Page 10 of Montana Memory

Hours later, I sat in the waiting room, and every second I sat there made my skin feel tighter and my breath harder to pull in. It had been hours since the CT scan. Hours since they’d taken my fingerprints. And I didn’t feel any closer to answers. If anything, I felt worse.

The murmurs around me were normal—nurses chatting, someone at the front desk checking in a patient, a kid whining about his scraped knee—but they felt directed at me. Every glance in my direction sent a sharp prick down my spine. Were they whispering about me? Talking about the woman with no name, no past? The mystery patient?

I pulled my sleeves over my hands, curling my fingers into the fabric. I shouldn’t have come here. The waiting had been unbearable. The not knowing. But this was worse. I should’ve done what Hunter said and just laid low.

I needed out. I needed air.

Just as I started to push to my feet, Dr. Hensley appeared, her expression unreadable. “Come with me.”

Her tone wasn’t unkind, but it wasn’t the same as before. The warmth from our last conversation had dimmed. Something about her posture—stiff, professional—sent a fresh spike of unease through me.

I followed her down a quiet hallway, past nurses and closed doors, until we stopped in front of a private room. When I stepped inside, the change in atmosphere hit me immediately. This wasn’t like the curtained-off space from earlier. This room had walls. A door.

Dr. Hensley turned to face me, tablet in hand. “Your CT scan didn’t show anything abnormal,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “There’s no indication of head trauma or anything physically wrong that would explain your memory loss.”

I should’ve felt relief. Instead, my stomach twisted tighter. “Then why can’t I remember?”

“It could be trauma-induced. Something your brain is protecting you from.”

The words settled like a lead weight in my chest. Protecting me from what?

Dr. Hensley didn’t offer any theories. Instead, she exhaled, glancing at the tablet before looking back at me. “I need you to stay here for a little while longer while we gather some more information.”

Something in her tone made my breath catch. More information? What kind? And from whom?

She stepped toward the door, and I barely heard her murmur, “I won’t be long.”

Then came the sound. A soft but distinct click as she left. I froze. Heart hammering. I turned slowly, hand reaching for the doorknob. Twisting.

Locked.

My breath hitched. Not just a closed door. Alockeddoor. I stared at it, pulse pounding against my ribs.

They were keeping me here.

I pressed my palm against the cool metal, forcing myself to breathe, to think. Maybe it was just protocol. Maybe Dr. Hensley had locked it by mistake. Maybe?—

The handle rattled.

I jumped back as the door cracked open, and a man in a suit stepped inside, holding a file in his hands. Late fifties, maybe early sixties, with thin gray hair and a tired expression. He wasn’t a doctor. He didn’t have the same detached professionalism as Dr. Hensley. No, this guy looked at me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve.

“Miss…Doe,” he said, his voice measured. “I need to ask you some things.”

I swallowed hard, nodding.

He glanced at the folder, flipping it open. “Does the name Jada Banks sound familiar to you?”

Only because that’s what Hunter had said to me. I wasn’t sure what to admit.

“I don’t know,” I said, voice tight. “It doesn’t sound…wrong. But it doesn’t feel familiar either.”

The man studied me, his gaze giving nothing away.

“Why?” I demanded. “Is that my name?”

He didn’t answer my question, just went into another of his own. “How about the family name Moyer? Does that ring any bells?”

“No,” I answered honestly.

---