Another chapter! I'm so nice! Just to warn you guys this story is a suspense serious story. I love hearing all your guesses and what you have to say in your reviews. I also love that you guys don't think it's too weird. And yes the ranch, I thought of Brenda getting away from the public eye and Dylan seemed like a ranch guy. I also don't think it's far fetched Dylan would be holed up there. The gang maybe but they are worried about Dylan. So here is the next installment. Enjoy!

Chapter 3

Steve twists in his seat, watching as Isabel races out the door. Exhaling one long breath, he leans back and looks at Erica then David. Frustrated , he bangs his palms on the lip of the table.

He needs an answer. Now.

"What do you think?" His glass eyes hit Erica's who is sitting stoic and so quiet. Like she scared to believe it.

David laughs, "Oh that's Brenda…No one else could polish off so many fries." Affection knots his voice as he jokes.

Making a decision, Steve shoves up from the table.

"I'm going after her."

"Thank God." Erica breaths out relieved. She is frozen in this spot and so scared they'll lose her now that they found her. She doesn't think her emotions are in check enough to go after her.

"Go." David says to loudly. "Now Steve."

With those words, Steve bolts out the diner and takes off running. His body moves with the the instant of finding someone precious, with the knowledge that something so lost might not be found again. Steve scans the scenery front of him. The patio, the overlook is empty. There is no sign of Isabel anywhere. Dread curdles Steve's stomach, filled with panic.

She's gone. He had his chance and he lost her.

Breathing hard, he reaches the lookout point.

He swears, spying Isabel down below the railing. She climbing over the wall fence separating the boardwalk from the beach. She hops over carefully, wobbles once, rights herself, then heads toward the water. Steve watches as she sheds her shoes, cardigan, wedding ring, messenger bag.

He frowns.

What the fuck?

Unease has Steve running again. This time for the beach. He makes to her as she begins wading in the water.

"Hey." Steve shouts to be heard over the crash of the waves. "Hold up!"

Isabel whirls around and freezes at the lip of the surf. She looks frightened for a moment, but then seeing that its Steve, her eyes clear before darting nervously to the ocean. "What do you want?"

"I need to talk to you."

"You shouldn't be here, okay?" The wind picks up. She stands there shivering on the beach, the hem of her white dress whipping in the breeze, the waves lapping at her bare feet.

"Look I want to be alone. Please, just leave me alone."

"I can't. He'll never forgive me if I let you go."

Her eyes narrow, and Steve realizes how it sounds. Creepy as god damn hell, that's how it sounds. "Who won't forgive you?" She looks scared.

For a moment Steve balks.

What the hell does he tell her?

That he thinks she is a dead woman?

That he thinks he's his best friends lost love?

It's crazy, but crazy it'll have to be because she's already moving away from him. "Goddamn it, Brenda!" He swears, their old banter raging in his mind.

She pauses, turns. Her expression curious. "Brenda? Who's Brenda?"

"Someone I used to know. Someone very special to me. Someone very special to a whole lotta people." Then, uncaring how crazy it makes him sounds he blurts out, "I think you're her."

Her eyes go wide, so wide and wild. She scoffs, "You're out of your god damn mind."

Isabel turns away again, and Steve moves to follow.

"DON'T!"

The shout that comes from the woman in front of him is a hoarse, red tinged rage. She sounds so fierce, Steve blinks in surprise. The familiar sark of anger in her eyes shakes him to the core.

It's Brenda. He'd bet Maddie's life on it, his own life on it. And if he takes one more step, he just might because she'll rip him a new one.

"Don't follow me."

That's when she throws a hand up to ward him off. Steve's sharp gaze locks on her wrist, zeroing in on the tattoo she shares with Dylan.

He nearly falls over where he stands. The confirmation that its Brenda hits him like a sledgehammer.

But his excitement is short-lived, sideswiped by Brenda, who is wading deeper into the ocean. The water swallows up her feet, her calves, her knees.

"Please." She whispers. She swipes her face in her hands, practically drills her fingers into her temple. Lifts her face to stare at him. The fear in her voice, the defiance that's given way to utter defeat, socks him hard in the gut. "Go away…just let me go…"

A chill tips up Steve's spine. The way she's talking…

He watches warily as she wades further into the ocean. She winces at the coldness but strides forward. She looks uncaring if she drowns or is set away by a wave.

Steve drops his eyes, unsettled by how far she's going out.

The water's at her waist now.

Fuck it. He's going in.

Steve's heart pounding in his chest, he wades into the ocean. He keeps his voice low and calm like he's talking to a wounded child. Years of being a father makes him an expert. "I can't let you go because I think you're confused as hell, and I think you need help."

"No one can help me."

The desperation on her strangles his heart. Steve takes another step forward, eyeing the distance between them. She's about a foot away. If he moved fast he could grab her, haul her back to shore. Although, this is Brenda…she'd most definitely kick his ass.

"Now thats where you're wrong." Steve puts his hand out, palm up. "Listen, let's go back to the diner and I'll explain everything." He gives her a small grin. "It's cold and I have sand in my 400 shoes."

She sob-laughs.

"I don't think you want to be here anymore than I do. I'll buy you a coffee. I'll help you."

"You will?" The look she throws him is one of relief. "You'll help me?"

Steve nods, his heart hammering in his chest. "I will. You have my word."

That's when Brenda's beautiful face crumples. Her shoulders sag and she covers her face in defeat. Her voice barely more than a whisper, she says, "I don't want to do this."

"So don't," Steve soothes, inching forward, a hand out. "Come out of the water now, okay? Please, let's get the fuck out of here."

She opens her mouth. "I . . . oh . . ." Steve strains to hear, but the remainder of her sentence is lost to the wind. Raising a hand to her temple, Brenda lets out a strangled gasp. Steve's horrified as he watches her eyes roll back in her head and her knees buckle. Springing into action, Steve clears the distance between them quickly.

He catches her before she can sink beneath the waves. "Shit," he swears, hooking her into the curve of his arm.

Cupping her pale cheek, Steve scans Brenda, hanging limp in his arms, with immense worry. Her eyelids rest half-mast, the eyes beneath unfocused. Her head lolls on her shoulders, her mouth open in a soundless gasp. The ends of her long, wild hair trail the water. Carefully, he hoists Brenda high into his arms. His muscles tighten as he pulls her into his chest tightly, protectively, not wanting to crush her. He carries her body out of the water, and even though she's unconscious, he can feel her shivering.

Steve staggers onto the beach and lays Brenda on the sand. With shaky hands, he wipes dark hair from her face, presses frantic fingers to her throat.

Thank God, thank Christ.

Steve bows his head in relief. The heartbeat is thin and thready, but it's there. As he scans her unconscious form, he zeroes in on more bruises dotting her slender white neck. Rage tightens his jaw, but before anger can take over, Steve checks it. Brenda is the priority. Nothing and no one else, everything else can wait.

His head jerks up at the crunch of sand. It's David and Erica, hurrying down the sloped path to the beach. A look of pure panic on Erica's face.

"Call an ambulance," Steve shouts. "Now!"

He sees David fumble with his phone as Erica collapse next to him. She reaches out pushing the dark tendrils of hair away from her face.

"It's okay Bren…everything will be okay. We have you." Erica says sweetly, tears running down her face.

Steve gaze moves back to Brenda, lying still and unconscious. She's breathing unevenly, her body trembling with a pain Steve can't fathom. Quickly, he shucks off his button down shirt and covers her soaked dress, wanting to keep her warm. Keeping his eyes on her expressionless face, Steve slides a hand into Brenda's cold one and squeezes.

"You're gonna be okay, Bren," he tells her fiercely. "I promise. We won't let anything happen to you. We're gonna get you home to Dylan."

The small workshop set back in the woods behind the farmhouse is the perfect place for Dylan to escape. Sitting on a bench, Dylan polishes a smudge on the fiberglass of a surfboard. These custom built surfboards are, in essence, his job now. The one way he can earn a few bucks. The work's peaceful and honest, and it makes Dylan feel like he's putting something back together again. It's the one thing in his life he feels control over. It's the only thing that is keeping him from running away into a place that he won't come back from.

Anytime something went wrong or was broken, Dylan had always gave up. Then when Brenda came back into his life, it was the last thing he ever wanted to do again. It's why he started writing.

But when Brenda went missing…how do you fix your world ending? Not even writing could save Dylan from that.

Hell, Brenda was the reason for his writing, the reason why his sister and David even had a band.

They were just starting out, busking on street corners. Brenda had found one of his poems, gave it to David, who in turn put it to music. And there a career he never knew he wanted came along. Working with the people he cared most about. Brenda on her time off from a play or movie, stuck it out with all of them, late nights, unloading the van, mailing CDs to DJs, getting paid in beer.

When they broke out, they broke out big. Even with their blues, R , rock sound, surprisingly it did well in Nashville, in the country music capital of the world. All the local bars sold out. But none of that mattered to Dylan. Dylan loved writing it wasn't about money and fame, that was Brenda and she shined on whatever stage she took.

They were just talented enough to get lucky making a living doing what they loved. And all Dylan wanted to do, from day one, was write his music and poetry for his friend and his sister and have his wife by his side.

It had been good. Really good.

Until…

A curse blasts from Dylan's lips. His mind trying hard to go back to that night. Wiping a hand down his face, he leans back, throwing a rag to the ground. He glares at the desk in the corner. Like it's daring him to write something. Maybe it is. Dylan hasn't picked up a pen to write anything since the night he lost his wife. To Dylan, it was his penance.

A way to sit this life out without Brenda. And four months ago, he nearly got his wish. The only reason he's still breathing is because of Erica. His sister found him holed up in the bedroom, drunk and raging, a pistol in his hands. Pushed over the edge by the Walsh's, mainly Brandon. Asking Dylan to file paperwork that declared Brenda dead.

Dead.

The word was enough to make him want to blow his brains out. And so he tried, ready to follow Brenda blindly down into the dark.

Erica called Steve and David hysterical. They came over in minutes. Steve and David wrestled the gun from his hand. His sister was so angry. She stood over him and screamed at him until she went hoarse with tears, but she never left.

Erica, David and Steve sat in that room with him for two days until Dylan finally pulled it together.

It's something Dylan regrets. He should have known better. Done better. He let his sister and his best friends down when he tried to end it. He should have held on, even without her.

If Brenda knew what he had tried to do, fuck, the thought's enough to drive him straight to the bottle. Dylan's eyes brush to a pegboard above the workbench. Beneath the soft lamplight, Brenda's photo sits. A Polaroid David snapped. Dylan never fails to smile when he sees it. It's Brenda, arm extended, middle finger up. Her pretty face scowl-laughing. Brenda was fighting mad that night.

Angry at Dylan for starting a bar fight with a man who was a little too handsy with Brenda on the dance floor. For getting them kicked out of the bar before she heard her favorite band. That picture was Brenda in all her glory…brave, beautiful, confident. Everything Dylan loved about her captured in one brief snapshot.

Brenda had an aura that made people want to do every single thing she said. She could ask for the moon and someone would try and rope it. Most likely, him.

Finally, the torture gets to be too much. Dylan rips his eyes away from the photo. Burying his head in his hands, he exhales hard. His chest expands, his heart a pumping freight train threatening to go off the rails. How he wishes he had that moment in time back.

But more than anything, he wishes he could turn back the clock and tell Brenda the truth. Maybe then, those long months of tragedy never would have happened. Maybe then, she would still be alive.

It takes Dylan a moment to realize he's being called.

Literally.

His cell phone vibrates on the workbench. He's about to refuse the call but then wonders if it might be Erica calling from some dive bar in the Florida to complain about the shitty working conditions. The thought brings a wry smile to lips. His sister can be a diva when she takes to the stage.

He grabs his phone. "Hello?"

"Your sister's pissing me off, kid." The clipped voice hits him like a bullet. Dylan rubs a hand across his eyes, not in the mood for a conversation with Marshall Evans, Brenda's agent. He's already told him he wasn't touring, and that's it. Nothing Marshall can say will change his mind. Although he'll try. Fuck knows Marshall's been on Dylan's ass since Brenda had been missing. A man who Brenda at one time adored, but once he wasn't making money off her anymore, he started in on the band, representing them but he's also a greedy son of a bitch.

Dylan sighs. He's picturing bail money. Broken beer bottles. Busted jaws. "What kind of trouble did she get into now?"

"Hell, son, I was hoping you could tell me. I got a call from Jeff Stein's manager. Apparently, Erica and David missed the show in Perdido Key."

Dylan frowns. It might be like Erica to have a temper tantrum and blow off a show, but not David. They have a contract. Still some semblance of a reputation. There's no way they'd screw this up. Not unless—not unless something happened. Something bad.

Cold fear grips Dylan by the balls. He checks the time. Seven o'clock. He last spoke to David earlier this morning. He, Erica and Steve were planning to grab a bite and then hit the road. "They weren't on the bus?"

"No, they weren't on the goddamn bus," Marshall huffs in annoyance. "They waited as long as they could. Finally, they had to leave 'em in Pensacola. They ain't picking up their phones. Val's a wreck."

Dylan grips the phone tighter, his knuckles bloodless, as Marshall rattles complaints in his ear. David hasn't even checked in with Val? That's unsettling, he'd never do that.

"It's a fucking shit show down there, kid. Stein's people are throwing around the s-word. Sue, Dylan. Do you know what that'll do to my business? Plus, we got that Star tabloid reporter hound-doggin' their trail. Thinks there's a story to be had. You know his name, Jasper Jones, the one who gave us trouble last year…"

Dylan closes his eyes. Red-hot rage blurs his thoughts at the mention of the reporter who caused Brenda's car accident. Thank God for Steve and Erica. If it weren't for his friend and sister…

Sister.

Once again, Dylan eyes Brenda's photo on the pegboard. Her middle finger aimed straight at him, if he doesn't do what he knows he should. What Brenda would do. Dylan needles his brow.

"Can you do me a favor, Marshall?"

"Favors cost, son." Dylan hears the smile in Brenda's agents voice that tells him Marshall's already planning to cash in. But Dylan will make "a deal with the devil" in a heartbeat. He needs to find his sister. He needs to make sure Steve and David are safe. Florida. He's gotta get there. Fast.

The room is breaking. Isabel opens her eyes and jerks up in bed. Her hands fly to her temples. She shakes her head and moans. The room crashing down around her with a deafening roar. Doors crumpling, the floor sucked out beneath her, the ceiling disintegrating around her into a million microscopic shrapnel-like pieces like it so often does in her dreams. Wait. Is this a dream? Isabel grips a steel railing. She blinks, confused, before she registers she's in a hospital bed. Wires feed from a monitor into her body. An IV is wrapped around her right hand. The scent of hand sanitizer burns her nostrils. The corner of the room blurs with movement and Isabel flinches.

A nurse steps forward, her mouth pursed in sympathy. "Welcome back, honey."

Isabel licks her chapped lips. Her throat is begging for a drink of water.

"Where did I go?"

The nurse smiles. "Can you tell me your name?" Her name? What was it? She had one but…

Her mind spins dizzily, weighed down by drugs, by a groggy haze of confusion. Everything around her is strange and she's scared.

"Where am I? What happened?"

"Please relax. We're trying to contact your husband."

"No!" Her eyes wild, Isabel claws at the nurse's arm. The nurse's face fills with concern as Isabel thrashes her head and attempts to climb out of the bed. She'll escape. She'll get away from Vince if it's the last thing she does.

"No husband. Please, you can't call him. You can't…you can't…"

The nurse escapes Isabel's grasp, beckoning for more people to enter the room.

"A sedative," she orders. "So she doesn't hurt herself."

"Noooo," Isabel cries, arcing violently on the bed. She doesn't want to go back into the dark. Her body rises and falls as she fights cool hands pressing her down into the bed. Isabel screams, agonized, but it sticks in her throat when a new rush of drugs fills her veins. Her next word of protest is all but a gurgle. Seconds later, she feels her body relax, the roll of her eyes up into darkness, a soft, familiar song in her head, as a warm sea of sleep sweeps her under once more.

Steve paces. Five hours. That's how long they've been waiting for word on Brenda. He snakes a hand through his hair, hating hospitals, thinking about the shit show that's gone on since they arrived. Questions from doctors, glares from suspicious nurses. Stale coffee. Dead phone batteries. A missed gig in Perdido Key.

Finally, an hour ago, they identified the unidentified girl in that hospital bed. Steve knew it by the tattoo on her wrist, but dental records confirmed it.

It's Brenda.

It shouldn't be this easy, and yet it is.

She's here.

She's alive.

And she doesn't remember.

Steve's heart plummets as he thinks about Brenda, so confused, so lost, on that beach. Now his biggest question is not where she got the brain injury, because that's obvious, but where Brenda has been all this time and what's wrong with her?

From his spot on a hard plastic chair, David sighs, "Would you sit the hell down? You're making me dizzy, man. You're also freaking out Erica."

Erica had run to find a cell charger. With all their phones dead, it was desperately needed. "How long does it take?" Steve gestures in annoyance at the window of Brenda's hospital room, where the drawn curtains shield any glimpse of her. The only evidence she's in there the gut-wrenching scream she let loose hours ago.

"And where the hell is Dylan?" Steve gripes. "He isn't answering his phone."

All three of them have been calling Dylan for the last three hours. His phone's been off, the calls going straight to voicemail. Even Marshall isn't answering, and he's always on that goddamn phone of his.

"He never picks up," David says, but his voice betrays worry. He and Steve both wonder if they were right to leave Dylan alone so soon.

"Keep trying." Steve's crawling out of his skin. He needs answers. He needs Dylan here. Now.

Then, in a low voice, David says, "Steve."

Steve turns to see the doctor coming their way. "Fucking finally," he says, surging forward to meet the doctor in the middle of the hallway. The badge on her coat reads Dr. Marleen Edwards.

"How is she?" Beside him, David settles in silently to listen.

"She's sedated and resting." Dr. Edwards hesitates. "She's confused. There's damage to her memory, but we're not sure to what extent."

Steve rips a hand through his hair. "She can't fucking remember us, that's the extent."

"Steve," David admonishes.

"We're planning to order a series of brain scans for tomorrow." Dr. Edwards's mouth is zipped in a tight line. "But, Mr. Sanders, until her husband gets here, I'm afraid that's all I can say right now."

He swallows. "Can we see her?"

The doctor gives a slow nod. "When she wakes up, if she consents, then yes, you can see her." "Ask her," Steve says, fighting to keep his voice steady. "Please ask her."

I am alive. The thought jolts Brenda as she brushes curious eyes around the sterile hospital room. A nurse has opened the shades to let the early-morning sunshine in. Brenda angles her face toward the window, ready for a healthy dose of vitamin D, listening to monitors beep. Though she's still groggy from the sedative, she's calmer and clearheaded. For once, her temple has stopped throbbing, courtesy of whatever drugs she's been shot up with. There's a swift flash of white, and then Dr. Edward's is perching beside her. Eager, Brenda sits up in bed as straight as she can. The hospital gown's too big; it keeps slipping off of her shoulders. Wires and tubes tug at her. The thin skin on the top of her bandaged hand stings from where she ripped out her IV, but she barely feels it.

She's close to something. She just doesn't know what. She keeps her eyes on Dr. Edward's face. She's kind looking, with curly salt-and-pepper hair that frames her face like a halo. She speaks slow. The room's extra quiet, tilted with concern. A nurse hovers in the corner.

Brenda's been given scant details about her condition, but their hushed whispers lead her to believe there's something more going on.

Dr. Edward's smiles. "Miss, is the name Brenda McKay familiar to you at all?"

"No."

"What about Brenda Walsh?"

She shakes her head.

"What's the earliest memory you can remember?"

"Waking up in bed. Sick. I was sick."

Edward's frowns. "Was it your head?"

"Mm-hmm. It was split open." Her hand goes to her scalp, where a long, crooked scar treks behind her ear. She traces it like a lifeline. "I get really bad headaches, go dizzy sometimes."

"I see." Dr. Edward's plugs something into the electronic pad she holds. "Who took care of you?"

"My husband. Vince." She tilts her head, wondering. The doctor looks unhappy. "Is that not right?" A sudden suspicion rushes her. She'd call it intuition if she weren't so loopy. "Am I not…Isabel?"

"No. You're not." An electric sizzle screams in her head, and Brenda leans forward. She rests a hand on the doctor's arm, resisting the urge to dig her nails in.

"Tell me," she breathes, her chest so tight it hurts. She can't take it, but she can take it. She has to. The story tumbles out, a slow trickle of information given cautiously to her. Plane crash. Trauma. Memory loss. Missing. High-profile case. Brenda McKay. She is Brenda McKay. Brenda sits there in disbelief. She's dizzy, like a top whirling into space. "How do you know?" Her voice is barely a whisper.

"You were identified by the tattoo on your wrist. Dental records confirmed it."

"We can't just hand you out to anyone," the nurse jokes. Drifting from the doctor's words, Brenda stares down at her hand open, at the tattoo etched across her wrist. Fine, minimalist print that says: "All the Roads."

Vince told her it was the name of a poem she had loved in college. She closes her eyes. Was that a lie too? Was Vince even her husband? Who the hell was she? She rubs at her brow, frustrated. The doctor's calm voice interrupts her thoughts.

"Miss McKay, do you understand everything I just said?" Miss McKay. Her new name startles her. Shaking herself out of her daze, she looks up and nods. She closes her palm and makes a fist. Who would she swing it at? She doesn't know.

"Yes…I…why don't I remember?"

"We're working to understand that. We plan to run scans and order a panel of tests. MRI, STD, pregnancy," she rattles off, and Brenda wants to tell her there's no need, that Vince would barely touch her in that way, and when he tried to force her, he never stayed hard, but Edward's continues. "Right now, the important thing is that you rest."

Brenda wants to laugh.

Rest.

How can she rest when her mind's reeling from everything she's just been told? She always knew her memory was fucked, but she didn't know her entire life was a lie. There's a rustling as Dr. Edward's stands.

"There's someone who can explain your past better than we can, but first, we have to ask if you want to see him."

She bristles with fear. Oh God, not Vince. Anyone but him.

"Who is it?"

"The man who brought you here." Instantly, Brenda's mind lights on the man from the beach. The man who said he'd help her. Those words had saved her. Had given her hope when she had none. And now…

"He's here?"

"Him, a woman and another man. They've been here since they brought you in." The nurse, with her cotton-candy-colored hair, bustles to Brenda's bedside.

"They say they're family."

"Are they?"

Dr. Edward's nods. "It appears so."

The nurse stares down at her. Brenda sees her scrutinizing her face, and Brenda remembers the bruise on her cheek, the ones on her throat, and knows this woman is only trying to protect her. She's fierce. Like a matronly guard dog.

"You tell us, honey. If you say 'treat this person like family,' we will." She gives Brenda a pointed look. "And if you say 'no visitors,' then no visitors it is."

Brenda would slap a no-visitor sticker on Vince in a heartbeat. Brenda closes her eyes, remembering the kind way the man had reached for her. His hand held out like a promise everything would be okay.

"No." She juts a brave chin. "I want to see him." When she says it, for some reason she feels better. For some reason she feels safe. As the doctor and nurse exit, Brenda takes a moment to collect her thoughts, dissolving back into the pillows and closing her eyes. Isabel. She shudders at the name. It had always sounded so wrong to her. Like it was never hers to begin with. But this new name. Brenda.

She likes it. It's like a slinky dress she could slip on and wear. It fits because it was hers. But what else was hers? Certainly not the life she was living. She doesn't know if it makes her feel better or worse. Panic threatens to take over, but she goes to the place inside her head. The place where the song and the brown eyed stranger lives.

She begins to hum, the lyrics like a tattoo on her brain. Minutes later, a noise sounds, the door cracking. Brenda opens her eyes, rolling her head across her pillow. Hovering in the doorway is the man from the beach. His clothes are wrinkled, his face drawn and worried.

Brenda searches her mind for his name, then says, "Steve."

Immediately, his expression softens. "Hey." His voice soft and kind.

He steps into the room, rubbing his hands together. "How you are you feeling?"

"I'm okay." She smiles. His familiar face is a welcome relief from the strangeness, the sterility of the hospital.

Brenda smooths her hands across the sheet on her lap as nerves eat at her. Still, a sense of calm laps at the back of her mind.

"You helped me. Thank you."

The words flatten him for a moment. A muscle works tight around his jaw as he moves deeper into the room.

"Can I sit?" Steve asks, and when Brenda nods, he perches in a chair beside her bed. His light blue eyes track her face. There's anguish in his expression, but also relief and awe. Sheer awe. The way he's looking at her—like she's a ghost. A living, breathing ghost.

"The doctor said she explained some things."

"She said I was in a plane crash?" She searches her mind hard for the memory but finds only black corners and raging silence.

"You were." Steve squeezes his eyes shut, pained at the question. "Nine months ago."

"I don't…I don't remember anything." Brenda bites her lip. She feels bad, like she knows this admission will hurt this man. "I don't remember you. My brain feels scrambled as shit, but I feel like I know you." She watches as Steve's face breaks into a happy smile. "Are we friends?" "The best," he says, his voice thick. His hand moves for hers, then stops, only to fall helplessly against the edge of the bed.

"We're family?" she asks, recalling what the nurse said.

"Close…we've known each other for many years. The woman that was at the diner, she's your sister-in-law. David, the musician, like family too."

Her mind works it over, slow like molasses. "I'm married?"

He nods. "To Dylan. Erica's brother."

Holy shit. She's married. To someone other than Vince. Acrid bile warms Brenda's throat, slops into her stomach. She's seasick, dizzy with revelation. There's no more close-ups. The camera's pulling back on her life like the final reveal of a horror movie. A slow and sickening montage. The memory loss, the plane crash, it makes sense. But Vince never made sense. She didn't know who she was well, but she didn't ever believe she'd pick a man like that to spend her life with. If she's married to someone else, then that means—Tears of frustration blur her eyes. "I don't remember Dylan either. I don't remember any of that…"

"It's okay," Steve soothes. He shifts his body to scoot closer. His warmth is palpable, and Brenda shivers.

"You don't have to remember right now." Steve draws the blanket up over her legs. His action so tender, so genuine, Brenda could weep. "You're safe, you're alive. That's all that matters."

Alive.

She wishes she felt that way. She's trembling; her entire body feels stripped down to its bones. Stretching an arm out, she gestures at the pitcher of water on the table. Her mouth is dry, parched.

"Can I—" Steve's already in motion, understanding what she wants.

"Here." He holds the cup for her, letting her sip from the straw. Her hands are shaking so bad she doesn't trust herself not to spill it. The water releases the words that have lodged in her throat. Out they tumble, like dice.

"I thought I was his wife. Vince. He told me that. I believed it." She looks at Steve, whose face has grown dark and dangerous and she knows something is wrong.

"He lied, didn't he? That fucker. He's not my husband."

"No," Steve says, anger curling his fists, his voice. "He isn't, you have an amazing husband that adores you, who would never hurt you, not physically anyway."

Despair settles over Brenda at the weight of Steve's words. She really was a prisoner. Vince kept her there. Kept her weak and sick and helpless in their shitty shack.

Oh, sure, they had a miserable fucked-up marriage, Brenda hating him on the daily, but she never thought that it was all a lie. That the nightmare she was living wasn't hers—and never had been. That she had a caring and kind husband looking for her.

She can't breathe. She shakes her head in denial as air refuses to push through her lungs. Then she's panicking, her throat closing up, her body curling forward into itself as she strains for a breath.

"Hey, hey, hey." Steve moves quick to sit on the side of the bed. Brenda's hands fly up to grip his shoulders.

Steve gently, yet firmly, takes her face in his hands. He keeps his blue eyes locked on her face. "Breathe, Bren. Breathe. Fucking take a breath. You got this."

He nods and slowly, so slowly, she nods back, following his lead, his breathing.

"Because we've got you." For a long moment, Brenda thinks she will die. Then she takes a gasp of air and bursts into tears as this kind stranger that is anything but comforts her.

Steve steps into the waiting room to find David sprawled out across the row of chairs and Erica pacing. By now, after a sleepless night, they've taken over the family waiting room. Coffee cups and candy bar wrappers litter the floor. David sits up when he sees Steve. He wipes sleep from his eyes.

"How is she?" Erica appears in front of him, worry and emotion etched on her pretty face.

"She's okay," Steve responds. Drained, he rubs his brow, unable to shake the image of Brenda's tear-stained face, Brenda gasping for air, as the truth of her present settled on her like a lead weight. Damn, if his heart didn't break then and there.

"Confused as hell." Steve doesn't know what else to tell Erica. More like how to say it. He's still reeling from the conversation himself. To think about Brenda, about what she was telling him, even in her most disjointed statements, makes Steve physically ill.

What he has managed to put together is, someone took Brenda and kept her. Kept her from Dylan, from her family, from her friends. And if that wasn't the worst if it, he also physically abused her. The thought's enough to make Steve want to kill most any man. Especially this fucker Vince.

He'll tear him apart with his bare hands. He'll get in line right after Dylan and Erica. He's sure David would line up to, not to mention Brandon. Fuck Brandon. He can't even go there yet. One moment and loved one at a time.

Steve stifles his emotions and shakes his head. "It's good you didn't go in. She's overwhelmed. Her memory, its shot to shit. Not to mention—"

The sound of commotion in the hallway disrupts them. Stunned, Steve watches as Dylan slams through the double doors, flanked by Marshall. His friend has a look on his face that tells him he's gonna raise hell any second.

Steve's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. He glances at David, then Erica. "You got a hold of him?"

David stands, his eyes as wide as saucers. "No."

Steve sucks in a breath. "Shit."

For a long moment, Dylan's eyes scour the hall. When his gaze lands on Erica, Dylan's face goes through a myriad of emotions. Fear, relief, annoyance. He strides forward, his boot steps loud and heavy in the quiet hallway.

In the next second, Dylan has Erica in a crushing bear hug. When Dylan finally pulls back, he gives Steve a quick once-over, then David.

"Where the hell have you been?" Dylan looks worn and weary. Not to mention mighty pissed off. Dylan reaches out to grip David's shoulder, then turns to Steve doing the same. "Are you all okay? Are you hurt?"

Erica winces, realizing Dylan's overprotective big brother mode is in overdrive.

"We're fine," Erica says quietly, understanding the reason Dylan's so anxious.

"How'd you get here so fast?" David chimes in.

"We took a plane." Dylan says it like it's nothing.

"Yeah, and you still owe me for that," Marshall interjects, head down, as he fires off a text on his phone. His pinkie rings glimmer in the fluorescent hospital light.

"You took…" Steve blinks slow at the admission of something he thought Dylan would never do again. He laughs to himself and paces around the hallway. Even David and Erica are frozen in disbelief.

"Dylan took a plane. Dylan's out of the house, fucking finally, and he took a goddamn plane?" Steve holds his arms out and exhales hard. "What else you got for me? Because this has been one crazy-as-fuck day."

Dylan jabs a finger in his chest. "Jeff Stein's manager saw you guys on the beach surrounded by ambulances. You're in a hospital." His eyes search Erica, then Steve, then David. "I don't see any broken bones or blood, so you better have a goddamn good reason for scaring the shit outta me."

David's mouth opens and closes. Erica stares at her brother. They're all thinking the same thing. How the fuck do they spring the news that Brenda's alive?

There's no easy way. No sane way, at least. Dylan won't believe them. Not at first.

"Spill it," Dylan growls impatiently. Erica steps forward, clasping her hands together nervously.

"I'll tell him." Steve glances at Erica and David and takes a deep breath. "He takes a swing at me, though, I expect you to step in."

David snorts. "You fucking wish."

Steve levels up and goes toe-to-toe with Dylan. He grips his long time friend by his lapels of his leather jacket and says…"We found Brenda."

At first, the words don't compute. Then Steve's urgent voice is saying, "Did you hear me, Dylan? We found Bren."

Found Bren?

Dylan squeezes his eyes shut at the memory. The plane crash. Brenda reaching over, reaching for his hand, her mouth moving around his name, and then she screamed. Gone. She was gone in a blink of an eye.

Then Dylan's brain pulls itself together. He understands what Steve means. His worst fear finally realized. All these months later, they pulled her out of the ocean.

No…No…No…No…No…No

Steve, Erica and David, they're here to identify the body. Warm nausea comes in waves.

"No…no," Dylan moans, thrashing his head, wanting it to be a dream. David says something in an inaudible voice to Steve.

"Not like that," Steve says as if suddenly understanding Dylan's train of thought. "Not how you're thinking Dylan." Steve gives him a shake, his voice fierce and steady. "Brenda—she's alive."

A low curse comes from Marshall, standing near the vending machines. Dylan snaps to attention. His hands curl to fists. "That isn't fucking funny."

"It's not a joke," David's quiet voice breaks in. He stares at him with sad, sympathetic eyes. "He's telling you the truth." Erica reaches out touching her brothers shoulder.

Dylan struggles to pull away, to take a swing, to rage, to do anything but listen to his sisters next words, but Erica grabs him, this time tighter. To make him understand. Her little fists curl into his jacket.

"Listen to me, goddamnit. You know how I feel about Brenda. Would I lie about this? Would I hurt you like this? Would any of us joke about this?"

The answer's obvious. No way. No fucking way. His sister has a catch in her voice Dylan knows all too well. The same tearful tone she used the night she called Dylan to tell him that Brenda had been in a car accident and had lost the baby. It's serious. It's real.

Dylan's heart pumps like a kick drum. So loud he can hear it in his ears. Disbelief, hope surge upward to fistfight for the win. He doesn't know what to believe. He wants to believe it all, but hope's a dangerous wish. For months, his world had ended. And now—now he just got the jumpstart of his life.

"I've seen her. I've talked to her." Steve's voice jolts him back to the present. "It's her, Dylan. Living and breathing. It's Bren."

Bren.

Her name hits him like a bullet. Dylan goes down. The world blurring black at its edges, Dylan hits his knees, doubles over and reaches for his heart.

"Whoa . . ." Steady hands grab onto Dylan, surrounding him, stilling him. "Easy," David says as he and Steve haul him into a chair.

Dylan sits with his head in his hands for a long moment. He closes his eyes as he struggles to get a handle on his emotions. Finally, when his breathing evens out and his heart pumps steady, he raises his face. He meets all of their eyes with determination.

"I want to see my wife. I want to see her." He whispers emotionally. "I need to see Bren."

*Breathe breathe breathe…YAY! Let me have it kids. I'm so pleased with the reviews I've gotten so far. You are all so sweet. I know the amnesia thing is weird and you guys are so nice to give it a chance and no Brenda isn't going to be in love with Steve like the stupid Kelly and Brandon bullshit story. So what do you think? Anything bothering you? I know this chapter was nice and long. I couldn't care to break it up and not have Dylan find out. Next up, Dylan see's his wife. Along with some other hospital stuff like police reports and stuff. Hit review my favorite people. Working on the next chapter!