Keira managed a tight laugh. “Actually, I was really hoping to get out of these wet clothes…”
It was a half-truth. She was shivering, but her more urgent worry was making sure the strange men didn’t discover the pastor’s deception. If Adage left quickly, the storm would still be strong enough to wash away his footprints, but she didn’t know how much longer the deluge would last.
“Oh! Oh, of course. I’ll leave you to it, then.” Adage picked his coat off the hook beside the door and shook off some of the excess water. “You know where to find me if you need anything. And tomorrow, I’ll see if I can uncover any leads in town. Have a good sleep, Keira.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“Wrong religion,” he said cheerfully, then let himself out. A torrent of rain poured through the doorway, seeming to embrace the pastor as he closed the door behind himself.
Keira crossed to the window and pressed against the chilled glass as she watched her new, unexpected friend march into the graveyard. Clumps of fog clung to his hunched form, looking almost like wraiths grasping at his coat. He disappeared into the night within five paces.
At least he’ll be safe now… I hope.
Alone, Keira couldn’t ignore how quiet the cottage was. Rain still beat against the roof, and the wooden supports groaned under the strain, but inside felt strangely isolated from the storm.
Keira stepped back from the window and looked at her hands. Just like in the forest, they seemed both very familiar and completely unrecognizable. She took a deep breath and clenched them into fists. “Okay. Time to figure out who the hell you are, Keira.”
Chapter Three
Keira was freezing and soaked, but she ignored the fireplace in favor of searching for a mirror. She figured she had at least an hour before hypothermia set in, and her missing identity was digging at her like an itch she couldn’t reach.
As she’d guessed, the door at the back of the room led into a bathroom-slash-laundry. She turned on the light and found a bedraggled, wide-eyed stranger staring back at her through the sink’s mirror.
So, this is what I look like. She stepped closer to the reflection and pulled the limp crown of bandages out of her hair. It’s not what I expected.
After running through the forest so swiftly and efficiently, she’d imagined having a toned, fit body, the sort of figure that comes from drinking wheatgrass smoothies for breakfast and having memberships for three separate gyms. Instead of a twelve-pack and a Marine Corps tattoo on her bicep, the person looking back at her was bone-thin, with a pale face and too-large eyes.
Keira lifted her T-shirt’s hem. There were no abs underneath and not a hint of fat either. Her ribs jutted out under anemic skin. She looked as though she’d either been starved or…
She pointed a warning finger at her reflection. “So help me, Keira, you’d better not be addicted to anything illegal. Because I know exactly zero drug dealers, and I’d really prefer not to go through withdrawal on top of everything else.”
Her face, which she’d initially thought was meek and mousy, took on some personality as she spoke. That was good; she might have a chance of being taken seriously after all.
“No wonder Adage was so willing to help you,” she grumbled as she began peeling off the wet clothes. “You look like an orphan waif straight out of a Hollywood movie. Please, sir, can I have some more porridge?”
Her jeans were hard to get off and tripped her when she tried to pull them over her feet. She bumped into the wall and hissed as pain flashed through her arm.
I forgot I was hurt there too. She twisted to see a long, straight cut not far below her shoulder. Keira, you’re a mess. How many terrible life choices did you make to end up like this?
The skin around the cut looked red, but it wasn’t bleeding, so she decided it could wait until later.
She didn’t like the idea of walking around a stranger’s house naked, so Keira left her underwear on. The cupboard in the bathroom’s corner held spare blankets, so she took one, wrapped it around herself like a coat, and carried the wet clothes back to the main room.
The storm created a steady drone on the cottage’s shingle roof as Keira built her fire. In the same way her legs had known how to run, her hands seemed to hold on to the memory of how to light the kindling, and the blaze was soon radiating heat through the room.
Keira stayed kneeling in front of it for a minute, hands extended, as she absorbed some of the warmth. Once her shaking stopped, she plucked the pile of wet clothes off the hearth and shook them out.
The T-shirt seemed cheap and well worn; she guessed it had been teal before repeated washing bled the color down to a watery gray. The jeans had a rip in the side, and not the deliberate, fashionable kind. But the boots and jacket both seemed to be of good quality, although old. She supposed that made sense; they were the two most valuable pieces of clothing for someone roughing it: sturdy shoes to protect her feet and a thick jacket to keep her warm. She hoped she hadn’t stolen them.
After draping the T-shirt over the back of a wooden chair, she propped the boots in front of the fireplace to dry. Keira then felt through the pockets. The jeans were empty, so they joined the T-shirt to air out, but the jacket had two zippered nooks full of treasure. A crumpled twenty-dollar bill came out of the left pocket. And, in the right, she found a small black-and-white photograph.
Keira unfolded the picture carefully and squinted at the grainy figures. It depicted three people, two men and one woman, facing the camera. They all wore neutral expressions and stiff, strange suits. The clothes looked like some kind of uniform, but Keira couldn’t guess which sector they belonged to.
The first man—tall and with an exceptionally thin face—and the middle-aged woman with a pinched mouth and rectangular glasses prompted no emotional response. The third figure, though, made bile rise in the back of Keira’s throat. She knew him. She hated him.
Why? C’mon, brain, throw me a bone here. What did he do to you? Is he a relative? No, you don’t know him that well… A friend’s parent? A boss? Some jerk who keyed your car?
She squinted at the face. It was deeply scored with creases, although he couldn’t have been more than forty. Heavy brows complemented a thick jaw and dark hair. The eyes held an unnerving intensity even when screened by the camera. A silvery shape over the lapel of his suit was faintly reminiscent of a name badge but was too small to see clearly. She sensed that it was some kind of insignia, like a medal or military rank, that set him apart from his peers.
She flipped the photo over. Someone had penciled seven words onto the back. Keira scrunched her mouth as she read them.
DON’T TRUST THE MEN WITH FLAKY SKIN
“Okay.” She tilted her head to the side as though that might somehow make the message clearer. “So should I stay away from people with dandruff or what?”
Unsurprisingly, the message didn’t reply. Keira carefully placed the photo on top of the fireplace mantel, where it could dry out, then dragged the couch closer to the hearth and snuggled into it.
Searching her clothes had given the fire time to warm her. She pulled her feet up under her and folded the blanket around herself as she watched the flickering flames.
I’ve been lucky, she thought as thunder cracked overhead. Sure, the whole no memory thing sucks pretty badly, but in other ways, I couldn’t have had better fortune. Tonight could have been spent hiding in an alley or huddled in the forest. Instead, I’ve been given food, shelter, and the promise of help. That’s a lot to be grateful for.