Chapter 1
There were only two things she knew without a doubt.
One, her name was Britt.
And two, the man called The Visitor wanted her to believe she was a woman named Brittany Freeman.
But she wasn’t.
Britt had no memory of her life other than her first name and an address, which she knew in her heart was her home. The Visitor didn’t know about the address. She kept it closely guarded from him, repeating it over and over in her mind like a mantra lest she forget.
Because if she forgot that address like she forgot the rest of her life, there would be no reason to keep going.
To keep fighting.
To keep hoping one day to be free of him.
That’s what he wanted.
The Visitor wanted to break her. Make her so desperate to be free that she cracked and lost the will to rediscover who she truly was. Make her so desperate that she became Brittany just to get … out.
Brittany Freeman’s life of prestige, wealth, and influence was chronicled in audio, like a warped documentary, playingon speakers hidden inside the room she’d been trapped in for almost a year. Twenty-four hours of details filled the tight space without end. The volume was low some days, and her thoughts drowned out that woman’s story. On other days, the volume blasted, echoing off the walls and making her ears ring in pain.
There was never a pause.
Never a moment of peaceful silence.
Today, it was bearable, like turning on the television for background noise to not feel alone. She wondered if that was something she’d done in the past, in the house at the address she had to remember. Did she live there alone? Or were there certain hours of the day when she had the house all to herself and missed the chaotic noise of her family? Nothing came to her mind, no matter how hard she tried to remember.
And it was Brittany’s fault.
How could she remember who she was when Brittany’s perfect life bombarded every second she was awake?
That’s why mornings were the hardest.
She survived on the dreamless sleep of night until the changing hues of light in the ceiling of her living quarters mimicked the sunrise, ushering her awake. That was a generous way to describe the suffocating box. Every inch of its eight-by-six dimensions was designed for functionality, not comfort. A twin bed was pressed against the longer wall, with barely enough space to shuffle past it without bumping into the wooden frame. A tiny corner sink jutted out awkwardly near the foot of the bed. Beside it, a toilet crouched like an afterthought, so close to the shower stall that she could reach over and turn the taps to run the hot water while she relieved her bladder. A single curtain closed off the shower from the rest of the room. When she turned the water on, it flooded the entire dark, tiled floor, seeping into the drain in the middle.
Britt swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood, stretching her arms toward the low ceiling. She glanced at the door. A narrow hatch, too small to offer her any hope of escape, was cut near the bottom. The familiar package rested near the opening, deposited by The Visitor during the night. A knapsack with a date written in marker on the khaki cloth. The Visitor wanted her to see the date. To know how long she’d been trapped inside, held against her will, refusing to play along with whatever he had planned for … Brittany Freeman.
She took three steps to the door and opened the bag. She removed the cartons containing her food for the day, then rummaged for the small tube of toothpaste and travel-sized toothbrush. A change of clothes was inside, with soap, deodorant, and a comb. But there were no mirrors in the room. Nothing for her to see her reflection. The Visitor didn’t want her to see her face or remember her life.
As she turned the sink faucet, the audio volume rose above the water. She had memorized the entire documentary and mouthed the words of the calm female voice.
Your father took you to Bermuda in the summers. You learned to sail his yacht in the calm waters, dive among the coral reefs, and identify dozens of fish species. The two of you would swim side by side, basking in the North Atlantic waters for hours. Your love for the water was a gift from him, one you cherished.
Brushing her teeth slowly, Britt wondered what happened to Brittany. Over the months, she’d come up with a few theories. The most macabre being that Brittany was dead, and she had been selected to be the woman’s replacement for some nefarious purpose—likely to trick her wealthy family out of money. Her other theory wasn’t much better. Brittany Freeman was still alive, but he wanted to kidnap her and replace her with Britt.Britt would take over Brittany’s life and perform a diabolical assignment as the woman. Only then would he set Britt free.
Of course, she contemplated whether she was actually Brittany.
Britt had no memories of her life, after all.
It was plausible that she was the woman whose memories he was trying to force on her. But if that was true, why hold her hostage away from the world? If the goal was to get her to remember that life, wouldn’t it be easier to accomplish around her friends and family? Brittany’s family had more than enough money to get her the best doctors to treat amnesia and support her through the restoration of her memories. They might even pay The Visitor handsomely for her return.
Those were strong reasons to reject the theory that she could be Brittany Freeman. Ultimately, Britt didn’t believe she was Brittany for one critical reason.
The one memory she knew was her own.
The address.
