CHAPTER 1

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She swerved left, narrowly missing the speeding car barreling toward her. She overcorrected.

“Oh, no! God, please don’t let me crash into the water!”

She lost control of the car, its tires squealing against the asphalt. She braced herself as it careened toward the guardrail, metal groaning on impact. The world blurred for a moment before the car came to a jarring stop. There was smoke rising from the hood, and her heart was pounding wildly in her chest.

The sound of shattered glass, splitting trees, and fractured rails woke her. She was upside down, gazing at dense, low-hanging clouds. The airbag deflated slowly as she assessed the damage. There was a small stream of blood running down her forehead, but she was alive. Her survival was a small miracle in the middle of all the destruction.

Shooting pain shot up her hip. She landed inches away from a muddy bayou. Thoughts swirled like a whirlpool. The bayou's murky water lapped ominously nearby. She searched for her phone, desperate to call for help, her mind racing with fear. Her head was spinning, and she ached too much to feel around through shattered glass and hot metal. Slowly, she inched to the crumpled door and limped away from the wreckage.

There wasn’t a car in sight. She stumbled further away from the car, wincing with each step, and scanned the deserted road for help. The silence was eerie, broken only by the distant call of a bird. With no phone and fading strength, she wondered how long it would take for someone to find her. She passed out again.

When she regained consciousness, there was a growing crowd. Also, there was a pool of blood near her left torso.

“Looks like she needs some help,” someone yelled.

“Check for a pulse,” another voice added.

A few drivers had spotted the wreckage and pulled over, rushing to her side. One of them called for an ambulance while offering her water and a musty hunting jacket. She leaned against someone’s truck, relieved yet trembling, as the faint sound of sirens grew closer.

“What’s your name?” a uniformed man asked.

“I don’t know what my name is,” she replied, wincing with each puff of air.

“Is there a purse or a phone in the car? We need to identify her. There appears to be some memory loss.”

“The car’s too mangled to check. We’ll have to wait until the vehicle is processed to confirm identification. Let’s take her to a hospital. It looks like she’s lost some blood.”

She woke up to a nurse typing into a tablet.

“Where am I?"She asked groggily. “Who am I?”

The nurse spoke clearly and slowly. “You were in a terrible accident. The doctor will be in shortly to explain things.”

She dozed off again.

She sighed as she turned toward the door, and a short, stocky doctor greeted her. “Well, hello there. I’m Dr. Morris.”

“Where am I?”

“You’re at Mercer Hospital, thirty miles south of the tiny town of Lanceford. You're lucky to be alive, especially since few people travel that road anymore. Most people have traveled west since the mill closed. There was a crawfish festival, so people probably took that route to avoid traffic," the doctor said gently, examining her wounds. “It's common to experience some memory loss after a traumatic event like this, especially if there’s been any impact to the head. The disorientation you're feeling should improve with time, but we'll monitor your progress closely."

“So, what happened?” She groaned as he poked around her side.

“You were in a single-vehicle accident. You were inches away from Bayou Teche. You have a couple of broken ribs, a broken fibula, two internal punctures, and general bumps and bruises. Oh, and I forgot to mention a few stitches along your jawline. You’re very lucky. Somebody was watching over you,” he said, signaling to the nurse.

The nurse asked, “What name should I put on her chart?”

“Leave it blank for now. Let Sheriff Roberts come in. He wants to ask her some questions.”

A balled-up sheriff, who favored a mechanic more than a cop, entered the room with a tiny recorder. “You’re the talk of Lanceford. Everybody is trying to figure out where you came from. Care if I ask you a few questions?"

“I don’t mind,” she answered. “I wish I knew where I was from, as well. I don’t remember anything about myself, not even why I was driving through the town.”

“I’m sorry this has happened, but I have more troubling news.”

She took a deep breath and flinched in agony from the pinching near her chest. Her throat felt dry and brittle. The accident was the worst thing she could imagine.

Sheriff Roberts said, “High tide and a flash flood rolled through here last night. What was left of your car ended up washed into Bayou Teche, so we’re going to have a hard time finding a purse or a phone. It’ll take some time before the water goes down, and Pete can help with his wrecker.”

She signed.

Sheriff Roberts looked at Dr. Morris. “Hey Doc, how long is she going to be laid up here?”

“She is likely to be here for a few weeks. Hopefully, by then, you’ll be able to identify her.”

Sheriff Roberts grimaced. “I’ll wait for the swelling to go down before we take pictures, but I’ll put her in the missing persons database. Hopefully, somebody will recognize our Jane Doe before she gets discharged.”

“What if no one recognizes me?” she squeaked.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we have to.” The sheriff nodded and walked out, greeting someone in the hall.

The doctor patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I believe your memory will return before you’re discharged.”