“Drew, she’s crazy. Call someone.”
Chelsea’s voice bombards my eardrums, and yes, I’m crazy. I’m mad. I’m seconds away from losing all touch with reality. My peripheral wavers, blackening at the edges.
I have to leave.
I have to get safe.
My feet are taking me to the car, although I can’t remember moving. Time is skipping. The sordid truth is circling my mind like a murky drain, seeking a way out, an escape.
I ease behind the wheel and, when I calm my erratic breathing, I snap the band around my wrist to center myself. I feel the sting. I blink away the wetness from my eyes. Then I crank the car.
Drew and Chelsea watch me drive away. I glimpse them one last time in the review mirror before I focus on the road ahead.
The first drops of rain plink the windshield.
The rain has finally come.
26
Downpour
Lakin: Now
Silver Lake Memorial is forty-five minutes away from Drew’s new home. I don’t need the sedan’s navigation to direct me there, but I programmed the route anyway. The robotic voice dictating directions is a strange comfort. Keeping me from getting lost in my own thoughts.
Every time I gain a moment of composure, I fall into a memory: Drew’s echoing voice bouncing around the lecture hall. His lecture on false memory.
The phenomenon is more common than most think. Especially for trauma patients. I can recite the textbook definition word for word. I know it’s real…and yet, I’m struggling to accept false memory as what’s happened to me.
I need verifiable proof.
A hospital file directly from the source. Not one doctored to keep a secret.
Because that’s the only explanation that I can reason.
Before I make that painful call to my parents, I want proof. Like a good detective needs evidence before they issue an arrest, I have to have chain of evidence in place. And my prime suspect pinned without doubt.
As I stand at the entrance to the hospital, the rain beats down, drenching my clothes. My phone vibrates in my jacket pocket, and I wipe the soaked strands from my face as I pull the phone free.
Rhys’s name illuminates the dark screen.
A hollow ache collects around my heart. I send the call to voicemail and walk through the glass doors.
By the time the receptionist has paged the doctor to meet with me, I’ve worked myself into an emotional state to match my wrecked appearance. For me, that’s a rare state, and I’m trembling when Dr. Lawrence approaches.
“Do you remember me?” I ask.
Dark hair streaked with silver, bronzed skin lacking the wrinkles to match his age, he’s just as I remember him. That memory is unaffected.
He tilts his head, studying me. “I do, Ms. Marks. How can I help you?”
I swallow the ache. “Why did you doctor the hospital file of my attack? Who asked you to do it?”
I learned this technique from Rhys. Most people want to tell the truth, if you give them a way to pass the blame. Ask the question you want answered, then show them the way to deny culpability.
For Dr. Lawrence, this tactic may not work. His intelligent gaze narrows in confusion. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what—”
“I was pregnant at the time of my attack,” I interrupt. “When I recovered, I wasn’t. I’ve read my chart. Many times. There is no mention of a pregnancy.” Tell me I’m not crazy. “So, I was either pregnant, or I wasn’t. Which one is it?”