Graham, who is apparently my husband, emerges from the bathroom just as I finish reading the letter I wrote to myself. It’s the second letter from myself—the first just explained about my accident, but this second one has a more ominous tone. He stands over me, waiting to hear what I have to say. But I don’t know what to say. Last night, I fell asleep next to Harry Finch, happy in the knowledge that I was going to spend the rest of my life with him.
Now I’m reading a letter to myself, talking about all the ways he betrayed me.
“I’m sorry.” Graham sits beside me. He looks casually handsome in a pair of slacks and a checkered shirt. Maybe more handsome than Harry was—it’s hard to compare the two because they look so different. “I know the last thing you remember is being happy with him. I hate to show you this, but you need to know. I don’t want him to fool you again.”
The paper crumbles in my hands. “Right…”
“It’s Saturday,” he says. That’s comforting, because the night Harry proposed to me was Friday. So it doesn’t feel like I’ve lost more than one night. One night and seven years. “I have some work to do in my office here, but maybe we can spend some time together later. We can go see a movie or take your dog to the park.”
“I have a dog?”
He smiles at me. Graham has a nice smile. He seems like a kind man—I’m lucky I have him. “Yes. I bought him for you after your accident.”
A lump forms in my throat. Graham and I obviously had a good life together before my accident. My fingers go to the right side of my skull, where I felt a dull ache when I woke up. Under the strands of my hair, I feel a thick scar running over the skin in the shape of a C.
“They had to do surgery,” he explains, watching me. “They had to drain the blood.”
At his explanation, I feel mildly ill the way I do when anything medical is discussed. I almost want to put my fingers in my ears and start singing to shut out anything else he needs to say.
“Why don’t you go take a shower?” Graham suggests. “It always makes you feel better.”
I nod, glad he doesn’t want to share more details about my horrible accident. I remain on the bed for another minute, watching the man who claims to be my husband leave the room. I don’t understand it. I would’ve thought even if I lost my memory, I would still remember my own husband. Why don’t I remember him? He’s obviously telling the truth. There are pictures of the two of us all over the dresser. There’s even a wedding photo.
I rise from the bed and pick up the wedding photo. The frame is heavy and feels expensive. I look at the couple in the photograph—they look so young and happy, with so many good years ahead of them. I run my fingers over the glass, tracing the array of cracks, distorting the image. I suppose it must have fallen at some point and we never got around to replacing it.
In the scheme of things, it’s trivial. But there’s something ominous about the effect: Graham and I, holding hands, me in a wedding dress and him in a tuxedo, with a giant crack slashing our faces in two.
I replace the photo on the dresser and make my way to our beautifully renovated bathroom. Harry and I had such grand plans for that bathroom, and it’s gorgeous, but nothing like the way we would have done it. I can’t imagine us installing a bidet, for starters. Harry would have laughed if I even suggested it.
Not that there’s anything wrong with a bidet. I’ve heard they’re quite nice. We just weren’t bidet kind of people. Maybe Graham is though.
I close the door to the bathroom behind me. I start to turn the lock, but then realize the lock is gone. We did have a lock—that part I remember. Why would I have gotten it removed?
Well, it doesn’t matter. I don’t need a lock on the bathroom door.
I remember the words in the first of the two letters I read—the one that explained about my accident. Some previous version of myself warned me not to panic. Just accept my situation and try to make the best of it. I suppose that’s all I can do in this situation. I live in a beautiful house and I have a husband who cares about me. It could be much worse.
I pull my nightshirt over my head. I drop it on the lid of the toilet, then I pull down my underwear. But as I look down, I notice something on my upper thigh. Something written in pen. My eyes widen as I read the words placed there for me alone to read.
Find Harry.
And then a phone number.
Chapter 40
I have very little privacy.
When Graham told me he would work most of the day, I assumed I would be alone on the first floor of the house. I was wrong. A woman named Camila showed up at breakfast time, and after the meal was over, she cheerily started cleaning the living room. She is the “cleaning woman,” but it’s increasingly obvious her actual job is to keep an eye on me.
Which means it’s not easy to reach out to the phone number I found scribbled on my leg.
After I saw that message on my leg, I didn’t know who to trust. There was an entire letter I wrote to myself, in my own handwriting, warning me about Harry Finch. But the message on my own skin superseded that. The message on my leg was meant for my eyes only.
And what it comes down to is that I know I can trust Harry. I don’t believe he did anything terrible to me. He would never.
I just need to find a time to call him. When nobody will overhear.