“Is she okay?” Allen whispered, and Silas’s hold on her eased, both the arms he had wrapped around her and the mind he had entwined with hers. Her heart ached as he let go. She was alone. She’d done it to herself.
“That depends,” Silas said, and the cool air of a deserted bar touched her skin where there’d once been warmth. His arms slipped away, and she huddled on the floor where he left her. The scrape of his shoes on the yellow floor serrated through her as he went to get her coat and draped it over her. “Give her a minute to catch up.”
Catch up. That was a good idea. She felt as if she’d been away for a long time and had come home to find everything changed. She was the one who was different, the truth making her feel ugly and ashamed. Forehead on her knees, she wondered what she was going to do now.
Tilting her face, she saw Allen and Silas sitting on the hearth. Silas’s back was bowed in fatigue or sorrow, or maybe both, she couldn’t quite tell. Allen looked guilty. Did he know she remembered him? Did he know she knew about the year they’d been together, the three of them planning and agreeing to this? That she’d asked him to destroy all memory of it?
“Thank you,” Allen said raggedly. “That construct you put in her felt self-aware.”
“It was.” Silas didn’t look at her. “There were enough latent memories of Jack for it to be fully realized. It had to be for it to be flexible enough to keep her sane until the memory could be defragmented. It’s gone now.”
What kind of monster am I that I could have given up on love so easily? For glory? They remembered her, and all she had was disjointed images. But if not for them, she’d still be Opti. She would have continued to accept the lies she’d molded about herself, be what Opti said she was. She was the sum of what she’d done, and she’d done so much that was ugly and wrong.
Exhaling, she pulled her head up, knowing she must look hideous with her hair mussed and her eyes red. “Jack is gone,” she said, edging up to sit on the low hearth, feeling his absence to her core, shivering as she recalled his breath on her neck, the way he made her feel powerful, dangerous—alluring.
Peri was at a loss, not knowing what to do next—not today, tomorrow, next week, or even five minutes from now. When she’d known nothing, she’d had goals and ideas. Now that she knew the truth, she was detached, distant, drifting aimlessly. Numb. Not remembering love.
Silas poked at the fire, and she flushed as she remembered hitting him with the iron. Peri, you’re better at this than me. You want to take a go at it? Had there been firelit nights between them? She didn’t remember any.
“You never would have done any of those things if you’d known the truth,” he said, and a lump filled her throat. It was hollow psychobabble bull. She didn’t believe a word, and anger began to edge out the numb feeling. She had blinded herself. Jack had been right. She’d enjoyed it.
Allen handed her a drink, his phone pressed against his ear. She took it by rote, uncaring. “Yes, she’s fine. A little depressed, but what did you expect?” he was saying, talking to Fran maybe? She’d been the one to okay this long-running, deep-undercover op. Peri still didn’t believe she’d ever been alliance. She must have been someone else five years ago. Naive. Stupid, certainly.
She stiffened at the clank of the fire tools, pulling her coat tighter about herself when Silas sat beside her. “You’re a good person,” he said.
“Am I?” she said bitterly. Her past suggested otherwise, as did the growing ache inside her. She missed it, God help her, she missed it.
He ran a hand over his stubble, his eyes on Allen hunched over his phone and walking away as he talked in a terse, hushed voice. Nudging the door to the back room open, Allen slipped out. The silence grew. Peri’s thoughts went to Silas holding her on the floor. She felt no shame for having fought him. She’d been out of her mind, and he’d known it. “Thank you for fragmenting the timeline.”
Silent, Silas reached into his coat pocket and held out a squat, tattered book. She didn’t reach for it, and after a moment, he set it between them. “I saved this for you,” he said, his voice hiding something. “Along with a box of things you set by for when this was over. It’s all from the year we prepped for this. We have some of your early talismans, too. Your life is not lost. Everything is there. You can remember who you were.”
Her jaw clenched, and she forced it to relax. She picked the book up, feeling the worn leather against her fingertips, knowing how supple it would be if she opened it. But this book wasn’t her. She was so far from it now it would be like looking at someone else. “Thank you, but no,” she said, handing it back.
From the back, Allen’s voice rose in anger, saying, “Screw you, Fran. You know shit.”