Chapter 1

I looked down into the whole in the ground and saw the pile of bones. "Pull her out."

"Yes, ma'am." The canine search and rescue specialist, Morton Gills, sat his Black Labrador, Succo, and grabbed a large wooden crate. With his gloved hands, he reached into the ground and pulled out the skeleton by the arms. It fell apart on him and the many bones sank back into the ground creating a shattered masterpiece.

"Careful," Detective Morales said as he walked closer to the sight. Once he glanced down at the decaying bones, he said to me, "Do you think there will be enough bone marrow for a DNA test?"

"I'm not sure." I waved by hand in front of my nose in order to shoosh away the mosquito that was circling around trying to land of my skin. I don't get it. I rubbed myself in peppermint in order to keep the starving insects away and they still found a way to be immune to the harsh minty smell. "Just in case it's all decayed, we'll need teeth records and maybe a scull reconstruction."

"A scull reconstruction?" Morales asked. "I don't think we'll need that. There's enough teeth in her mouth for tooth records. Good work, Cirra. How did you solve this case anyways? I've been trying for so many years."

"I'm not a cop so I don't have to fallow police protocol." I wiped my forehead which was spilling sweat like it were water. The hot African sun was burning into me and I wanted to strip naked and jump into cold water. Of course that was impossible, there was no water in this New Mexico desert. And the surroundings and the heat made me think of Africa. Was that how the weather was like there? Did the people die of thirst? I was thirsty as hell.

"Can you elaborate on the police protocol statement?"

I glanced at Morales and a soft, shy smile crept on my face. "I broke into Pete's house and searched around. Then I broke into his safe and found the confession. It wasn't so hard, really."

"I should arrest you."

"You wouldn't."

"No, I wouldn't." Detective Morales glanced down and then met eyes with mine. He smiled softly and I knew he was impressed with what I have done. "You helped us catch a killer even if you did commit a crime in the process." He glanced at Morton who packed the last bones into the crate and nailed it shut. "McDuff, my wife wants you over for dinner Friday, would you be able to make it?"

"I don't know. It depends if I find a case I like."

As a private investigator, I was damn good at my job. I was in high demand and even cops and the FBI sought me. Maybe it was because I had great instincts or maybe it was because I didn't follow the book. Or maybe it was because I had determination for the job. Either way, I was great at it. And more importantly, I loved it.

Lately I've become choosy picky at my cases. When I first started out, I used to help rich women find their husbands cheating so they could have better grounds for divorce. Those cases were too easy. All you had to do was place a surveillance camera in the man's office and car and then you get all the evidence you need. Most men, cheated at work. They'd have sex with their mistresses on their desk. Other men would call their mistresses while in their car. The camera's would record the conversation and the case would be over. Boring, right?

Well now a days I do harder cases. Usually, I help parents find their kidnaped children. Sometimes I helped the cops with murder investigations. And sometimes I tried to find missing people. Or one specific missing person in particular, myself.

You see, two and a half years ago, I was born. No, I'm not two and a half years old, I'm approximately thirty. Two and a half years ago, I woke up in a hospital room with no recollection of who I was. My bones were broken. My skin was scratched up. And I was near death. The doctor's didn't think I was going to survive, but I did. After my bones healed and I learned how to walk, talk, eat, and everything else again, I had my face altered. The damage was severe. Though my bones healed and so did the scratches on my body, my face remained the same. Its was a mess. My skin was chopped out and fresh muscle was visible. It was worse then any horror movie magic. So, I found a great plastic surgeon and got a change. I look beautiful now, the only problem is, I don't know if that's the real me or the fake me. My hair is artifitually red, my eyes dark brown, my lips red.

The doctors told me my amnesia was temporary. But if I didn't remember soon, It might lead to permanent. I hoped I would remember. I wanted to know who I was and what my real name was.

They call me Cirra McDuff. The name is fake, but I like it. I used to be known as Jane Doe, but then I got too tired of explaining to everyone the meaning behind my name, that it was something the cops called an identity less person. When I was working at a public library, I got my hands on a book by Iris Johansen, it was called "Blind Alley". The book had a character in it named Cirra. Of course, Cirra didn't have a last name. But in the sequel to the book "Countdown" some of Cirra's relatives surfaced and their last name was McDuff. So that was how I came up with the name. Cute, right? Finally, people don't ask me about the name, it's not as infamous as Jane Doe.

I was going to my car which was parked on the side of the almost empty road when my cell phone rang. I pulled it out and flipped it open. Technically, I shouldn't have a cell phone or a profession since I didn't have a social security number. No memoryless missing person has a social security number, they don't even have names. But since I'm not one to go by the book, I committed another crime. Morales knew about it, he just looked the other way and pretended not to know. I had a fake number. I read the number on my called id and didn't recognize it. "Hello, Cirra McDuff speaking," I said in a soft voice. I didn't know if my voice was any similar to my old one, probably not. When I woke up in the hospital, my vocal strings were damaged and surgery was needed to be done on it. So, that might have altered my voice some.

"Hello, I'm calling about a recommendation I got from a friend. He says you're very good at finding information. It's about my fiancé."

"I'm sorry, Mr.--"

"Jason Morgan," the man on the other end said.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Morgan, but unfortunately I don't track down cheating lovers."

"Oh, she's not cheating, she's missing."

My heart started jumping wildly inside my chest to the point I thought it was going to explode. I knew I shouldn't get my hopes up, but I was hopeful. I loved searching for missing people, especially missing adult women because I had the hope that maybe the woman I'm searching for was me. But I was always wrong, the woman were never me. And they were rarely ever alive.

"You see, Ms. McDuff, my fiancé has died almost three years ago, but her body was never found. I need someone to find her body so I could give her a proper biaural."

My heart officially broke. Yet another hope shattered. It was just a pile of bones that I was searching for. "Why did you wait three years to start searching for her?"

"I didn't. I had two private investigators searching for her to date, but they both came up short. One of them was very good with information, but he didn't find anything. The other one was good at finding things, but he found nothing. Then a friend told me about you."

The answer was good enough. And the job did sound intriguing. Yes, it was a disappointment. I don't enjoy finding dead people, but helping this Mr. Morgan grieve for the lost love might give me something with a purpose to do. "Okey, Mr. Morgan, I would need to find out more about this job. I would prefer we make an appointment to see each other."

"Do you have an office?"

"No, I travel too much to have one."

"Okey then. I live in Port Charles, New York. Can you possible arrive there? There's a diner called Kelly's and it's located across the street from Port Charles General Hospital."

"I could be in New York by Friday. I have to finish up a case here in New Mexico first. Is that okey with you?"

"Yes. Then Friday, can you meet me at the diner at seven pm. I'll be the one with the grey t-shirt, blue jeans, and a black leather jacket. If you don't see me, ask anyone for Jason Morgan. Everyone in town knows me."

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Jason Morgan put down the phone and glanced out the penthouse window. His breathing came hard and long. He tried to calm himself, to argue with himself, but nothing worked. He knew that Sam can't possibly be alive, but that was how he felt. He had asked the Cirra woman to find her body, but he sure as hell was hoping it wouldn't be a dead one.

He remembered the day everyone said she died. But damn it, her body was never found. She could be alive. But then again, if she were alive, then she'd come back to him.

Perfect. Jason managed to confuse and annoy himself. Normally, he was a logical and cold blooded man, but when it came to Sam he turned into an irrational puddle of warmth.

Soon enough he'll know the truth. He had confidence in this woman. He didn't know why, but he felt like she will be able to find Sam. Maybe it was because Cirra was a woman, and women are good at searching. Or maybe it was because she had a good reputation, either way, he had confidence in her.

His friend from out of town had told him about her, he said she was perfect at finding people. Jason hoped she could find Sam. That Sam could be brought home safe and sound, and alive. No matter how unrealistically that sounded.

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Blind Alley, Countdown, Cirra, and McDuff all belong to Iris Johansen (a novelist). I take no credit for them, I'm simply mentioning them.