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remove her hospital nightgown, and when she was undressed her eyes automatically moved to her left hip, where the hipbone did not flare out in the same way as it did on her right. An old injury, with a scar that was shaped somewhat like a dagger. She tried to remember what had happened there but her mind shied away. She sensed she knew, or almost knew, but her mind was locked down.
    There was no underwear. No panties. No bra.
    Girding her loins, she stuck one leg through the blood-spattered jeans and felt a wave of nausea that almost made her throw up. She slid the other leg inside with more care. When she’d gotten the pants on, she zipped them up and buttoned them, then paused a moment, gathering strength. A rip ran down one leg from thigh to just below the knee. She had more of a mental struggle with herself than a physical one as she dragged the T-shirt over her bandaged head. Dressed, she cautiously moved to the bathroom and, propping herself up against the sink, examined her reflection in the mirror. Her breath whooshed out in a rush of distaste. She turned away from the staring eye and bruised skin and white bandage.
    Her insides quivered. God, she looked horrible.
    And then she had a flash of the man she’d been chasing. The bastard with his putrid lust for children. But she couldn’t quite remember. Couldn’t quite put it together. She’d wanted to kill him. That , she could recall.
    It took her long, long minutes to find her shoes: a pair of sneakers, also blood-spattered, and she put them on over her bare feet. There were no socks in evidence anywhere. By the time she’d accomplished these tasks she was exhausted, and with a sort of miserable dawning realized she had no purse. It wasn’t anywhere in the room, and for the life of her she could not recall what it even looked like.
    Which led her to the next unwelcome discovery: she didn’t remember where she lived. She thought hard for a moment, begging her memory to come through, and suddenly it did. She was from Quarry. Quarry, Oregon. And she’d been making herself breakfast…some kind of…oatmeal? Her heart banged against her chest. She couldn’t remember, but she’d just told that detective what she’d eaten. What was it? What was it? Oatmeal and maybe some fruit?
    Gemma lifted a shaking hand to her forehead and closed her eye. Her head throbbed. She shouldn’t leave the hospital. She wasn’t well enough. But something told her she had to go. Had to.
    A memory shot like a streak behind her eyes:
    She was looking out the window and chrysanthemums were getting beaten by a killing rain, their spiky orange heads pressed against the packed dirt.
    It hasn’t rained in three days.
    She tried to concentrate hard, yet not tax her brain too much. She’d been eating oatmeal with cinnamon. That was right. That’s what she’d told the detective. Slowly bits came back to her…
    I’m from Quarry, Oregon. My name is Gemma LaPorte. I’m twenty-seven years old. Or maybe twenty-eight? Or am I older? Gemma took several deep breaths and willed herself to relax. I live…on a farm? My parents’ farm? My father is a farmer…but he’s gone now…my mother, too. No, wait. My parents had a diner. The PickAxe. No…no…That’s a different place. A bar, mostly. My parents had…LuLu’s…and I waited tables when I was younger.
    Gemma’s eyes flew open, though she could still only see out of one. She recalled wearing the LuLu’s uniform, a typical old-time diner dress that came in varying colors—hers had been yellow—with pockets and a wide, white collar. Tourists loved LuLu’s, as much for the ambiance as the food.
    “I inherited the diner,” she said aloud. But there appeared to be a block to that thinking. A dark wall. There was something more that she couldn’t quite reach.
    “My mother worked at the diner.”
    Your mother was a liar.
    Gemma inhaled and glanced around, half expecting to find the source of that comment, but the words had been inside