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She looked down at the phone in her hands. It felt tainted, knowing he’d actively violated her privacy.

“Restore it.” She held out the phone between them. “Put it all back.”

Bishop blinked, eyes locked on the phone. But he didn’t move.

“Not sorry enough to fix it then,” Molly concluded. “You’re awful. And you should leave.” The opposite of a shout, her voice was barely audible.

Bishop’s chest expanded on a deep, slow breath. He gave a stiff nod. Which was good, because Molly wasn’t sure what she would have done if he’d refused to go. She didn’t know how much longer she could hold herself together.

“I can’t leave entirely. I’ll sleep on the sofa. Since it’s already getting late, I’ll, uh—the right side of the bed is yours.”

He didn’t wait for a response, turning and closing the door with a soft click. A full, haunted minute passed before Molly heard his footsteps retreat.

Now alone, the bedroom still felt just as cramped as the rest of the apartment, and more unsettling.

This was where she’d woken the other morning, already having suffered one brain bleed in her sleep, only to have another greet her upon waking.

An enormous bed, far too big and luxurious for the space, sat unmade against the middle of the far wall, draped in navy sheets and a cozy, downy comforter. There were two more overflowing bookcases nearby, the massive armoire Molly had tripped against, a separate dresser, two nightstands, a settee (honestly, a settee?), and a door to what Molly assumed was the closet.

She walked to the dresser and braved a look in the attached mirror.

Six years. A body and a face she both knew and didn’t. A life that was meant to be hers but wasn’t.

Six years from a distance looked like nothing at all. But up close . . .

Several faint, fine lines had begun carving a path at the corners of her eyes.

Her cheeks were slightly fuller than she was used to, and her body carried more weight around her hips, thighs, and stomach.

Her hair was longer, frizzy auburn braid reaching her bust.

A jagged silver scar ran along the inside of her right palm, almost invisible.

And then there was the dull throb in her left leg. More of an ache. Not necessarily painful, but present.

She had dark circles under her eyes, but time had nothing to do with those.

Molly unbraided her hair. It felt the same. She felt the same. But she couldn’t deny the differences between this body and the one she remembered.

She eyed the bed, zeroing in on the stacks of books on each nightstand. Bishop had said the right side of the bed was hers, but curiosity drove her to the left, wanting to know what he kept nearby. On his nightstand sat a chemistry periodical, two men’s fashion magazines, a fantasy novel that looked genuinely fascinating, and The Count of Monte Cristo sitting atop them all.

Molly’s brows furrowed. She had no control over the tiny spasm in her hand as she reached for that topmost book, flipping it open to the inside cover. Her heart twisted. Printed in the carefully practiced script of a proud preteen was her own name.

Her dad had given her The Count of Monte Cristo for Christmas when she was twelve. She’d liked it at first because it was a big book, the kind of book adults were impressed she could read. But eventually, it became a kind of personal memento, always in her backpack, accompanying her to Roy’s games and on camping trips with her dad. She loved the story, but it was the comfort of its companionship that kept her coming back to it, occupying idle time with the hunt for a devastating quote on any given page, or taking notes on the passages she thought might finally convince Roy to give it a try.

There was something ironic, she thought, about its persistent presence now that she felt like something of a prisoner in her own life, shackled to choices she didn’t remember making and doing her damnedest to survive them.

She held the book to her chest, only briefly debating before she brought it to the other side of the bed with her. Her nightstand also held a small collection of books, the titles for which she couldn’t bring herself to read. The idea of picking up any one of them and carrying on like normal sent a gurgle of dread through her. Wherever she’d been in the process of reading these was lost to her now. She moved the entire stack to the floor and replaced them with her folder of hospital papers and The Count of Monte Cristo.

Exhausted, she climbed to sit on the bed, back against the headboard. Pawntès immediately joined her, curling into a ball on the pillow beside her.

Restlessness thrummed inside her chest. There was too much to take in. Too much to learn, or relearn, about her own life. Simply too much.

She dragged in a deep breath, forcibly unclenching anxiety’s squeeze on her lungs, and picked one thing to focus on: her discharge paperwork.

She flipped the massive folder open, ignored the strain behind her eyes, and willed herself to focus. She’d been told to make peace with concentration fatigue for some time, but she refused to let it dictate her life.

She reviewed the results of all the testing they’d done at the hospital. Words like hemorrhage and trauma and amnesia mocked her in black and white. As did other, even more frightening words listed under differential diagnoses like seizure and stroke.