An idea hits me and I snatch my journal from the nightstand, scoop up my supplies, and head into the bathroom, making a beeline for the closet. Once I’m in there, I set everything on the bench in the center and then glance around the room, finding a section of Kayden’s clothes with a little extra space. With my wardrobe small at this point, I quickly move my things to his section, pausing momentarily to savor the sight of our things hanging together. I’ve never shared a life with anyone. Of this I am certain. I want to share this life with Kayden. That was never in question, but now it is for him. And no wonder, really. Everything in his life is danger, questions, problems. Closing the door to my questions, remembering everything, is something that isn’t just for me. It’s for him.
Turning to face the area where my clothes no longer hang, I note the concrete wall and decide tape is a good idea. I go to work and start creating a map. The hotel. A restaurant I remember passing. Various places that strike the familiar, if not true, memories. But I have no immediate flashbacks, and a good hour later, when everything is where I want it, even the recreation of the alleyway still provokes nothing more than feelings and random glimpses of non-useful images in my mind. I sit down and set my phone next to me, picking up my journal and a pen, thinking I might jot down thoughts. Instead, I stare at the place where one of the pages was torn, willing myself to remember tearing it out, but I just can’t.
Grabbing my phone again, and thankful that at some point Kayden keyed in a list of important contacts that includes Matteo, Marabella, Nathan, and Adriel for me, I pull up Matteo’s number but hesitate. He’s just so darn sensitive about any suggestion anyone could get past his safeguards. I start to dial Adriel when I spot and laugh at the name “Sasha the Great” that she must have inserted herself sometime tonight. But I hesitate again. Something tells me she and Adriel are a little busy right now.
Matteo it is, I decide, but I bypass the call and settle on the less offensive text message question: Any word on the security concerns I had?
He replies almost instantly: Aside from a ghost or two I can’t get rid of, you’re safe.
I blink and laugh at his joke. Ghosts? Well, I have always thought the castle was haunted. I set my phone down and pick it back up, fighting an urge to type: Are you 100% sure? But that would really agitate him and he’s good at what he does. I know this.
I set the phone down firmly. There isn’t a security problem, anyway. There’s a me problem, and a little thing called blackouts. Why is my mind still protecting me, after that flashback in the club and then today? Just give me back everything and let me get it over with!
I study the wall before me, the images in full color and with street views, and I decide to start with the hotel in Paris. And just like that I’m in the hotel room, and things come to me as memories, not a flashback. This makes me smile. I see the room. The bed. The chair. The fight with David and the moment after he leaves the room, when I yank off the necklace in anger.
“Ah, damn it,” I murmur as it falls to the floor. ”Sometimes I get way too into character.”
I blink. “Way too into character? What does that mean?”
It has to mean I’m CIA, but I still find no memory that solidifies that for me. My hand flattens on the hotel photo. I remember leaving, with a hat and glasses on, then discreetly searching for an address that has nothing to do with David. I inhale and let it out. I used David, who was good-looking and full of himself and clearly using me as well, to get to Paris so that the CIA wouldn’t suspect I was following a lead about my father’s death.
“I’m remembering,” I whisper. Hoping this means I can remember what I did with the necklace, I move on to the image of the chocolate shop. I see myself go inside. I feel like that moment is important. I need to go to the security room and get online.
I turn around and Kayden steps into the doorway, his entrance having evaded my knowledge for the consumption of my memories. He pauses there, his holster gone, dark stubble on his square jaw that tells of the incredibly long day we’ve had. His hair is mussed up, as if he’s been running his fingers through it, which would imply he was fretting. A hint of being out of control that he never allows himself.
“Hi,” I say. “I made a memory wall and—”
I never finish the sentence. In a blink he’s in front of me, his hands on my waist, walking me against that wall of locations that may or may not have played a role in bringing us here to this moment in time.
“I ordered the murder of five people in that meeting today, Ella.”
“I know. I was there.”
“The assassination.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because this is my life. This is who I am—”
“When forced.”
“I don’t hesitate to do what is necessary.”
“To save lives.”
“I ordered the murder of five people,” he repeats. “Why are you okay with this, Ella?”
“Because some people are built for this kind of life—like you are. Because I’m my father’s daughter, and you’re your father’s son.”
“Your father could not have wanted this life for you.”
“My father wanted me to be fearless.”
“I told you on the porch that proposing to you was selfish. I wanted you with me. That’s all that was on my mind.”
“Wanted? As in past tense? I didn’t decline.”
“This is where I should tell you that proposal is void, past tense.” His fingers flex at my waist. “This is where I told myself that loving you means getting you the hell out of here. This is where I promised myself I wouldn’t be selfish.”