Page 167 of Override

"Your clothes started disappearing after you wore them." He continues carefully. "At first I thought you were donating things. Then I noticed it was always something you seemed comfortable in."

The room blurs.

I blink hard.

"The first few were already gone before I realized." His voice is quieter now. "After that, I started intercepting them."

I look back into the box. Every piece of fabric suddenly means something different. Not just clothes. Evidence. Proof that I hadn't imagined it. That I wasn't forgetful. That things really had been disappearing around me.

I pull the green sweater into my lap and run my thumb over the frayed cuff. "I thought I was losing my mind."

The confession slips out anyway, too fast to catch. Across from me, Taibhse freezes completely.

"I kept thinking I'd misplaced things." I stare down at the sweater. "Then I started wondering if maybe I remembered bringing them to the house when I hadn't. Ronan kept telling me I had nicer things now, so I thought..."

I trail off. I don't know what I thought. That's the worst part. I'd stopped trusting my own memories. My own eyes. Myself.

A tear falls onto the green fabric. Then another. I wipe them away angrily. "I hate crying."

"I know." I look up sharply. His face changes. "That sounded significantly less creepy in my head."

A wet laugh escapes me. He looks relieved enough that another follows. I press the sweater against my face for a second, breathing in the faint scent of laundry detergent and cardboard.

Home. Not the estate. Not Ronan. Me. When I lower it, Taibhse is watching me. Not like Ronan watched me. There is no calculation in his expression. No judgment. He simply looks like seeing me hurt is hurting him too.

I look around the bedroom. At the dead cameras. At the box filled with pieces of myself I thought were gone. Then at the stranger sitting across from me.

Except he doesn't feel like a stranger. Maybe that's the most frightening thing of all. I still don't know his name. I don't know where I am. I don't know what tomorrow looks like.

But somehow, sitting in a strange bedroom with my old green sweater clutched against my chest, I feel more like myself than I have in months.

And the man who gave those pieces back to me is the same one I was convinced had betrayed me only minutes ago.

Chapter 34

Keaton (Skee)

I don't know what I'm feeling. Normally, that would bother me.

Everything has a cause. A pattern. An explanation that can be pulled apart and examined until it makes sense. Even emotions, despite what Rachel likes to claim, are nothing more than chemical responses to external stimuli.

This should be easy. It isn't.

Maeve is sitting on the edge of the bed with the green sweater pressed against her chest, running her fingers over one frayed cuff as though she's making sure it's real. Every few seconds, she reaches into the box and pulls out something else, and each time she does, another piece of the woman I've been watching for months seems to come back to life.

A faded black T-shirt makes her laugh. Actually laugh. She holds it up in front of her, shaking her head.

"I wore this until my mother threatened to burn it."

I glance at the cracked lettering across the front. "Your mother sounds violent."

Maeve's eyes lift to mine. "She hated this shirt."

"Still seems like an extreme response."

"It has holes."

"Ventilation."