our home with the awareness that I was driving toward my own death… Weary and distraught, I wrecked the car into a giant oak.
When I awoke, I had no memory of Malcolm’s victims or his attack on me. The accident masked my injuries as well as his, and the officials documented the entire incident as a tragic accident.
I left Mize, Mississippi shortly afterward to pursue a grant for a college education. Sixteen was young, yes—but as I homeschooled myself and graduated early, I had nothing—no family, no friends—to tether me to that life.
The rest, as they say, was history.
Clear. Concise. Easy to recite. No holes in my story unless you know where to look.
I was analyzed by an FBI psychologist who deemed the trauma of both the attack and the wreck had repressed the truth of the horrific events. I even underwent a brain scan that revealed lesions on my right and left frontal lobes may have developed due to moderate-to-dramatic brain injury during the accident, further backing my story of repression and exonerating me of any malicious connections to Malcolm or Grayson.
Frontal lobe damage. The areas of the brain that control behavior, judgment, and impulse control. Not to mention sexual conduct. A neurologist would have a field day dissecting me.
Yet, had the Mize investigating officers done their due diligence and questioned the evidence to confront me, I might have recovered my memories sooner. Rather, I had to suffer through another horrific event for the truth to be revealed.
This is what’s documented in my file. The report stamped and sealed in an FBI manila folder. The electronic data protected by a government security system.
With the discovery of the missing dead girls, and the small population of Mize traumatized by their late, beloved Sheriff Noble becoming a grotesque fiend, Agent Nelson and his superiors felt there was no need to enlighten the press with details that won’t 1) hinder the investigation, and 2) turn the media into more of a circus than it already is.
They have their hands full with analyzing the remains of nine young women and the manhunt for an escaped serial killer. As long as all the pieces connect neatly, their puzzle of me is complete.
Grayson saw to it that my puzzle connected neatly.
“You should’ve told me,” I say, breaking the prolonged silence.
Nelson tucks his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “You’re right. I apologize. You should’ve been made aware of Sullivan’s vicinity to you.” He glances my way. “I made that call. I felt you were under enough stress.”
Chivalry was not his motive. Being unaware of Grayson made me a sitting target the FBI could use. How many agents are watching me right now?
“You handled that well…back there,” Nelson says as we near the steps of my building. “Once the dust settles, maybe you could write a book. Tell your whole story.”
I bow my head, give it a slight shake. “No. I’ve relived my story enough already. Whatever is still buried there—” I tap my temple “—I’d rather not provoke it.”
When I look up, the creases around his eyes are softer. His gaze understanding. “And when you get the call about your sister?”
My chest rises as I force air into my lungs. “If…when you discover her identity, I’ll honor her memory properly. I’ll bury her remains.”
But that’s not what he’s asking. Once her identity is revealed, so is mine. I’ll know who I was before Malcolm stole me, and who my parents were. The question of whether or not they’re still alive was answered after the first week.
There were plenty of claims made by attention seekers. People stepping forward to declare me as their long-lost child. Or those who maintained they knew my parents.
None of those leads resulted in any truth. Whoever my parents were, wherever they are, they’re no longer alive. I feel sure of this. The false claims just muddied the investigation and pushed me further down the rabbit hole.
I’ve been steadily climbing out of that hole.
I am London Grace Noble.
My dead sister…my deceased parents… They hold no bearing over who I am. The mind does not accept an alternate reality; two lives cannot exist in one form. The life I’ve lived will not suddenly upend the moment I discover the name given to me by my biological parents.
I was raised by a man that I knew as my father, who—for all intents and purposes—was good to me until the moment I uncovered his evil secret. Though looking back now, I can clearly discern discrepancies my adolescent mind found no fault with, at the time, it was a normal life.
No one knows the absolute truth about anyone.
As we age, we become more and more limited with the degree in which we can change. At my current age, my personality and mindset are firmly in place. The discovery of my roots will do little to alter my existence.
With a hesitant hand, Nelson swipes loose strands from my eyes. “That’s too bad. You’d write a riveting story. Full of big words and psych terms no one could follow.”
I allow a small laugh to bubble up. This is what’s expected of a woman attracted to a man. She flatters him by indulging his sense of humor.