I whipped around, expecting to see my mom in the doorway, angry and worked up that I’d sneaked out. But given everything that had happened, did I really think she would simply leave a note upon finding my bed empty?
I picked up the paper, realizing that my hands were shaking. It was lined notebook paper, just like I used in school. The message appeared to have been hastily scribbled in black Sharpie.
JUST BECAUSE YOU’RE HOME
DOESN’T MEAN YOU’RE SAFE.
CHAPTER
4
I CRUMPLED THE PAPER, FLINGING IT AT THE WALL OUT of fear and frustration. Striding to the window, I rattled the lock to make sure it was secure. I wasn’t feeling gutsy enough to open the window and have a look out, but I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered into the shadows stretched across the lawn like long, lean daggers. I had no idea who could have left the note, but one thing was certain. I’d locked up before leaving. And earlier, before we’d headed upstairs for the night, I’d watched my mom walk through the house and check every window and door at least three times.
So how had the intruder gotten in?
And what did the note even mean? It was cryptic and cruel. A twisted joke? Right now, that was my best guess.
Down the hall, I pushed on my mom’s bedroom door, opening it just far enough to see inside. “Mom?”
She sat up ramrod straight in the darkness. “Nora? What is it? What happened? A bad dream?” A pause. “Did you remember something?”
I clicked on the bedside lamp, suddenly fearful of the dark and what I couldn’t see. “I found a note in my room. It told me not to fool myself into believing I’m safe.”
She blinked against the sudden brightness, and I watched her eyes absorb my words. Suddenly she was wide awake. “Where did you find the note?” she demanded.
“I—” I was nervous about how she’d react to the truth. In hindsight, it had been a terrible idea. Sneaking out? After I’d been abducted? But it was hard to fear the possibility of a second abduction when I couldn’t even remember the first. And I’d needed to go to the cemetery for my own sanity. The color black had led me there. Stupid, unexplainable, but nonetheless true. “It was under my pillow. I must not have noticed it before bed,” I lied. “It wasn’t until I shifted in my sleep that I heard the paper crinkle.”
She pulled on her bathrobe and jogged to my bedroom. “Where’s the note? I want to read it. Detective Basso needs to know about this right away.” She was already dialing on her phone. She punched in his number from memory, and it occurred to me that they must have worked closely together during the weeks I was missing.
“Does anyone else have a key to the house?” I asked.
She held her finger up, signaling for me to wait. Voice mail, she mouthed. “It’s Blythe,” she told Detective Basso’s message system. “Call me as soon as you get this. Nora found a note in her bedroom tonight.” Her eyes cut briefly to mine. “It may be from the person who took her. I’ve had the doors locked all night, so the note had to have been placed under her pillow before we got home.”
“He’ll call back soon,” she told me, hanging up. “I’m going to give the note to the officer out front. He might want to search the house. Where is the note?”
I pointed at the crumpled paper ball in the corner, but I didn’t move to pick it up. I didn’t want to see the message again. Was it a joke … or was it a threat? Just because you’re home doesn’t mean you’re safe. The tone suggested a threat.
Mom flattened the paper on the wall, ironing out the wrinkles with her hand. “This paper is blank, Nora,” she said.
“What?” I walked over for a closer look. She was right. The writing had vanished. I hastily flipped the paper over, but the back side was also blank.
“It was right here,” I said, confused. “It was right here.”
“You might have imagined it. A projection of a dream,” Mom said gently, drawing me against her and rubbing my back. The gesture didn’t do anything to comfort me. Was there any way I might have invented the message? Out of what? Paranoia? A panic attack?
“I didn’t imagine it.” But I didn’t sound so sure.
“It’s okay,” she murmured. “Dr. Howlett said this might happen.”
“Said what might happen?”
“He said there was a very good chance you’d hear things that aren’t real—”
“Like what?”
She regarded me calmly. “Voices and other sounds. He didn’t say anything about seeing things that aren’t real, but anything could happen, Nora. Your body is trying to recover. It’s under a lot of stress, and we have to be patient.”
“He said I might hallucinate?”
“Shh,” she commanded softly, taking my face between her hands. “These things might have to happen before you can recover. Your mind is doing its best to heal, and we have to give it time. Just like any other injury. We’re going to get through this together.”
I felt the sting of tears, but I refused to cry. Why me? Of all the billions of people out there, why me? Who did this to me? My mind was spinning in circles, trying to point a finger at someone, but I didn’t have a face, a voice. I didn’t have one shred of an idea.
“Are you scared?” Mom whispered.
I looked away. “I’m angry.”
I crawled into bed, falling asleep surprisingly fast. Caught in that woozy, topsy-turvy place between awareness and a full-on dream, my mind aimlessly wandered down a long, dark tunnel that narrowed with each step. Sleep, blissful sleep, and given the night I’d had, I vigorously welcomed it.
A door appeared at the end of the tunnel. The door opened from within. The light inside cast a faint glow, illuminating a face so familiar, it almost knocked me over. His black hair curled around his ears, damp from a recent shower. Sun-bronzed skin, smooth and tight, stretched over a long, lean body that towered at least six inches over me. A pair of jeans hung low on his hips, but his chest and feet were bare, and a bath towel was slung over his shoulder. Our gazes locked, and his familiar black eyes bored into mine with surprise … followed by instant wariness.
“What are you doing here?” he said low.
Patch, I thought, my heart beating faster. It’s Patch.
I couldn’t remember how I knew him, but I did. The bridge in my mind was as broken as ever, but at the sight of him, little pieces snapped together. Memories that put a swarm of butterflies in my stomach. I saw a flash of sitting beside him in biology. Another flash as he stood very close, teaching me how to play pool. A white-hot flash as his lips brushed mine.
I’d been searching for answers, and they’d led me here. To Patch. I’d found a way to get around my amnesia. This wasn’t merely a dream; it was a subconscious passageway to Patch. I now understood the great feeling crashing around inside me that never seemed satisfied. On some deep level I knew what my brain couldn’t grasp. I needed Patch. And for whatever reason—fate, luck, sheer willpower, or for reasons I might never understand—I’d found him.
Through my shock, I somehow found my voice. “You tell me.”
He stuck his head out the door, looking down the tunnel. “This is a dream. You realize that, don’t you?”
“Then who are you worried followed me?”
“You can’t be here.”
My words came out stiff, frozen. “Looks like I found a way to communicate with you. I guess the only thing left to say is I’d hoped for a cheerier reception. You have all the answers, don’t you?”
He steepled his fingers over his mouth. All the while, his eyes never wavered from my face. “I’m hoping to keep you alive.”
My mind lagged, unable to understand enough of the dream to read a deeper message. The only thought pounding through me was, I found him. After all this time, I found Patch. And instead of matching my excitement, the only feeling he harbors is … cold detachment.
“Why can’t I remember anything?” I asked, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Why can’t I remember how or when or—or why yo
u left?” Because I was sure that was what had happened. He’d left. Otherwise we’d be together now. “Why haven’t you tried to find me? What happened to me? What happened to us?”
Patch hung his hands on the back of his neck and closed his eyes. He went deathly still, except for the tremble of emotion that rippled under his skin.
“Why did you leave me?” I choked.
He straightened. “You really believe I left you?”
That only thickened the lump in my throat. “What am I supposed to think? You’ve been gone for months, and now, when I finally find you, you can barely look me in the eye.”
“I did the only thing I could. I gave you up to save your life.” His jaw worked, clenching and unclenching. “It wasn’t an easy decision, but it was the right one.”
“Gave me up? Just like that? How long did it take you to make your decision? Three seconds?”
His eyes turned cold with recollection. “That’s about as long as I had, yes.”
More pieces snapped together. “Someone forced you to leave me? Is that what you’re telling me?”
He didn’t speak, but I had my answer.
“Who forced you to leave? Who scared you that much? The Patch I knew didn’t run from anyone.” The pain bursting inside me forced my volume higher. “I would have fought for you, Patch. I would have fought!”
“And you would have lost. We were surrounded. He threatened your life, and he would have made good on that threat. He had you, and that meant he had me, too.”
“He? Who is he?”
I received another brittle silence.
“Did you even try to find me once? Or was it that easy”—my voice caught—“to let me go?”
Whipping the towel off his shoulder, Patch flung it aside. His eyes flared, his shoulders rising and falling with every breath, but I got the feeling his anger wasn’t directed at me.
“You can’t be here,” he said, his voice rough. “You have to stop looking for me. You have to go back to your life, and make do the best you can. Not for me,” he added, as if guessing my next resentful barb. “For you. I’ve done everything to keep him away from you, and I’m going to continue doing everything I can, but I need your help.”
“Like I need your help?” I shot back. “I need you now, Patch. I need you back. I am lost and I’m scared. Do you know I can’t remember one single thing? Of course you know,” I said bitterly, as realization dawned. “That’s why you haven’t come looking for me. You know I can’t remember you, and it lets you off the hook. I never thought you’d take the easy way out. Well, I haven’t forgotten you, Patch. I see you in everything. I see flashes of black—the color of your eyes, your hair. I feel your touch, I remember the way you held me… .” I trailed off, too choked up to continue.
“It’s better if you don’t know,” Patch said flatly. “That’s the worst explanation I’ve given you yet, but for your own safety, there are things you can’t know.”
I laughed, but the sound was thick and anguished. “So this is it?”
He closed the distance between us, and just when I thought he’d draw me against him he stopped, holding himself in check. I exhaled, trying not to cry. He leaned his elbow on the doorjamb, just above my ear. He smelled so devastatingly familiar—of soap and spice—the heady scent bringing back a rush of memories so pleasurable, it only made the current moment that much more difficult to bear. I was seized by the desire to touch him. To trace my hands over his skin, to feel his arms tighten securely around me. I wanted him to nuzzle my neck, his whisper to tickle my ear as he said private words that belonged only to me. I wanted him near, so near, with no thought of letting go.
“This isn’t over,” I said. “After everything we’ve been through, you don’t get the right to brush me off. I’m not letting you off that easily.” I wasn’t sure if it was a threat, my last stab at defiance, or irrational words spoken straight from my splintered heart.
“I want to protect you,” Patch said quietly.
He stood so close. All strength and heat and silent power. I couldn’t escape him, now or ever. He’d always be there, consuming my every thought, my heart locked in his hands. I was drawn to him by forces I couldn’t control, let alone escape.
“But you didn’t.”
He cupped my chin, his touch unbearably tender. “Do you really think so?”
I tried to pull free, but not hard enough. I couldn’t resist his touch; back then, now, or ever. “I don’t know what to think. Can you blame me?”
“My history is long, and not much of it is good. I can’t erase it, but I’m determined not to make another mistake. Not when the stakes are this high, not when it comes to you. There’s a plan in all this, but it’s going to take time.” This time he gathered me into his arms, stroking hair off my face, and something inside me broke at his touch. Hot, wet tears tumbled down my cheeks. “If I lose you, I lose everything,” he murmured.
“Who are you so afraid of?” I asked again.
Resting his hands on my shoulders, he tilted his forehead against mine. “You’re mine, Angel. And I won’t let anything change that. You’re right—this isn’t over. It’s only the beginning, and nothing about what lies ahead will be easy.” He sighed, a tired sound. “You’re not going to remember this dream, and you won’t be coming back. I don’t know how you found me, but I have to make sure you don’t do it again. I’m going to erase your memory of this dream. For your own safety, this is the last you’ll see of me.”
Alarm shot through me. I pulled away, flinching at Patch’s face, horrified by the determination I found there. I opened my mouth to protest—
And the dream crashed down around me, as though made of sand.
CHAPTER
5
I WOKE UP THE FOLLOWING MORNING WITH A KINK IN my neck and a distant memory of strange, colorless dreams. After showering, I buttoned myself into a zebra-print shirt-dress and pulled on cropped tights and ankle boots. If nothing else, at least I appeared put together on the outside. Smoothing out the mess on the inside was a bigger project than I could tackle in forty-five minutes.
I breezed into the kitchen to find Mom making old-fashioned oatmeal in a pot on the stove. It was the first time I could remember since my dad’s death that she’d made it from scratch. Following last night’s drama, I wondered if this fell in the ballpark of a pity meal.
“You’re up early,” she said, and paused in her slicing of strawberries near the sink.
“It’s after eight,” I pointed out. “Did Detective Basso call back?” I tried to act like I didn’t care what her answer was, and got busy brushing nonexistent lint off my dress.
“I told him it was a mistake. He understood.”
Meaning they’d agreed that I’d hallucinated. I was the girl who cried wolf, and from now on, everything I said would be brushed off as an exaggeration. Poor thing. Just nod and humor her.
“Why don’t you head back to bed and I’ll bring up breakfast when it’s finished?” Mom suggested, resuming her slicing.
“I’m fine. I’m already up.”
“Given everything that’s happened, I thought you might want to take things easy. Sleep in, read a good book, maybe take a nice long bubble bath.”
I couldn’t remember my mom ever suggesting I play it lazy on a school day. Our typical breakfast conversation usually included rushed exchanges along the lines of, Did you finish your essay? Did you pack your lunch? Is your bed made? Can you drop off the electricity bill on your way to school?
“How about it?” Mom tried again. “Breakfast in bed. Doesn’t get better than that.”
“What about school?”
“School can wait.”
“Until when?”
“I don’t know,” she said lightly. “A week, I guess. Or two. Until you’re feeling back to normal.”
Clearly she hadn’t thought this through, but in just a few short seconds, I had. I might have been tempted to take advantage of her leniency, but that wasn’t the point.
“I guess it’s good to know I have a week or two to get back to normal.”
She set down the knife. “Nora—”
“Never mind that I can’t remember anything from the past five months. Never mind that from now on, every time I see a stranger watching me in a crowd, I’ll wonder if it’s him. Better yet, my amnesia is all over the news, and he must be laughing. He knows I can’t identify him. And I guess I should be comforted that because all the tests Dr. Howlett ran came back fine, just fine, probably nothing bad happened to me during those weeks. Maybe I can even make myself believe I was soaking up rays in Cancún. Hey, it could happen. Maybe my kidnapper wanted to set himself apart from the pack. Do the unexpected and pamper his victim. The truth is, normal might take years. Normal might never happen. But it’s definitely not going to happen if I lounge around here watching soaps and avoiding life. I’m going to school today, end of story.” I said it matter-of-factly, but my heart did one of those dizzy spins. I pushed the feeling aside, telling myself this was the only way I knew to get any semblance of my life back.
“School?” Mom was fully turned around now, the strawberries and oatmeal long forgotten.
“According to the calendar on the wall, it’s September ninth.” When Mom said nothing, I added, “School started two days ago.”
She pressed her lips together in a straight line. “I realize that.”
“Since school is in session, shouldn’t I be there?”
“Yes, eventually.” She wiped her hands on her apron. It looked to me like she was stalling or debating her word choice. I wished that whatever it was, she’d just spit it out. Right now, hot argument felt better than cool sympathy.
“Since when do you condone truancy?” I said, prodding her.
“I don’t want to tell you how to run your life, but I think you need to slow down.”
“Slow down? I can’t remember anything from the past several months of my life. I’m not going to slow down and let things slip even further out of reach. The only way I’m going to start feeling better about what happened is by reclaiming my life. I’m going to school. And then I’m going out with Vee for doughnuts, or whatever junk food she happens to crave today. And then I’m coming home and doing homework. And then I’m going to fall asleep listening to Dad’s old records. There’s so much I don’t know anymore. The only way I’m going to survive this is by clinging to what I do know.”
The Complete Hush, Hush Saga Page 63