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But I’m stopped by the silver scar on her throat.
I rise suddenly, brushing her hair away. There’s a scar, horizontal across her throat like…
Like someone tried to cut it.
My blood runs cold, and I back off her entirely. I kneel between her spread legs on the couch and inspect the rest of her body with my hands. It isn’t until I get to her head, gently moving my fingers through her hair, that I find the second scar.
It’s longer and jagged, and I grit my teeth to stop myself from doing something stupid. But the rage is back as the pieces—thehowto her amnesia—click into place.
Someone didn’t just try to slit her throat. They wanted to make sure she was dead.
11
MELODY
“Hey, wake up. Natalie’s going to be home soon.”
It takes me a moment to register where I am and who’s talking to me. Thomas perches on the coffee table in front of me, a glass of water in his hand.
I’m on the couch.
I sit up slowly, wincing, and take the glass. The condensation is cold, wetting my hand. I gulp it down.
“Are you feeling okay?” He eyes me carefully. “You’ve been sleeping for a while.”
“Oh.” I frown. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay. It’s just unusual, so…”
I wave him off. “It was a weird day. I’m going to grab a shower before dinner.”
His gaze lingers on me until I’m down the hall and safely tucked into my room, the lock on my doorknob twisted. I feel… off. Like I ran a thousand miles while I slept.
In the two months I’ve lived here, I’ve never fallen asleep during the day. And certainly not on the couch. I don’t even remember falling asleep. One minute I was in the kitchen, finishing off an early lunch, and the next…
I shed my shirt, then pause atthat, too. It’s not the same shirt I dressed myself in this morning. That one is in my laundry basket, right on top. Along with my leggings. I’m in shorts that I never wear.
They’re ones Thomas and Natalie got me when I first moved in. I had no clothes except the scrubs the hospital let me leave in, no possessions at all—not even my memories. They filled in gaps of the physical nature. Toiletries and makeup, clothes and underwear and shoes. At first, it was a poor fit. It’s why I don’t particularly like these shorts, which are stretchy yet snug. They show off too much of my curves and hug my skin too tightly.
In the bathroom, I strip completely—then stop.
Again.
I slap my palm over my mouth to cover my horrified noise. There are marks all down my chest. Little bruises and bites.
Taking stock of the rest of me, I find wetness on my thighs. My fingers run through it, collecting the opaque, thick liquid.
Without having known it before, I would bet that this is semen. On my inner thighs. And the more I explore between my legs, the sorer I realize I am.
And it’s an awful conclusion to come to.
But the tears don’t fall.
Maybe I’m in shock?
I don’t feel anything except a sort of pressure, the need to get out of this house almost violent. I don’t throw up, I don’t cry. I can’t meet my own gaze in the mirror, though. I can’t look at myself and put together what happened.
“Melody? Are you all right?”
