6

Oh God, I need to know what’s going on. How did I end up here from my bed?
“Hello?” I croak, peering at the open doorway. “Helllloooo?”
Nothing.
There’s a call button by the bed. I fumble to press it, the IV line dragging at my skin. “Hell-ooo?”
A nurse breezes in. “Lucy.” He flashes me a bright smile as he nears the bed. “You’re awake. How are you feeling?”
“Confused.” I try to haul myself up against the pillows, wincing as my head pulses. “What happened? Why am I here?”
His smile slips for a second, but he plasters it back on quickly. “You can’t recall how you ended up here?”
I shake my head weakly.
“You’ve got a concussion, honey. Don’t worry, it’s normal to feel disoriented, especially after waking up. You’ve been in and out of consciousness for the last few days since your accident.”
I gape at him. “My accident?”
“You slipped down a set of stairs at the Platinum Plaza Hotel. Hit your head pretty bad,” he says, searching my face for any spark of recollection.
The Platinum Plaza Hotel? That’s one of the Quinn & Wolfe hotels in SoHo. What the hell is this guy talking about? Did I sleepwalk out of my bed, take a swan dive out the window, and roll ten miles downtown or something?
My brows scrunch up, struggling to make sense of it all. “No, there’s been a mistake.”
Oh my God, this explains it. They’ve mixed up my identity. It’s a chart switch-up.
I give the room another once-over, estimating what this suite would set me back at one of the Quinn & Wolfe hotels. It’s enormous, and I’ve never seen a plush four-seater sofa in a hospital room before.
I’m screwed. I can’t afford this.
“The accident must have happened at my apartment in Washington Heights. Maybe the chart is wrong?”
His brows lift, but he stays silent.
“What hospital is this?” I ask, feeling the panic bubble up again as he checks the IV in my arm.
“Royal Heights Hospital on Seventh.”
Christ, it’s a celebrity hospital.
He smiles. “You’re in the best hands in New York.”
And the most expensive hands. Hope my work insurance covers it.
His eyes shift to the chart clipped next to my bed. “Yup. You were admitted three nights ago following an accident at the Plaza.”
“That makes no sense. That’s all the way downtown.”
He squints at the clipboard. “Lucy Walsh from East Hanover, twenty-seven years old.”
“That’s me… Except for the age part, I’m twenty-six. I don’t turn twenty-seven until the summer.” I tell him my birthday.
He stares at me as if I’m an idiot. “So you’re twenty-seven.”
He’s the idiot. “No,” I repeat, stretching out each word. “I’m twenty-six. Like I said, I turn twenty-seven next summer.”
He glances at the clipboard again, then back at me, looking slightly rattled. “Okay, no problem, Lucy. The doctor will be in soon. Just… stay put, okay?”
With an IV drip in my arm, where does he think I plan on going?
“Hey, is my mom here?” I call after him weakly, but he’s already out the door. The hallway fills with hushed whispers. Lots of them.
“Hello, Lucy.” A brunette lady in a white coat saunters in. “I’m Doctor Ramirez.”
“Doctor.” I breathe a sigh of relief. “There’s a mix-up on my chart. Can you tell me what happened? How did I end up here?”
She gives me the same incorrect account as the nurse. Fell down stairs. Plaza hotel. Three nights ago. Apparently, she saw me come in with her own eyes.
For a swanky hospital, it’s a bit unnerving that they can’t keep track of basic details. What are they pumping into me through this IV? What if it’s meant for a different Lucy?
“I think you’ve got someone else’s chart,” I say, trying to hide my frustration. “Last night, I had a few drinks in midtown and went home. I must have… fallen down the stairs or something.” That sounds plausible.
Doctor Ramirez studies me as she stands at the side of the bed. “Lucy, I’m going to ask you a few questions that may seem strange.” She pauses. “Can you tell me what day it is today?”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. A tight knot forms in my stomach as I connect the dots from the last forty-eight hours: drinks with Matty, that horrible meeting with Wolfe, and the no promo news. “Thursday,” I say, my voice weak. “Yesterday was Wednesday.”
“It’s actually Sunday, but you don’t need to worry,” she replies soothingly. “You’ve been on medication for the bad bump on your head. Trauma often makes your memory foggy.”
I blink anxiously. I’ve lost four days? This is some twisted state of mind.
Keep calm. It’s okay.
“Just one more question. Try to relax. Can you tell me what month and year it is?”
I stare at her, taken aback. I’m beginning to worry about the patient care level in this fancy hospital. I quickly reel off the answer.
Dr. Ramirez hums like she’s debating something before asking her next question.
I gulp nervously. Do they think something’s wrong with my brain?
She proceeds to grill me like a weird bar quiz-who’s our local Senator? Can you tell me the names of your family members? What’s your mom’s name? Can you tell me the last few events you remember?
“Okay,” she finally says, resting her hand on the bed railing. “We need to run some more tests. We’ll pencil you in for an electroencephalogram and a PET scan this morning.”
She pauses.
I look at her with wide eyes; it’s never good when a doctor pauses.
“Lucy, it appears that you have a form of retrograde amnesia brought on by the trauma to your head.”
I swallow hard and nod. “I’ve completely blanked on the last four days.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” she says slowly. “We’ll need to assess the extent of your condition, but it appears you’re missing memories from the past year.”
“A year?” I scoff, a laugh erupting so abruptly that I feel a brief spray from my nose. “Christ, no way. I remember everything from the past year. It’s just these past few days that are foggy.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Lucy,” she says gently. “The inconsistencies in your memories hint at retrograde amnesia.” As she reveals the actual month and year, I stop breathing. “Once we’ve run our tests, we’ll know for sure.”