She's Not There by P. J. Parrish Page A

feel safe or at peace, until she found out what had made her run.
    She couldn’t go back to Florida. Did she have a friend she could contact? Who had she called that night in the rain? Did she have family somewhere? The dream of floating in the blue-green bubble came back to her, and though she still couldn’t remember her mother’s name or even what she looked like, she had a strong feeling that her mother was alive.
    A plan . . . she needed a plan. She had to find out more about herself and her past. If she found out who she was, she could figure out what she needed to do. Tomorrow she would start over.
    The water was turning cold. She used the tiny bottle of hotel shampoo to wash her hair, then pulled the stopper and got out, wrapping the scratchy white towel around her.
    The sun was streaming in full force through the windows when she got back to her room. She found the plastic bag she had taken from the hospital and pulled out the comb. After ten minutes of tugging it through her tangled hair, she gave up. Extensions, the doctor had said; she had hair extensions.
    She felt a sudden small surge of anger. Why did she need them? What was wrong with her real hair?
    She set the comb down and looked at the bed.There were two indentations in the sagging mattress with a slight hump in the middle, as if the old bed still carried the memories of the two people who had slept there, side by side, for a very long time.
    Another flare of memory.
    Alex.
    She could feel him, the press of his body, hard and sweat-slick against hers, his face a grimace above her and his breath hot against her neck as he whispered her name over and over.
    Mel . . . Mel . . . my Mel.
    She shut her eyes, and his face was gone.
    She dropped the towel, pulled back the chenille bedspread and got into the bed. She found a comfortable spot in one of the hollows and closed her eyes.
    Sleep wouldn’t come. There was an awful noise of voices in her head, like a radio that couldn’t get a signal, and she struggled to sort them out, to figure out who was talking to her, who was yelling at her, and why. Sleep was inches away when she felt something brush her arm, soft as a caress. She opened her eyes.
    Black eyes. A blur of white. It was the little white dog. It sniffed her face and then moved away, scratching at the chenille bedspread. The dog made a tight circle, four, five times, then with a deep sigh settled into the crook of her knees.
    She reached down and pulled the dog closer.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    When Amelia opened her eyes, she was surrounded by a soft blue blur and for a second, she thought she was back in the bubble dream. She reached for her glasses on the nightstand and put them on. The flowers on the blue wallpaper came into focus. She looked down at the bedspread. The white dog was gone.
    When she swung her legs over the side of the bed, she winced. The pain was still there in her body and she still had a headache but at least she felt rested. The smell of strong coffee drifted up from downstairs. Her stomach rumbled.
    After a quick trip to the bathroom, she dressed in her jeans and blue shirt and went downstairs to the kitchen. There was a clock on the wall near the sink, a black plastic cat whose cartoon eyes and pendulum tail swung slowly back and forth. It was eight thirty.
    Jesus, she had slept more than twenty hours straight.
    There was no sign of Hannah, but there was a half-full Mr. Coffee on the counter, an empty mug, and an open cartoon of chocolate donuts. Amelia filled the mug and took a donut. She stood at the window over the sink, looking out as she ate. It had turned colder overnight, leaving a morning fog hugging the ground and making the trees in the backyard look like they were levitating. She heard the click of the dog’s toenails and turned.
    The poodle came quickly to her, wagging its tail. But Hannah, trailing behind with a leash, drew up short just inside the door.
    “Good lord, hon, what happened to your hair?”
    Amelia