His fingers return to the keyboard, but a moment later he shakes his head.

“I’m sorry. There’s no record of that name.”

“It has to be under one or the other,” I say, hearing the panic in my own voice. “Please look again. Emily Porter. P-O-R-T-E-R. Audra Ellison.” I spell it out as well, not caring about the camera anymore.

A few seconds later, he shakes his head. “There’s no record of anyone by either name ever having visited this Center.”

“I didn’t visit. I was a patient!”

He lifts his gaze to me. “There is no record of you entering the clinic in any capacity.”

I look at the lettering on the wall behind him. St. Francis Center for Memory Research. This has to be it. This is it. In fact, I finally figured out why Clare wore a Franciscan tao cross. But how do you convince the watchdog at the front desk that you know—remember, even—that this is the place you had your memory selectively erased?

“Clare Thomas,” I say swiftly. “My caretaker was Clare Thomas. Look it up under her name. She left here with me the day of my procedure, traveled and stayed with me for four weeks.”

He types again, but he’s already shaking his head.

“We have no log of a Clare Thomas visiting the Center.”

“She wasn’t a visitor! She was my caretaker, on staff here! If you would just page her—”

“That isn’t possible.”

“Yes, it is. She finished her term with me a week ago, so she’s back.”

“You don’t understand.” He levels his gaze at me. “There is no Clare Thomas on staff at this Center.”

The white-tiled floor tilts beneath my feet.

“Could you just . . . try one more thing,” I say. “Could you look it up by record number? Please.”

“I can try,” he says.

“Three . . . eight . . . five . . .” I give him the number from Clare’s cross.

I stare at him for a suspended moment, willing him to find it.

“I’m sorry. There’s no record with that number.”

I clasp my hands together on the desk to hide my agitation. “Do you have a supervisor, someone I could speak with? Please. It’s important.”

“Not at this hour. You’re welcome to come by again tomorrow morning.”

But whoever I’m protecting may not have that long to wait. I glance past him to the metal door, wonder how hard it would be to get this man’s access card and a log-in to the patient system.

He slides back slightly in his chair. Just enough for me to see the gun at his hip.

After a moment’s silent standoff, I turn and push my way out the door, brain firing, grasping for straws.

9

Rolan’s on his phone when I emerge from the Center. Seeing me, he abruptly ends his call and gets out of the car—then stops, staring at my empty hands.