dim light shone from the bathroom, and when he made it in there, he found a couple of pain pills and a glass for tap water. He downed the pills and water, and stood there, braced against the sink with his head hanging and his shoulder on fire.
    He should go back to bed and give his body more healing time, he knew, but his half-remembered dreams kept him on his feet.
    His head throbbed, tangling the present with occasional flashes of what he could only assume were things from his past. They weren’t in any sort of order, though, didn’t have any context. He hoped to hell the flashes themselves were evidence that his memory would come back quickly, as whatever swelling he had going on inside his skull came back down to a dull roar. Problem was, a part of him wasn’t sure he wanted those memories back—they were starting to show him some seriously grim scenes, ones suggesting he hadn’t been quite the nice guy Sara seemed to believe.
    He saw blood and heard a man’s screams, saw a computer with a set of schematics on it. And he had an overwhelming sense that he needed to be doing something, performing some sort