Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

physical action of removing the notepad from her pocket, then on the notepad itself. It was a familiar process, a familiar object. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, feet dangling. “I’m sorry. I guess that sounds rude, but how else can I put it?”
    Rachel Hirsch arrived with another chair and a warning to Detective Hogan in her eyes, which her patient registered.
    “What do you remember?” Hogan asked.
    “Nothing before the emergency room and even that is hazy.”
    “You don’t know how you got all that blood on your clothing?”
    “No. Can you check to see if anyone’s reported me—someone like me—missing?”
    “I will. I’m going to take your clothing to the lab and see what they come up with.”
    “The lab? Oh, God, was I raped?” She looked at Dr. Hirsch, horrified. “I don’t feel raped. Could I have been raped and not know it?”
    “You wore pantyhose. Blood had seeped through from your dress. Not evidence of rape. You’re wearing a ring.”
    Jane touched the rolling rings on the ring finger of her left hand. Why hadn’t she noticed them before now? Maybe because they hadn’t been on her finger? Could someone have slipped them on while she was sleeping?
    The room began to undulate, the sad song obliterated by a blast of sound.
    “Catch her,” someone said.
    “Breakfast.”
    She rolled onto her back and pulled the covers over her head. “Not now.” Every muscle in her body screamed.
    Dishes rattled nearby. “There’s a bathroom a short way down the hall, on your left.”
    “I know where my bathroom is,” she said, annoyed. The smell of buttered toast and coffee filtered into her nostrils. It was a while before her limbs would obey orders. Finally, she sat up with a jerk and looked around, remembering only not remembering. Her back ached and the light hurt her eyes. Whoever had brought the tray was gone. She ate the lukewarm toast greedily; she was starved.
    Afterward, she ventured from her room to the bathroom. A youngish woman in a chenille bathrobe was coming out. She made eye contact with Jane for an instant, then looked away and scurried into the room next door. She looked like any normal New Yorker except for the bandages on her wrists that glanced from under the sleeves of her robe.
    The bathroom had a toilet and a stall shower. No mirror. Oh, for a hot shower, she thought. She would ask for one.
    When she got back to her room, she saw someone had left some clothing on the bed. Black leggings, bulky sport socks, a big red sweater, a tee-shirt, and cotton panties. Worn Keds rested on the floor next to the bed. She leaned against the wall near her door, away from the window, which had no blinds, and quickly put on her new clothes. Everything was a little too big, but it didn’t matter. It felt right.
    She touched the wall with her fingertips and slipped into first position. Yes. Now second, third, relevé, plié. Again. The door opened, catching her in mid-plié.
    Dr. Hirsch said, “You’re a dancer.”
    She finished the plié. “I’m a dancer,” she repeated. “I am a dancer.” She twirled around the small room. “Yes! I am a dancer!” She sank into a chair, her burst of energy dissipated, her anxiety replenished. “Thank you for the clothes.”
    “I brought them from home. My sister knitted the sweater.”
    The sweater was unusual; it had a design knitted into it: little black scotties. She rubbed her fingers on the dogs. Something ... She jumped up and rushed to the door, where Dr. Hirsch blocked her way. “My dog. I have to go home.”
    “You can’t go home until you remember where home is. You have a dog?”
    “Yes.” She came back to the bed and threw herself down. “Who’s going to feed my dog?”
    Dr. Hirsch touched her shoulder. “You know you’re a dancer, you probably live on the Upper West Side, and you own a dog. Your memory is coming back.”
    “Tell me again, how long have I been here?”
    “You came in late Saturday night. Today is Tuesday.”
    “She’ll starve.”
    “She?”
    “My dog. What am I going to do?” She sat up, plucking at her new clothes.
    Dr. Hirsch took a packet from the pocket of her white coat and shook a small pill into her palm.
    “I don’t want it.”
    “It will ease your anxiety.”
    “It will make me groggy and leave an unpleasant taste in my mouth. I have to be aware of what’s happening to me.”
    “The anxiety is normal in this kind of situation. If we let it go on, it could develop into