“Just be careful.” He helped her hop into the truck. “These cartels are ruthless. Just a few months ago, two mules were executed at the border, beheaded. They were women—Tandy Richards and Elena Delgado. They don’t care.”
Rob’s jaw formed a hard line as he slammed the door of the truck.
Rob did care.
By the time he dropped her off at Rosita’s, her mouth was as dry as the desert floor. Rob hadn’t meant to scare the stuffing out of her, but now she’d be looking over her shoulder all morning. Better to be on the lookout instead of getting ambushed in a surprise attack.
She sauntered into Rosita’s with a swagger that masked her fear—or so she thought.
“I’m glad you’re back, mija.” Rosie patted her cheek. “You look better. Is Rob taking good care of you?”
“He is.” As soon as he’d stopped believing she was a drug courier like those poor beheaded women.
She waved to the guys in the kitchen and got to work. She scrutinized every male customer, her glance taking in every pair of shoes, looking for the black boots. Nobody sparked any recognition in her, and nobody acted as if she should know him.
She soon got into a groove, and the morning passed quickly. By the time she wiped the last table, Rob poked his head inside the café wearing civilian clothes—a pair of faded jeans and a light blue tee.
“Are you almost ready?”
“Not fair.” She waved her towel at him. “You had a chance to clean up and change.”
“I can take you back to my place if you want to shower.”
She reached around and untied the apron. “That’s okay. Hopefully this woman likes the smell of chips.”
Rosie scurried in from the kitchen, rubbing her hands together. “Do you want some lunch, Rob?”
“No, thanks, Rosie. We’re in a hurry.”
Rosie patted Libby on the back. “Don’t hurry this one.”
He saluted. “Sí, jefe.”
Rosie shook her head and pressed a plastic bag into Libby’s hands. “You take this anyway.”
Libby thanked her, and then she and Rob got into his own truck.
As he clutched the steering wheel, he said, “That’s another reason why I know you’re a good person.”
“Rosie?”
“You talk about my instincts. She can sniff out a phony like a bloodhound.” He cranked on the engine. “She lost a son to drugs.”
“Oh, no.” Libby covered her mouth. “Overdose or some kind of drug violence?”
“OD. Happened before I moved here. Too bad.” Rob’s knuckles turned white as he squeezed the steering wheel. “Maybe I could’ve knocked some sense into him.”
“You help enough people just by doing your job.” She trailed her fingertips along his corded forearm. “You don’t need to save the whole world.”
“Maybe one person at a time.” He threw the truck into Reverse and pulled out of the parking space. “Nothing unusual today?”
“No. You? Did you discover anything about Libby James?”
“Nothing criminal. That’s quite a gallery she has down in Mexico, but she’s camera shy. No pictures of her...you online.”
“I guess that’s not unusual. People want to see the art, not the artist.” Libby gazed out the window. “I don’t have much to offer the therapist.”
“It’s not your job to offer her anything. She’s going to be helping you.”
“Through hypnosis.”
“You sound skeptical.”
“Is she going to swing something in front of my face and tell me I’m getting sleepy?”
“That’s what I mean.” Rob slapped the dashboard. “You pulled that from your memory bank, and yet you can’t access your personal memories.”
“It’s a weird condition to be in. It’s like there’s nothing personal there.”
“There must be and this therapist—” he fished into the front pocket of his T-shirt and withdrew a slip of paper between his fingers “—Jennifer Montrose is going to help you bring it all to the surface.”
About an hour later, they rolled into Tucson. They bypassed the downtown area and the university and aimed for the foothills.
Rob pointed out the window. “Looks like her office is in this business center.”
Libby twisted her fingers in her lap. “What if I find out something I don’t want to know about myself?”
“Whatever you find out is better than nothingness, isn’t it?” He squeezed her knee. “What if you have a child somewhere?”
She flattened a hand against her belly, recalling the fairy she’d drawn last night who had borne a resemblance to her own face. “I can’t. How could someone forget her own child?”
He parked the car and turned to face her. “You don’t know what’s going on in your head, what kind of injury you sustained. I don’t think even an important memory has a chance to swim to the surface yet. That’s why you’re seeing Montrose.”
“You’re right.” She released her seat belt and scooped in a deep breath. “I’m ready.”
Rob checked his slip of paper for the therapist’s suite number, and they walked up the stairs to the second level. When Rob tried the door with Jennifer Montrose’s nameplate on the front, it swung open onto a small lobby with a few hanging plants and a blue love seat and matching chair facing each other.
Libby crept up to a closed door with a button like a doorbell on the side. Her forefinger hovered over it. “Should I?”
Rob checked his phone. “We’re ten minutes early. Maybe wait until your appointment time in case someone’s in there.”
Libby meandered to the magazine rack and plucked up a celebrity magazine, scanning the photos on the front. Why did she recognize these people but not her own face in the mirror?
The door behind her opened, and she jumped, dropping the magazine on the floor.
“I’m sorry I startled you.” The smooth, low voice alone was enough to calm her down and put her under.
Libby turned and held out her hand to the petite, dark-haired woman in the patterned palazzo pants and long blouse. “I’m Libby.”
The therapist’s dark eyes didn’t assess her or judge. She clasped Libby’s hand in a firm grip that belied her size.
“Nice to meet you, Libby. I’m Jennifer Montrose. You can call me Jennifer.”
Rob introduced himself, and Libby’s heart stuttered when he sank
