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“I only know what I’ve read or what you told me.”
“It’s more than I have right now.”
I nod absently.
“Hope was a patient at Briarwood at the same time I was there, though she’s been there around a year by the time I showed up.”
“You knew her?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m sorry. I never saw her or interacted with her at all. I didn’t even know she was a patient there until you told me.”
“Are we sure her death wasn’t connected to the killer?”
“Hope took her own life eighteen months before the killings started. It’s another one of those bizarre coincidences.”
“There sure are a lot of them,” she replies softly.
I pause, unsure how to take her comments. She looks up at me, her expression hard to read in the dark room. I’ve left the drapes open, and the bedroom is bathed in moonlight, but it’s not enough.
“I don’t mean regarding the police being suspicious of you. I was thinking it was more like fate—us meeting. We probably passed each other dozens of times when I was visiting my sister.”
“You told me you only visited a handful of times until six weeks before she died. You didn’t have a very good relationship with her, but you sensed something was off with her so you tried hard and visited more often toward the end. She was your sister, after all.”
“Do you know why she was in Briarwood House to begin with?”
“You never told me. I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m sure it’s not something I really liked talking about. It’s weird, like finding out about someone else’s life. I lost my parents and sister, and yet I feel nothing. I’m sad for the girl I used to be, the same way I feel sad watching the news when something tragic happens. But all these things, all this history, feels like it belongs to someone else. You know what the truly terrifying thing is, though?”
“What’s that?”
“One day, I’m going to wake up and remember everything. And then all the emptiness I feel now will be filled in by pain and guilt and anger and all the other stages of grief. Will I remember and acknowledge it and move on, or will it feel like I’m losing them all over again?”
I keep stroking her back as she talks, trusting me with her worries. “I don’t know, Rue, but either way, we’ll deal with it together.”
She snuggles in closer, burying her head under my chin. “I hope you’re right, Valen. I feel like I’m just waiting for my life to unravel. With the killer playing stupid games, I need to get my memory back, now more than ever. I hoped they would back off and move on, not wanting to get caught.”
“You’re the only survivor. That makes you… special, memorable.”
She jolts in my arms, making me look down at her.
“Memorable. That’s it. We all assumed I saw him that night. I must have. That’s why he’s taunting me. He’s waiting for the right moment to strike because when I get my memories back, I’ll be able to do what the victims before me couldn’t.
“I’ll be able to identify him, but I think it’s more than that. I might actually know this person. Until my memory comes back, I’m just part of the sick fucking game he’s playing.”
Chapter Twenty
Rue
Istare out the window, watching the waves crash against the shore. The beach takes a beating, but it doesn’t look any worse for it. The ocean tires first, retreating before attacking again and again. But still, the beach is calm and steady.
I wish I felt like that—calm and steady, that is. I’m tired of feeling lost and confused. It’s making me second-guess everything. My head is a mess, filled with so much fucking noise that I just want to dive into the turbulent waters outside so I can be surrounded by nothing but blissful silence.
With a shake of my head, I move away from the window and walk over to the stove, where I left the eggs, before I got sidetracked by the view. I turn on the gas and watch as it ignites. One second, I’m staring at blue flames, and the next, the flames have grown in height and intensity.Oranges and yellows lick up the walls as screaming captures my attention.
I turn and walk into the den,but it’s different now. Smaller, outdated, and smells like stale coffee and cigarettes.
The walls are lined with bookcases filled with paperbacks. I can’t make out the names on the spines as the fire obstructs my view, but the person that lives here clearly loves to read.
