Chapter two
Cassie Winchester. Best friend. That was an important term, but just like mother or father, there were no memories or emotions tied to it. I stared at the officers, feeling as if I should show some sort of emotion, but I didn’t know this girl—this Cassie.
The older cop introduced himself as Detective Ramirez, and he proceeded to ask the same questions that everyone had. “Do you know what happened?”
“No.” I watched the liquid in the IV drip into my hand. “What is the last thing you remember?” Deputy Rhode asked.
I lifted my eyes. He had his hands clasped behind his back, and he nodded when my eyes met his. It was such a simple question, and I really wanted to answer it correctly. I needed to. I glanced at my mom. The cool facade was starting to crumble. Her eyes were glistening, lower lip thin and trembling.
My dad cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, can this please wait? She’s been through a lot. And if she knew anything right now, she’d tell you.”
“Anything,” Detective Ramirez said, ignoring my father. “What is the last thing you remember?”
I squeezed my eyes shut. There had to be something. I knew I’d read To Kill a Mockingbird. More than likely, I must’ve done so in class, but I couldn’t picture the school or the teacher. I didn’t even know what grade I was in. This sucked.
Deputy Rhode moved closer, earning a disgruntled look from his partner. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a photo, showing it to me. It was a girl. She actually looked like me. Her hair wasn’t as red as mine, though. It was browner, and her eyes were a startling, beautiful green—much more stunning than my own ... but we could have passed as sisters. “Do you recognize her?”
Frustrated, I shook my head.
“It’s okay if you don’t. The doctor told us it may take a while to come back, and when—”
“Wait!” I jerked forward, forgetting that damn IV. It tugged at my hand, nearly coming loose. “Wait, I remember something.”
My father stepped forward, but the detective warned him off by saying, “What do you remember?”
I swallowed, throat suddenly dry. It was nothing, but I felt as if it was some kind of huge achievement. “I remember rocks— like boulders—and they were smooth. Flat. Colored like sand.” And there was blood, but I didn’t say that, because I wasn’t sure if that was true.
My parents exchanged looks, and Detective Ramirez sighed. My shoulders slumped. Obviously that was a fail.
The deputy patted my arm. “That’s good. That’s really good. We think you were in Michaux State Forest, and that would make sense.”
Didn’t feel good. I stared at my dirty nails, wishing everyone would all go away. But the officers lingered, talking to my parents as if I weren’t capable of comprehending anything they were saying. Cassie’s continued disappearance was major. I got that. And I did feel bad. I wanted to help them find her, but I didn’t know how I could.
I sneaked a peek at them. Detective Ramirez watched me with eyes narrowed in intense, distrustful scrutiny. A shudder rolled down my spine, and I hastily looked away, feeling as if I deserved that look he was giving me.
Like I was guilty of something—something terrible.
Tendrils of fear coated in confusion crawled through me when the strangers—er, my parents—checked me out of the hospital the next day. I couldn’t believe the authorities were just letting me leave with them. What if they weren’t really my parents? What if they were psychos kidnapping me?
I was being ridiculous.
It wasn’t as if random people would claim a seventeen-yearold girl for no reason, which is exactly how old I was. Discovered that when I peeked at my chart at the end of my bed that morning.
My gaze slid to my father’s head of dark hair. An air of influence coated his skin, seeped into everything he touched. I didn’t need to know anything about him to realize that he was powerful.
Tall trees and rolling green hills that were as well manicured as the golf course I’d seen on the TV in my hospital room surrounded the road leading up to their house. We went over one dip in the road, and I saw a cluster of small houses that were cozy.
We drove past them... in our Bentley.
Quickly, I learned that they were rich. Sickeningly rich. It was funny how I didn’t remember squat, but I knew what money looked like.
I kept rubbing the palm of my hand over the supple leather. The car had to be new because it had that crisp, just-manufactured scent.
Then I saw our house. Holy crap, it was the size of a small hotel. An intimidating structure with thick marble columns in the front, rising four or five stories into the sky, and the garage to the left was the size of the houses we’d passed a few moments ago.
“Is this really our house?” I asked when the car rounded a fountain—kind of gaudy—surrounded by foliage in the middle of the wraparound driveway.
Mom glanced back, smiling tightly. “Of course it is, sweetie. You’ve lived here your whole life. So have I. This was my parents’ home.”
“Was?” I asked, curious.
“They’ve moved to Coral Gables.” She paused and took a little breath. “They’re in Florida, honey. This is their family estate.”
Estate. That was a fancy word. My gaze shifted to my dad again, and I realized that Mom had said their and not our. As if the house wasn’t Dad’s home, but it was her family’s.
Pushing that thought aside, I took a deep breath and then planted my face in the window again. Dear god, I lived in this place. Once I got inside the opulent foyer and saw the crystal chandelier that was probably worth more than my life, I suddenly didn’t want to move. Expensive stuff was everywhere. The rug near the grand staircase looked soft. Oil paintings of foreign landscapes graced the buttercream walls. There were so many doors, so many rooms.
My breath was coming out in short, raspy outbursts. I couldn’t move.
Dad placed his hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently. “It’s okay, Sammy, just take it easy.”
I stared into the face of the man I should know. His dark eyes; handsome smile; tough, hard jaw ... There was nothing. My dad was a stranger. “Where is my room?”
He dropped his hand. “Joanna, why don’t you take her upstairs?”
Mom came forward at a slow, measured pace, wrapping her cool hand around my arm. She led me upstairs, chattering about who’d helped search for me. The mayor had taken part, which apparently was a big deal to her, and then the governor had sent our family his prayers.
“Governor?” I whispered.
She nodded and a slight smile pulled at her lips. “Your greatgrandfather used to be a senator. Governor Anderson is a friend of the family.”
I had no idea what to say to that.
My bedroom was on the third floor, at the end of a long hall lit by several wall sconces. My mom stopped in front of a door with a sticker that read this bitch bites.
I started to smile, but then she opened the door and stepped aside. Tentatively, I entered the unfamiliar room, which smelled of peaches, stopping a few feet in.
“I’ll give you a few minutes,” she said, clearing her throat. “I had Scott lay out some of your yearbooks. They’re on your desk when you’re ready. Dr. Weston said they could help.”
Help with finding my file of memories. I nodded, pressing my lips together as I scanned the room. It was big. Like, twenty times bigger than the hospital room. There was a bed in the middle of the room. A pristine white down comforter was tucked in neatly. Several gold-trimmed pillows were placed at the top. A brown teddy bear rested on them, looking out of place in the otherwise sophisticated bedroom.
Mom cleared her throat. I’d forgotten about her. Turning around, I waited. Her smile was pained, awkward. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”
“Okay.”