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I try to spot my fallen water bottle, but it seems long gone. I rise, patting the front pocket of my jeans to make sure my slim wallet is still in place.
“Anyone need a refill?”
My offer is half-hearted, and the three men shake their heads. I hurry up the aisle and into the wide hallway at the top of the section. I commit the number to memory, then laugh. My memory is the least reliable thing about me these days.
What I should do is take a picture of it. I’ve been taking pictures of everything in an effort to burn the images into my mind. Sometimes things go like sand through a sieve. Thomas seems to be getting more concerned by the week at the things I forget. He’s mentioned taking me back to the doctor, although he hasn’t acted on that yet.
I get a water and lean against the wall, taking slow, deep breaths like the therapist recommended.
Three months ago, I woke up in a New York hospital with my memory wiped clean. I had seventeen stitches in my head. Fortunately, they didn’t shave my hair off. There were other injuries related to the incident. But my amnesia was—andis—the most pressing.
The doctor said I was lucky I retained my functions. Remembering how to eat, how to walk. All okay. Even though sometimes, I trip over my words. Like my tongue is too big for my mouth. Or I just forget words entirely.
That’s getting better. It’s almost nonexistent anymore.
Besides my head, I had a horizontal cut across my throat. A broken forearm and dislocated shoulder. Bruises in the shape of handprints on my upper arms. Two cracked ribs. I overheard doctors speculating about my injuries. Like I was hit by a car, then someone tried to finish the job.
Someone wanted me dead… and they failed.
An investigator was brought in, but I had nothing to offer. I still have nothing to offer.
They managed to find a relative who would return their phone call. The social worker vetted him, and a month after I woke up there, I was released into Thomas’s care.
What a strange thing, to go with someone I didn’t recognize. But apparently, we weren’t close pre-amnesia. We couldn’t have been because he has little to offer about my past. Even about my parents, he’s been tight-lipped.
Taking me to New York City has been the closest thing to touching something that should be familiar. Because otherwise, I’ve been out of my depth and waiting for my memories to come back, but so far? Nothing.
I can’t go back to my seat. I drain half of my water and wipe my mouth, forgetting the lipstick. It was a gift from Thomas’s wife, Natalie. The pink smears across the back of my hand. I swear under my breath and set off down the hall, searching for napkins or a bathroom.
“Melody.”
I stop and turn around.
A boy stands in the hallway, wearing a white-and-blue jersey like Thomas’s. His hands are stuck in his pockets, his stance relaxed. I don’t know why I automatically take a step back.
“Melody Cameron,” he repeats.
That’s my name. I’ve repeated it to myself a thousand times since I woke up.
I frown. “Do I know you?”
He pauses. Considers me.
Do I know him?
My heart picks up speed. He’s younger than me by at least a decade, so we wouldn’t have been at school together. College, high school—none of that. Maybe through work?
“Jacob wanted me to bring you down.” He clears his throat. “To, uh, talk to you.”
“Is he the hockey player?”
The guy’s brows furrow. “Yeah…”
I was just saying to Thomas that I wanted to talk to him.Jacob. If he sent this guy to find me, he clearly knows me—so what better time to find some damn answers? Maybe he can tell me more than my illustrious cousin.
“Okay.” I gesture around me. “Lead the way.”
He doesn’t tell me his name, but I turn over Jacob’s in my mind. Like a key for a puzzle I’m desperate to solve… but he doesn’t fit either. I cast one look over my shoulder for the section, but it’s already fluttered out of my mind. I’ll have to tuck my tail between my legs and text Thomas later, asking him where we sat. To remind me of something I should’ve held on to.
