Page 189 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

I turned to walk away, but his hand caught mine before I’d taken two steps. He pulled me back. “Are you going to the hospital?”

I glared at him, the exhaustion, fear and rage of the last hours sharpening my voice. “You’re not unlocking the door and you’re not giving me the keys, so it’s really not your business where I’m going, is it?”

I tried to pull my hand free. He held on. Drew me closer instead.

“Where are you going?” His voice had softened, stripped of everything but the question.

I looked up, took a deep breath that didn’t help at all, and met his eyes.

“You think Michael’s going to get locked up just like that?” My voice was flat, hard. “No. Someone needs to put him there.” I stepped closer, the words coming faster. “I want to remove that fucking victory glint from his eyes. I want him to feel what Naija felt. Locked in that room, not knowing if she was going to make it out.” I pulled my hand from his and started walking. “For that to happen, I need to go to work.”

His footsteps followed immediately. “We need to go back to the hospital. You need to see Naija.”

I didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. “I’ll see her when she’s back at work.”

“You need to see her now.” His voice was urgent, pleading. “She needs you there.”

“She doesn’t need me.” The words came out sharper than I intended. “Felicity is there. So are the others. She has plenty of people. She doesn’t need me.”

Cassian moved in front of me, blocking my path. I stopped just short of colliding with him.

“Naija needs you.” His voice was soft but insistent. “She wants you there. She’s probably asking for you right now. And you need to see her too, so let’s just—”

“No.” I tried to step around him.

He moved with me. Blocking.

“Alessia.”

“No.” I tried the other side. He was there again.

“Alessia, please—”

“I left!”

The words tore out of me, raw and ragged. I stopped trying to move. Stopped trying to escape. Just stood there, shaking, the truth finally ripping itself free.

He stilled. His eyes went wide.

“She was there.” My voice cracked. “Inside that bathroom. Unconscious. Probably scared out of her mind, not knowing if anyone was coming, not knowing if she was going to—” I couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t say the words.

The image was too sharp. Naija on that bathroom floor, smoke filling her lungs, fighting for air. And me, on my couch, oblivious, comfortable, safe.

A sob caught in my throat. I swallowed it down.

“I fucking left her there, Cassian.”

He stepped forward, hands reaching for my face. “It’s not your fault—”

I stepped back. Away from his touch. Away from the comfort I didn’t deserve.

“Oh, don’t give me that.” The words were sharp, cutting, a blade to keep him at a distance. “I know it wasn’t my fault. I know that. It wasn’t any of our faults.” My voice wavered. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I wasn’t there.”

My heart was a bruise I couldn’t stop pressing on. It ached with every breath, every memory of what I should have done differently. My head throbbed, heavy with guilt and exhaustion and the sickening replay of every moment I’d failed. I pressed my palm to my chest and held it there, as if I could keep myself from cracking open.

“I wasn’t there.” The words were quieter now, meant for myself. “Why would she want me there now? When I wasn’t there when I should have been?”

I looked down at the ground. At the asphalt. At anything but his face. I didn’t want to see pity there. Didn’t want him to tell me I was being ridiculous, that Naija would understand, that everything would be fine. I just wanted to do something. To work. To plan. To be useful in the only way I knew how.