When the immediate fear of getting caught subsided, boredom crept in. He waited some more, until the gray of predawn rose on the horizon, giving him enough light to see his environment clearly. His eyes swept the room, searching for clues that might reveal something from his past.
His gaze traced the outline of the living room. It was tidy, and barely lived in. There was a small TV with a set of rabbit ears style antennae on top that looked like it was straight out of the seventies. A small refrigerator that was switched off at the power point and the door was left open, suggesting the owner had left it to air, while he or she was away. His stomach rumbled and he felt disappointed to see that the owner had obviously left for the season.
He turned to the cupboard and found an array of canned food with no expiration dates visible. For a moment, he wondered whether they had been there since he was a child — or whenever it was that he’d spent time living in the coastal apartment. He rifled behind the cans, and found a small container of oats. They looked intact. Not that he really knew what oats looked like when they were past their used by date. Next to the oats were a couple cans of condensed milk. It wasn’t much in the way of taste, but his stomach assured him it would be better than nothing.
He added water to rehydrate the milk, poured some over the oats, and sat down at the boutique dining table to have breakfast, overlooking the ocean.
His lips turned upward into a grin. The vista was quite stunning as the first rays of sun danced on the surface of the sea, flickering like diamonds. Something about the sight caught his attention. The familiarity of it was as breathtaking as the landscape was beautiful. It began to put him at ease for the first time since he’d woken up on the rowboat without his memory.
He slowly ate his breakfast.
And a moment later, he heard the soft sound of a key being inserted into a lock, and turned without hesitation.
He turned to find somewhere to hide, but the only potential places were past the now opening door.
He tried to set his lips with a disarming smile.
Maybe there was still a chance he could talk his way out of this. He kept holding the bowl and spoon in front of him, in the hope that no one who was really dangerous, would break into someone’s house only to steal breakfast cereal.
An instant later, the door opened, and a beautiful woman walked through.
She was the one from the photograph he’d examined earlier. A Johns Hopkins University graduate. She had aged about fifteen or maybe even more years, but there was no mistaking it was the same person. Her skin was darkly tanned, giving her a decidedly Mediterranean and exotic appeal. She had blonde hair, brown eyes, and a kind face.
Her lips parted into a beaming smile and bewilderment. “Sam Reilly, what are you doing here?”
He opened his mouth to speak. His blue eyes filled with a mixture of fear, surprise, and relief.
She glanced at his crestfallen face, wrapped her arms around him and gave him a giant hug filled with familiarity. “I thought you were supposed to be in Holland by now?”
Chapter Nine
Sam Reilly felt a wave of relief.
Someone knew who he was. Technically, she was the second person he’d met who knew who he was, but she was the first who didn’t appear to want to kill him.
“You know who I am?” he asked.
“Yes, of course… I mean, I know who you were, why?” Her appearance twisted into puzzled concern. “What are you talking about?”
He raised the palms of his hands. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my memory.”
Her brown eyes locked with his, searching. Instead of doubt and distrust, her face was plastered with empathy and genuine concern. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Sam nodded. “Afraid so.”
She hugged him again, this time holding on a little longer. They were roughly the same height. She was neither slim nor heavy. There was strength and muscle in her frame, but there was a softness to her, too. Her hair filled his nose with the scent of her shampoo, which was rich with exotic flowers. She finally pushed away, and took a seat on the sofa overlooking the ocean.
He swallowed, feeling the slight loss of an emotion when she stepped away from their embrace. Something about the sign of affection seemed familiar, as though it was teasing at some long ago and distant memories — no, not yet memories, but more feelings. It stirred once powerful feelings, emotions and desires.
He tried to blink away the haze in his memory. Frustration and loss teased at his heart, but he couldn’t put any of it together. He sat down next to her. She looked at him. Her face was wrapped up in empathy, patience, and regret… buried beneath the bewilderment was some sort of suppressed smile, a type of joy, and maybe, he hoped, some desire.
She blushed, as though she knew exactly what he was thinking. “How did this happen?”
Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. How would I? I’ve lost my memory.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
“I woke up in the middle of the night on a rowboat in the harbor — what harbor is this by the way?”
“Vernazza, Italy. Part of the five cities of Cinque Terra,” she informed him.
He thought about that, and somewhere in the back of his mind, the name and the scenery somehow matched up with the databanks buried deep in his brain. “I must have drifted into the harbor. I don’t know where I came from or why I was there in the first place. But ever since I reached the beach, someone’s been trying to kill me.”
“Someone’s trying to kill you?”
Sam nodded. “It would appear so.”
“Who?”
“To be honest, I think the question so far is, who isn’t trying to kill me? Let me see, I reached the beach and was stopped by a priest. When I looked up to reply to him, I was shot at by two separate people.”
“Two people? Maybe it was just the same person taking multiple shots?”
“No. It was two separate shooters. Snipers, positioned high up on opposing positions within the harbor. I could tell because of the way the .338 Lapua Magnum shot made a crisp report, distinct to the rimless, bottlenecked, centerfire rifle cartridges.”
She grinned. “You could tell all that by the echo of the shots?”
Sam paused, only just then realizing the oddity in knowing such complex information at the blink of an eye, or in this case, the snap of a sniper shot. “I guess so.”
“Can you normally tell things like that about weapons being fired?”
Sam bit his lower lip and smiled. “I don’t know. You’d better tell me. Am I the sort of person who knows enough about weapons to instinctively tell you what sort of weapon was fired?”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t think so. I mean, you weren’t the last time I saw you.”
“How long ago was that?” Sam asked.
She paused, thought about it for a moment, and said, “I’d say nearly fifteen years.”
“That’s nearly a lifetime ago. Almost half my life time…” Sam glanced at himself in the reflection of the window. “How old am I?”
“You’re thirty-eight.”
He mulled that over for a moment and decided he was doing okay. He didn’t look young for his age, but neither did he look older than that. There were some dark creases in his face that suggested he’d seen his share of difficulties, but overall, he’d had a good life, without any major stumbling blocks with vices. His face certainly wasn’t that of a heavy smoker, or drinker for that matter.
“I haven’t seen you since I was twenty-three?”
“No. Twenty-four. You were born in December.”
He nodded, taking it all in. “Can I ask you something?”
She squeezed his hand. There was a comfort there, a natural relationship that their bodies had that felt as though it had once been more than just a friendship. There was muscle memory in their hands, even though his brain couldn’t remember a thing about her. She said, “Sure. Anything.”