Forgotten Secret: Book 2 (Large Print)

Twenty years ago
A relentless throb pounded in the hollow of her skull, a
rhythmic drumbeat that drew her from the comfort of unconsciousness. She forced her eyes open, wincing against the antiseptic brightness. Stark-white walls towered around her, impersonal and cold, the ceiling sprinkled with tiny fluorescent lights that flickered like distant stars. She was lying on a bed, machines nearby, a thin hospital sheet barely covering her.
How’d she end up here? Her breathing quickened, and her heartbeat picked up speed. Her clammy skin threatened to soak the sheet. She couldn’t remember.
She blinked two figures into focus—men dressed in white coats.
“Welcome back to the land of the living.” The younger,
Middle Eastern-looking one leaned closer, thrusting his angular cheekbones and well-defined jaw into view and exuding a sense of strength.
Her brows furrowed. Did she die?
“You’re awake.” The older white man perused the hospital chart. “You’ve been in a coma. Because of the angle, the caliber, and perhaps distance, the bullet didn’t cause any major damage. But your brain still needed time to heal. I’m Dr. Lester Cook. This is Dr. Michael Khoury.” He gestured toward the young man. “Your vitals look good. Let me have a peek. The police
haven’t been able to identify you. What’s your name?”
Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Did he say bullet? And what was her name?
Dr. Cook did a check on her head, the bandages wrapping it making her feel like she was wearing a turban. He then asked her who the president was, what year it was, how many fingers she saw, and similar questions. She had no trouble answering
them. “Now, how are you feeling?”
She tried to reply, but her throat was parched, her voice a mere croak. Dr. Khoury fetched a glass of water from the bedside table, held it to her lips, and helped her to take slow sips.
“I–I don’t remember anything,” she admitted, her voice
barely above a whisper. Why was she struggling to say a simple sentence?
The two doctors exchanged glances. Then Dr. Cook scanned the medical chart, his brows furrowed. “You’ve been through a traumatic ordeal. You don’t remember being shot?”
The words hit her like a gut punch, her heart pounding a
frenzied tattoo against her rib cage. “Shot?” she echoed, a trembling taking over her body. “But… why can’t I remember anything?”
Neither answered right away. Then Dr. Cook touched her
hand. “The human brain is a fascinatingly complex organ. When it undergoes severe trauma, such as a gunshot wound, it sometimes shields itself by temporarily blocking out memories. You’re fortunate to be alive.”
I’m not feeling lucky! “Will I… get my memories back?”
He gave her hand a comforting squeeze. “In most cases, yes. Memory loss after head trauma is usually temporary. Your brain needs time to heal, and as it does, your memories should begin to return.”
“But… who am I?”
When Dr. Cook turned to his young colleague, Dr. Khoury
cleared his throat. “We haven’t been able to identify you yet. You had no identification when I found you. But don’t worry. We’re here to help you.”
He found her? Her eyes welled up. She clutched the
bedsheets, searching for answers that seemed to slip through her grasp.
“Where… did you… find me?”
Dr. Khoury hesitated. “My brother and I and some friends
were out on a boat on the Intracoastal Waterway. When our friends dropped us off at the dock, we found you nearby.”
Had she been on the Intracoastal Waterway? The blankness in her mind failed her. “Are we… in the Outer Banks?”
“No, we’re in Durham. We had to airlift you here because of the seriousness of your injuries.”
“How long… have I been out?”
“Ten days."

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