“I think you’re going to need to find another way.”
“To get my memory back?”
“No, to move on.” With me, you idiot!
“Ever since we came back,” he said, “I’ve had this thought about killing the person who did this. That that would be how I’d be able to move on. Now, with the gun and the body, I’m wondering whether I already did that and still haven’t moved on.”
“You don’t seem like a killer,” she said, and she reached out and took his hand and held it, hard. He didn’t refuse.
“I know. But you don’t know me. I don’t know me.” He pulled his hand away. “I shouldn’t have told you any of that.”
She was about to tell him that he could tell her everything—that she wanted to know his every thought, every flaw—when he said, “I shouldn’t have come here.”
“Why not?”
He stood. “I don’t know. Because of me. I’m messed up. Because of Scarlett. I don’t know. I just need to figure this out. It needs to be with her.”
So this was what life was.
A series of events in which things you care about—the only good things around you—get taken away one by one.
She wouldn’t just allow it.
She stood and got within inches of him, face-to-face. “But you and I are just old friends,” she said, and waited for him to try to deny what was between them. In some mirror universe they were touching, and in this universe their bodies knew it, had some muscle memory of it.
“Avery,” he said. “I can’t.”
She nodded, then walked inside, leaving the lanai door open behind her. She said, “You’re right that you should stop showing up here like this. It’s creepy.”
Scarlett
Scarlett drifted through aisles of bright colors and sparkly displays and bold prints before ending up in a far corner of the fabric store, drawn to a number of vintage prints in muted tones.
She ran a finger across a roll of light-brown fabric with pale-pink stripes running in both directions, like oversize graph paper. She pulled the bolt out of the stand and set out in search of buttons.
And debated between purple and blue before selecting an almost neon aqua.
By the registers, she handed over the fabric and asked for two yards and spun a display of patterns but found none she liked. She’d make her own pattern, maybe using the jacket she’d bought at the outlets with her mother for a guide.
The guard hadn’t mentioned a hood, but she wanted one.
He hadn’t mentioned a subtle pleated fringe down the front but she could see it in her mind’s eye and knew her fingers could make it work.
“Will that be all?” The woman was done cutting.
“And these buttons, please.” Scarlett put them on the counter.
“What are you making?”
“A jacket.”
“You can post pics on my website when you’re done. If you want.”
“Okay,” Scarlett said. “I will.”
“You’ve been in here before, right?”
“No.”
“Really?”
Confused silence that Scarlett then filled: “I’m one of the returned kids. You know, The Leaving.”
“Oh. Right.” She slid the fabric into a bag. “You know how to sew?”
“Yes, we forget where we were, but apparently the part of the brain where you learn things—they call it procedural memory—is intact.”
“I’d like to forget my whole first marriage.” She held up a bag and receipt.
“Wish I could help you with that.” Scarlett grabbed the bag and left.
She was parked a ways down the street and felt a weird sense that someone was following her. Footsteps in pace with hers? Something?
So she turned.
Just people going about their beach business.
No man carrying wrapping paper.
Nothing that looked like wrapping paper.
Nothing.
So she kept walking.
Then stopped and turned again a block later.
Compared the crowd.
Yes, that girl.
Definitely following her.
So she walked straight at her, surprised that the girl stood her ground, didn’t run. “Why are you following me?”
“I was afraid to say . . . I just.”
“You just what?” Scarlett stepped closer.
“I wanted to see you with my own eyes, I guess,” she said.
“Why? Who are you?”
But the girl’s voice was so familiar that Scarlett realized she knew the answer. She’d seen her before, on the news.
The girl said, “I’m Avery. I’m Max’s little sister.”
Lucas
“I wasn’t expecting I’d hear from you again.” Sashor shook Lucas’s hand, and again Lucas didn’t want to let go. But did. They walked down a long hall to his office together. “So, what’s up?” Sashor asked.
They sat—Sashor at his desk, Lucas in a chair in front. A sign on the wall that Lucas hadn’t noticed last time read, THERE’S NO TIME LIKE THE PRESENT
AND NO PRESENT LIKE TIME.
“Have you ever heard of a memory scientist named Daniel Orlean?”
“First I heard of him was from Chambers.”