Man, she looked great in her normal everyday clothes, those slacks and that wool jacket and the cream scarf she wore loose around her neck looking runway fine, as far as he was concerned.

Still no wedding ring.

Good, he thought for no apparent reason.

Shifting his gaze to the right, so maybe his defect wouldn’t be so obvious, he returned the “Hi.”

Well, shit, now what. “I’m not stalking you, I swear.” Liar. “And I would have called, but I’ve got no phone.”

“It’s okay. Do you need something? The police called me this morning with a follow-up, and I think they were still planning on speaking with you?”

“Yeah.” He let that one stand where it was. “Listen, I . . .”

The fact that he was leaving a sentence hanging seemed very unnatural, but his brain just wasn’t producing.

“Let’s sit down,” she said, gesturing to the seat. “I can’t believe they let you out.”

At that moment, a bus showed up, rumbling to a halt and blocking the sun, its hot diesel breath making him cough. As the pair of them settled on the bench, they kept quiet while the kibitzers filed on their ride.

When the bus kept going, the sunlight reappeared, bathing her in a yellow light.

For some stupid reason, his eyes started blinking hard.

“What can I do for you?” she asked softly. “Are you in pain?”

Yes. But it wasn’t physical. And it got worse whenever he looked at her. “How do you know I need help?”

“I’m guessing your memory didn’t magically come back.”

“No, it hasn’t. But that’s not your fault.”

“Well, I hit you. So I owe you.”

He made a motion to his lower body. “I was like this before.”

“Can you remember anything? Prior to the accident, I mean.” As he shook his head, she murmured, “A lot of servicemen have come back in your condition.”

Ah . . . as in Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, he thought. And part of that fit. The government . . . yes, he’d had something to do with the Department of Defense, or national security . . . or . . .

But he wasn’t a Wounded Warrior. Because he hadn’t been a hero.

“They found my wallet,” he blurted.

“Oh, that’s great.”

For some reason he gave it to her.

As she opened the thing and looked at the driver’s license, she nodded. “That’s you.”

Focusing on the Caldwell Courier Journal emblem that hung over the door she’d walked out of, he said, “Look, all this is off the rec-ord, okay?”

“Absolutely.”

“And I wish I had another option. I wish . . . I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“You haven’t asked me to do anything yet.” She stared at him. “What do you have in mind?”

“Can you find out who that is?” He pointed to the driver’s license. “Because it’s not me.”

•  •  •