Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 148238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
“The state has given you the name Sarah Jones until such a time as you remember.” Sitting awkwardly by my bed, he patted my knee.
I hissed between my teeth. That was my right knee. My toasted knee.
“Shit, sorry!” He hunched in his chair, keeping his hands to himself.
His fear of a girl wrapped up like an Egyptian mummy made the terribleness of my situation become humorous. I laughed softly. “It’s okay.” Tilting my head to study him, I asked, “Why are you here? Why is an FBI agent telling me this?”
Detective Davidson swallowed nervously. “I’m no good at delivering news subtly, so I’m just going to come out and say it. We have reason to believe the accident was intentional. Some evidence has come to light that makes us suspect you were the victim of an attempted homicide and until such a time as you remember, to bring whoever did this to justice, we are placing you in protective custody. We aren’t going to advertise that you’re alive, or ask for people to come forward until we know who to trust.”
“You’re arresting me?”
A smile twitched his lips, his brown short hair military precise on his head. “No, we’re giving you a new life, away from here.” Leaning forward, he said, “This is an opportunity to create a life you’ve always wanted, live in a country you’ve never visited, all while being watched over by us. As you’re under eighteen, you’ll be placed with a foster family until you come of legal age, but you can decide where you want to go. We normally give you a plan, a name, and a job to uphold as your new identity, but in this case you can choose.”
My lungs worked harder, still aching from smoke inhalation. “What—what are you saying?”
Detective Davidson patted the file on his legs. “This, Sarah Jones, is your new life.”
“I don’t want a new life. I want my old one.”
His shoulders rolled. “The doctors said they’d talked to you. You’re suffering what’s known as psychogenic amnesia. It’s an act of self-preservation.”
Tears pressed harder at being held hostage by my own mind. “But I’m ready to remember. I’m strong enough to understand.”
Detective Davidson smiled sadly. “The doctors can explain again what it means, but it doesn’t work that way. These things are very rare. Your repressed memories may be recovered spontaneously, or decades later. You might smell a particular smell and a memory will come back. Or you might hear a favorite song and everything will unlock. Because it’s psychological, psychogenic amnesia can sometimes be helped by therapy. But we need to plan for the worst.”
“Which is?” I whispered.
“That you might never remember. Like I said, it’s very rare, but a possibility. We have to move forward.”
I wanted to scream. And rage. And cry.
Not only was my body damaged but my mind, too.
Clearing his throat, Detective Davidson said, “Without thinking about the answers, tell me… what would be your ultimate profession once you finish school?”
“A vet.”
I blinked. That had come from nowhere. I went deathly still, hoping to God that my memory was coming back.
“And where would you live, if you had any choice?”
“England.”
My mouth plopped open. Why there? The answer had come to me but no reasoning whatsoever.
Detective Davidson smiled, taking notes in his file. “In that case, Sarah Jones, we will do everything in our power to give you a new life with a family in England, and enroll you in subjects to ensure a career as a veterinary surgeon. It will take some time to iron out the details, but we’ll get started on the necessary paperwork.”
This was happening too fast. Too sudden.
“Paperwork?”
He grinned, showing crooked teeth. “Yes, a new passport, new social security card—a new beginning.” His eyes softened. “You will rise from this and be safe in a completely new world. And then, when you’re older and perhaps remember, we’ll find justice for what happened to you.”
It wasn’t until after hundreds of questions—most of which I couldn’t answer—that I was finally left alone to go over what had happened.
Whoever I’d been up until that moment was gone.
I was about to be reborn.
I was about to disappear forever.
My knees buckled a little as the memory ended. That had been the day my life as Cleo Price had ended. It’d been the worst feeling imaginable to be a prisoner inside my own mind—to be barricaded from people who could’ve helped me.
Then there was Corrine.
She wasn’t just a friend like I’d thought.
She was my sister.
“Nice to meet you.”
I looked up from lugging my bag through the terminal toward the exit. There, in front of me, was a girl with blonde short hair and vibrant blue eyes. She was alive. Where I was dead.
Behind her stood a man and woman, both smiling nervously.
“Do I know you?” The constant fear that I knew people and offended them by not remembering had become the bane of my life. I worried constantly if someone smiled my way or waved in my direction.