It’s not that I’m a masochist and crave to relive trauma, but having so many unanswered questions and chunks of missing memory is uncomforting as hell.
There has to be a way. It might force me to rehash shit that isn’t all puppies and rainbows, but in the end, if it ties up all the loose ends and pieces together my hazy past, I’ll tolerate it. And maybe, just maybe, it will stop the blackouts.
Hell, I’ve made it this far on my own and run a business that’s not exactly the norm for a female to have. I’ve dealt with assholes who judge a book by its cover—more specifically, judge me by my scars—and am stronger because of it.
Once I’ve changed into a tank top and cotton shorts and slide onto the seat at the tiny kitchen table with a bowl of cereal, I open my laptop, prepared to type in the search bar.
My fingers hover above the keyboard, my eyes trained on the laptop screen. I hesitate to type, but I exhale a long breath and slump back in my chair. Shoveling a spoonful of cereal in my mouth, I chew slowly before reaching for the keys once again.
How to tap into buried memories from traumatic events
I hit enter, and results appear in a blink of an eye. One of the first listed results seems to be spot on.
Self-hypnosis and guided meditation to release repressed memories
I click on it, and it leads me to an article illustrating how a person can do this on their own. Devouring each word frantically while I distractedly eat my cereal, anticipation and a thread of excitement pulse through me at the possibility that this could help me.
When my laptop screen flickers, I jerk back in surprise. That’s odd. I glance around, wondering if it was a power surge, but the kitchen lights didn’t flicker, so it can’t be that.
A second later, everything goes dark, and my laptop alerts me that the Wi-Fi connection has been lost.
Huh. I cock my head to the side, straining for sounds of a thunderstorm outside, but all is peaceful. I guess it was a random power outage. So much for finishing up reading that search result, but I got the gist of things.
A moment later, my lights flick back on, the ceiling fans start up once again, and the small air-conditioning unit in the living room window sputters back to life.
When I check my computer, it still says my connection is lost. The eerie sensation of someone being privy to my actions slithers over my skin, as though I’m being watched. Which is ridiculous since my blinds are closed and no one else is here with me.
It’s all in your head. It’s all in your head. I repeat this twice more, attempting to shake off the prickly awareness that tiptoes down my spine.
Staring into my now empty cereal bowl, I contemplate drinking the colored milk. Before I can lift the bowl to my lips, a flash of memory clouds my vision.
I’m writing something on an envelope while I sit curled in the corner of my small walk-in closet.
My pen scratches hurriedly across the paper before I slide the pen beside a folded stack of my clothes. Balling up the envelope in my palm, I emerge from my closet.
I force myself to walk casually to my kitchen, humming absently to myself while internally, my stomach coils with nervousness.
Opening my freezer door, I reach deep inside to the far-left corner and stuff the crumpled envelope behind the large carton of Baskin Robbins chocolate peanut butter ice cream.
I silently command my hand to stop shaking as I quickly pull out a crappy microwave dinner from the stack beside my ice cream.
Don’t forget it’s there, I plead internally. And don’t you dare let him find it.
My heart beats so hard, practically ricocheting against my rib cage as my vision clears, and I will it to calm. Straightening from my chair, with shaky fingers, I carry my bowl to the sink, rinsing it and leaving it to be washed later.
Spoon in hand, I force myself to casually move to the freezer. When I open the door, the carton of ice cream sits exactly as it had in my memory. How long has it been there?
Instinctively, I’m compelled to guard my movements and intention even though I’m alone. I reach inside, my fingers curling behind the ice cream carton, and that’s when my heart gives another lurch. Because my fingertips brush against something that feels distinctively like an envelope that’s been wadded up.
I palm the paper between my hand and the carton before withdrawing it from the freezer and nudging the door closed. Hugging the ice cream to me, my spoon still in hand, I trod back to my closet.
I can’t say what urges me to mutter beneath my breath, “I’m going to be pathetic and drown my sorrows in ice cream,” but my heartbeat slows once I do. I could be fucking insane and paranoia is setting in. Who the hell knows…
What I do know is, I want to read what’s inside that envelope.
10
DANIEL
“Hey, handsome. You want some company?”
My jaw tightens at the woman’s hand stroking down my arm. Her fingertips graze over my tattooed skin before I ease away from her. “No, thanks.”
“Aw, come on, now. You look tense.” She leans in closer, and Jesus Christ, her strong-ass perfume assaults my goddamn nostrils.
Fuck me. I can’t even have a drink in peace. And, sure, she’s spot on with detecting how tense I am, but I’m not the kind of guy who pays for sex. Never had to and sure as shit never been that hard up. Even if I were, I haven’t been in the mood for it since Emilia’s murder. My mind’s been solely fixed on finding this Mac guy so I can pump him for answers.
The woman’s other hand lands on my thigh and starts gliding up toward my crotch. I stop her with a firm hold on her wrist, and turn to face her.
My icy gaze has her freezing in place, and I move her hand away from my dick and release it. She lets it drop limply at her side and snatches back her other hand from my arm, nervously licking her lips.
“No means no.” I raise a brow. “And that’s what I said.”
Her lips stamp together thinly, and she turns up her nose. “Don’t gotta be so rude.” Spinning around, she mutters under her breath, “Figures the hot, fancy-dressed ones are assholes.”
She can be pissed all she wants. In fact, she’s in good company. My patience is frayed as fuck, and I’ve hit more dead ends lately than I thought was possible.
When I exit the bar—yet another one named Freebird—I stride to my car, hoping like hell my next stop in Mandarin Springs pans out.
11
MAC
I curl up in the rear corner of my closet in the same position I was in that flash of memory. Sucking in a lungful of breath, I press my thumb and finger together, immediately immersing myself in the silent stillness.
Popping off the ice cream carton’s lid, I serve myself a small spoonful. Savoring the sugary sweetness lighting up my taste buds, I shove aside the edginess and muster up the bravery to see what’s in that envelope.
Carefully, I unfold the cold envelope, lifting the flap to find a slip of paper inside.
My breath lodges in my chest at the sight of my own penmanship, because I sure as hell don’t remember writing this.
Check the brown shoebox. Try to remember! Don’t give up.