Page 89 of Hate You Most

“Come on,” Viktoriya said. “Isn’t there just one thing you could tell me?”

She sighed heavily on the other line. “Do you promise that it'll go off the record then, and won't end up online?”

“I promise.”

“The NDAs talked about how I wouldn’t talk about the crash publicly. That I wouldn’t sue anyone involved and that I wouldn’t discuss any unusual experiences I might've had.”

Viktoriya stared at the far wall of the hotel room. “Unusual experiences?”

“Yeah.”

A chill ran down her spine, and Viktoriya had to stop herself from letting the fear be heard in her voice. This was no different than being judged on the ice at competitions. She was neutral and it would remain that way.

“And you signed them?”

Oaklyn let out a tired laugh. “They offered me enough money to buy a new house and a new car.”

Viktoriya did not respond.

Her voice softened. “I just wanted it to go away—I just want to heal and start to feel like myself again.”

The room fell silent.

Viktoriya looked down at the articles of the three crashes spread across her bed. Three different accidents, four affected people—all with rumored relationships that weren't allowed in her home country.

The police were just dismissing it as another tragic accident. They hadn't cared to notice that all the victims were from the same country, or had the same rumors following them, or that they were all in some way in the public light.

“Oaklyn,” she said carefully, “do you still remember the car?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“You said it was pacing you, right? Like it was the same distance behind you for a while, even though it could have easily passed you?”

“Yeah,” she answered and finally she asked, “Why are you really looking into this? I’ve talked to plenty of reporters before, and they usually ask about my movies or upcoming projects. Lately they've only asked about recovery, or about the hospital, or how scary it must be to not remember things. What they don't ask,” she said. “Is if someone was following my car, or if I remember the car crash I was in.”

Viktoriya closed her eyes briefly.

“You’re asking like you already know something,” Oaklyn added.

The hotel room was suffocating her from the inside. Viktoriya realized she had two choices: keep the lie going or tell the truth.

Slowly, she exhaled. “I’m not a journalist,” she said.

On the other end of the line, Oaklyn went completely quiet.

“My name is Viktoriya Volkova,” she continued. “I was in a car crash three months ago.”

A faint sound of movement came through the phone, like Oaklyn sat up suddenly.

“The articles say our accidents are similar,” Viktoriya went on. “They say we both lost our memories, but I've been able to remember small fragments since the crash.”

“Wait,” Oaklyn said. “You’re that Viktoriya? The Olympic champion?”

“Yes.”

Another long pause.

“How the hell did you get my phone number?” she asked.