“Something isn’t right. They have no record of me. Under any name. Told me I could come back tomorrow,” I say, walking past him to the passenger side. I try to breathe, but once I’m in the car I’m this close to what I imagine a panic attack must feel like. I remotely register Rolan getting in, shutting the door.

He rubs his face, fingers audibly scraping over two days’ worth of stubble. “You sure this is the place? We passed a hospital campus a few blocks back.”

“Yes.”

He stares intently at the Center, and for a moment I actually wonder if he’s thinking of going inside. And then I follow his line of vision to the camera at the corner of the building.

He’s casing the place.

My eyes narrow. “Why are you helping me do this?” I say. “Why search for them? You said your only priority is me.”

“It is,” he says. “Which is why the last thing we can afford is you flying off the handle and doing something equally insane again. When you said we should come here, look up the emergency contact and address in your file, I thought, fine. We’d get your family to a safe house. Because I know you’re not going to let it rest. You may not know me, but I’ve spent months watching you, Audra.”

“I’ll try to make sure I don’t die and lose you your Christmas bonus,” I say sarcastically.

My mind runs ahead, to tomorrow. But I may not have until tomorrow. Tonight, then. I don’t need to look to remember the cant of the security camera over the entrance. The glass doors.

“Whatever we do, we can’t stay here,” he says, starting the car.

Rolan checks us in to a hotel off the highway, one of those inns with suites, complete with fireplace and kitchen. I note that his credit card has a different name on it.

As soon as I’m staring blankly out the window of the room, he leaves to park the Pathfinder around back, pick up a few things from the mini-mart downstairs.

By the time he returns with sodas, sandwiches, and bottled water, I’ve already called the four hospitals listed in the hotel’s guest services binder. None of them has a Clare Thomas on staff.

“You followed me for nearly a year,” I say, the tuna sandwich untouched where it sits on a plate beside the hotel binder. “There has to be a hostel or hotel or someplace you remember me staying. Someplace I can call, say I need a copy of my bill—anything that might have the address from my old passport, a credit card . . .”

He shakes his head. “You stayed with people you knew. I never once saw you check in to a hotel.”