“The state has given you the name Sarah Jones until such a time as you remember.” Sitting awkwardly by my bed, he patted my knee.
I hissed between my teeth. That was my right knee. My toasted knee.
“Shit, sorry!” He hunched in his chair, keeping his hands to himself.
His fear of a girl wrapped up like an Egyptian mummy made the terribleness of my situation become humorous. I laughed softly. “It’s okay.” Tilting my head to study him, I asked, “Why are you here? Why is an FBI agent telling me this?”
Detective Davidson swallowed nervously. “I’m no good at delivering news subtly, so I’m just going to come out and say it. We have reason to believe the accident was intentional. Some evidence has come to light that makes us suspect you were the victim of an attempted homicide and until such a time as you remember, to bring whoever did this to justice, we are placing you in protective custody. We aren’t going to advertise that you’re alive, or ask for people to come forward until we know who to trust.”
“You’re arresting me?”
A smile twitched his lips, his brown short hair military precise on his head. “No, we’re giving you a new life, away from here.” Leaning forward, he said, “This is an opportunity to create a life you’ve always wanted, live in a country you’ve never visited, all while being watched over by us. As you’re under eighteen, you’ll be placed with a foster family until you come of legal age, but you can decide where you want to go. We normally give you a plan, a name, and a job to uphold as your new identity, but in this case you can choose.”
My lungs worked harder, still aching from smoke inhalation. “What—what are you saying?”
Detective Davidson patted the file on his legs. “This, Sarah Jones, is your new life.”
“I don’t want a new life. I want my old one.”
His shoulders rolled. “The doctors said they’d talked to you. You’re suffering what’s known as psychogenic amnesia. It’s an act of self-preservation.”
Tears pressed harder at being held hostage by my own mind. “But I’m ready to remember. I’m strong enough to understand.”
Detective Davidson smiled sadly. “The doctors can explain again what it means, but it doesn’t work that way. These things are very rare. Your repressed memories may be recovered spontaneously, or decades later. You might smell a particular smell and a memory will come back. Or you might hear a favorite song and everything will unlock. Because it’s psychological, psychogenic amnesia can sometimes be helped by therapy. But we need to plan for the worst.”
“Which is?” I whispered.
“That you might never remember. Like I said, it’s very rare, but a possibility. We have to move forward.”
I wanted to scream. And rage. And cry.
Not only was my body damaged but my mind, too.
Clearing his throat, Detective Davidson said, “Without thinking about the answers, tell me… what would be your ultimate profession once you finish school?”
“A vet.”
I blinked. That had come from nowhere. I went deathly still, hoping to God that my memory was coming back.
“And where would you live, if you had any choice?”
“England.”
My mouth plopped open. Why there? The answer had come to me but no reasoning whatsoever.
Detective Davidson smiled, taking notes in his file. “In that case, Sarah Jones, we will do everything in our power to give you a new life with a family in England, and enroll you in subjects to ensure a career as a veterinary surgeon. It will take some time to iron out the details, but we’ll get started on the necessary paperwork.”
This was happening too fast. Too sudden.
“Paperwork?”
He grinned, showing crooked teeth. “Yes, a new passport, new social security card—a new beginning.” His eyes softened. “You will rise from this and be safe in a completely new world. And then, when you’re older and perhaps remember, we’ll find justice for what happened to you.”
It wasn’t until after hundreds of questions—most of which I couldn’t answer—that I was finally left alone to go over what had happened.
Whoever I’d been up until that moment was gone.
I was about to be reborn.
I was about to disappear forever.
My knees buckled a little as the memory ended. That had been the day my life as Cleo Price had ended. It’d been the worst feeling imaginable to be a prisoner inside my own mind—to be barricaded from people who could’ve helped me.
Then there was Corrine.
She wasn’t just a friend like I’d thought.
She was my sister.
“Nice to meet you.”
I looked up from lugging my bag through the terminal toward the exit. There, in front of me, was a girl with blonde short hair and vibrant blue eyes. She was alive. Where I was dead.
Behind her stood a man and woman, both smiling nervously.
“Do I know you?” The constant fear that I knew people and offended them by not remembering had become the bane of my life. I worried constantly if someone smiled my way or waved in my direction.
Did I know them?
Did I love them once?
“No, you don’t. But we know about you. You’re coming to live with us.” Bouncing in place, she snatched my suitcase and enveloped me in a hug. “I’ve always wanted a sister. We’re going to school together and I want to be a vet, too! How awesome is this?”
My heart died all over again. This was my foster family. An unwanted surrogate to a home I couldn’t recall.
When I didn’t reply, the father murmured, “Don’t be afraid. Detective Davidson has cleared it all. You’re already enrolled in the finest school, and we’ll take you down to the station to meet your contact early next week.”
I never took my eyes off my suitcase. I hated strangers touching it. Inside held nothing I remembered, only brand-new clothes purchased for Sarah Jones, not whoever I’d been. But it was the only thing I owned. The only thing I had to be protective of.
“I don’t need a new family.” I needed to be left alone. Alone in the dark so my memories might find me.
Corrine looped her arm through mine. “You’re right, you don’t need help. ’Cause you’ve got me.” Dragging me unwillingly from the terminal and into watery sunshine, she sighed happily. “Welcome to England, Sarah. I have a feeling we’re going to get along stupendously.”
She was right.
After the first few weeks of crying myself to sleep and the uncertainty of learning to live again with a blank mind, I slowly found happiness.
I was able to heal while studying biology and English.
I was able to stop obsessing over a past I might never remember and become healthier in heart and mind.
Corrine became my entire world.
My heart panged to think I’d left her behind so easily.
She’d given me back the will to live; she hugged me when I broke and celebrated with me when I excelled. Yet the moment the letter arrived hinting I might finally, after all this time, find the truth, I left her without a good-bye.
I ignored the voice that said it was stupid to chase after something that should remain buried.
I hadn’t dared tell her why I was going—just in case she told the officers handling my file. I’d left her a cowardly note, given notice at my job at Precious Pets, withdrew my meager savings, and booked a one-way ticket to America.
But of course she’d somehow found out my plan and tracked me down at the airport.
She hadn’t tried to stop me, though.
Out of everyone, she understood the most why I had to leave. Why I had to search for the green-eyed boy I’d never gotten over.
I’d jumped headfirst into danger.
“You ready?” Arthur snapped into my musing.
The residual emotions of being so alone and afraid refused to unclaw themselves from my heart. I ached with lonely emptiness that I’d lived with for eight long years. No matter how many new memories I made, no matter how many experiences I lived, I’d never shed the desolation of not having a past.
My stomach rolled at the thought of living a life without him. Eight years had been interminable—forever would’ve destroyed me.
His eyes blazed into mine, focused on solving the break-in and delivering justice. He was my protector, lover, and best friend. As long as I was with him, everything would work out.
“Yes, I’m ready.” Smoothing down my black blouse and skinny dark jeans, I followed him to the garage and his awaiting motorcycle.
I blinked up at Florida Penitentiary for the second time.
Nerves skittered down my spine. “What are we doing back here?”
Arthur grabbed my hand. Striding toward the imposing correctional facility, he replied, “Going to see him.”
“Him who?”
“You know who. The man who gave me everything when others took it all away.”
My heart skipped a beat at the hatred and guilt in his tone.
I jerked on his hand, pulling him to a stop. “Tell me. Here and now. Tell me what happened to you. Why were you in prison? The truth this time.”
I wished I’d had time and access to the Internet. I would’ve done a search—I would’ve looked up his criminal record to find out just what he continued to hide.