11. Kaci

The repetitive thwack of an axe biting into wood has me peeking out the window and into the yard. My eyes bulge, and I grip the curtain. Hunter has his shirt off, and the muscles ripple every time he swings the axe. Perspiration makes his skin slick, and the morning sunlight glints off his muscles as they dance under his skin.

My core pulls up tight, and there's a flutter in the pit of my belly that is not a memory. It's pure desire.

I squeeze my thighs together, but it does nothing to ease the ache between my legs. There's only one thing that will ease that ache, and he won't touch me until I get my memory back.

I get his reasoning. I don't know if I've got a boyfriend out there somewhere, although if I have he's doing a bad job of looking for me. It's been three days since Hunter found me, and when he checked in at HQ this morning there were still no missing person reports of someone fitting my description.

Nobody is missing me.

The thought has me hugging my arms around my body as a shiver runs through me. Was I alone in this world? I must have had family or friends. Yet I can't shake the nagging feeling of loneliness that seeps into my bones every time I'm left by myself.

Which is why I asked Hunter to stay with me last night. When he's not around, the emptiness creeps in like a dark void.

I woke in Hunter's arms this morning with his warm breath tickling the back of my neck and his arm draped over me like he owned me.

I listened to his breathing for a long time, wondering about this man who has taken me in. Wondering if I'd do the same for a complete stranger.

He doesn't feel like a stranger to me, but maybe that's because I know more about him than about myself.

I'm wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt that belong to Izzie. Her size sixteen clothes fit perfectly.

I have no idea if short denim shorts are the kind of thing I'd wear, but I like the way Hunter looked at my legs when I came out with them on. He swallowed hard and retreated to the yard.

I have no idea if I prefer a tight fit like I'm wearing now or a baggier style.

Remembering the plastic bag of the clothes Hunter found me in, I find it by the front door. If I check the labels, it might tell me something about what I like and where I shop.

The clothes smell of smoke, and they're torn. There's no point putting them in the wash. I may as well throw them straight out.

The t-shirt is white with a picture of a parrot on it and the label says Walmart, which tells me either I don't have a lot of money or I don't care about fashion.

But judging by the colorful and worn Converse boots I pull out of the bag, I think it's a bit of both. It looks like I prioritize shoes and don't care too much for the clothes I wear.

The shorts are loose cotton material with big pockets. I stick my hand in one and pull out a balled up tissue.

I try the other pocket and pull out a folded piece of paper. I stare at it for a long moment. This could be a clue as to who I am. With shaking hands, I unfold the paper and smooth it out on the table.

It's a photograph, enlarged and printed on a piece of A4 paper.

My heart races as I smooth down the crumpled edges. Five men look up at me from the photo. They're in army uniforms, and it's not dissimilar to the photos on Hunter's mantlepiece.

Four of the men are laughing with their arms slung around each other. The fourth man stands slightly to the side of them, his expression serious.

The image is grainy, and I lean forward to scan the faces. The man standing to the side is older than the others. His lips are in a thin serious line, and his bright blue eyes are familiar.

I gasp and my hand flies to my mouth. My heart forgets to beat.

Just then the door opens, and Hunter strolls in. I tuck the photo quickly into my pocket.

"Thought we might have a bonfire tonight, slow roast our dinner on the spit."

He grins at me, and I force a smile. "That sounds nice."

My heart's racing, and I don't know what it means. I don't know why Hunter would be in my photo or if it's really him. The photo has been blown up, and the quality isn't good. I need to examine it closer to make sure it's really him.

Hunter busies himself in the kitchen, humming as he pulls out meat and prepares a marinade.

I feign tiredness and retreat to the mezzanine floor to study the photograph.

When I look again, I can't be sure. The guy who looks like Hunter is wearing a cap pulled down to just above his eyes. He's not smiling like the others, and now that I look again, I can't be sure it's him. I don't want it to be him. Because if I have a photo of Hunter in my pocket, then wouldn't he know me?

But as I study the photo, it's a different face that captures my attention. One of the men holds up a can of beer with a wide grin on his face. And there's something chillingly familiar about him.

My gut churns, telling me I'm right, when I realize what it is.

I take the photo into the bathroom and hold it up next to the mirror.

I smile like the man's smiling in the photo and gasp as my reflection smiles back at me. He has the same smile, the same pale grey eyes, and, so tiny I almost miss it, the same mole sticking out of the top of his dark green t-shirt.

The man's the spitting image of me.