Amnesia: a psychological thriller

by Kylie Hillman

  I wonder what Jax said to him to evoke such a devastated reaction.

  *

  “Do not disobey me again,” Jax snarls as he slams the door to his office shut behind him. I shrink back against the leather of the couch. He is furious, waves of hostility emanating from him, as his eyes flash with rage through a narrowed glare. Even Belinda appears concerned, jumping to her feet and laying a soothing hand on his arm.

  “Jax, it’s hardly Amber’s fault.”

  Slapping her hand away from him, Jax ignores her, stepping around her and closing the distance between us. Leaning over me, his eyes bore into mine. I meet his gaze as steadily as I can, all the while wishing the couch would let me disappear into it. My heart pounds in my ears so loudly that it’s deafening. I swallow, trying to dislodge the lump in my throat, as I attempt to make sense of what’s happening.

  Why is he angry at me? What did I do wrong?

  “You’re my fiancé. Don’t ever forget that. If I tell you to do something, you do it. I don’t care if the Pope himself has spoken, what I say outranks everyone.” Jax runs a finger down the side of my face. When it reaches my chin, he crooks his finger under it and lifts my face closer to his. His top lip curls into a mockery of a smile before he speaks again. “I think you need another dose before your psychologist arrives.”

  My stomach drops. It churns uneasily, setting off my intuition.

  Don’t let him “dose” you, my instinct screams.

  “D-dose?” I stammer. “Of what?”

  A real smile replaces the disdain on his face; his posture changing from intimidating to pride-filled in an instance. Walking to the small fridge that’s tucked away in one corner of his office, he opens the door and pulls out a container with at least a dozen vials sitting upright in it. Reddish-brown liquid fills all of them. It looks innocuous enough—he is a doctor, after all—yet, the sight before me makes my mouth run dry. Adrenaline surges within me, stimulating my fight or flight response, and I find myself on my feet and in the process of struggling to get out the door of his office before I realize what I’m doing.

  “Stop,” Jax commands. I fall still at his words, feeling as if an invisible cord binds me to him. It’s like my body is programmed to heed his instructions, even though, my mind is screaming for me to get the hell out of here. “Now, sit.”

  I make my way back to my original position on the couch and sit. Back ramrod straight, knees pressed together, hands tucked into my lap; I wait for his next words.

  After a curt nod of Jax’s head, Belinda rushes into action. Quickly preparing a vial so that it’s ready to be injected, she hands it to Jax. He approaches me with intent, eyes fixed on mine, his desire to control me written all over his handsome face.

  “Hold your arm out straight and stay still.”

  My arm extends without thought on my behalf. I peer down at it in confusion. My entire body feels foreign to me, as if it doesn’t belong to my mind. The disconnect is baffling; tears prick behind my eyes as my brain yells at my wayward appendage to move away from Jax. The need to please him by adhering to his demands is stronger than my panic at what’s coming.

  Rolling the sleeve of my cardigan up to my shoulder, Jax squats in front of me and swipes the inside of my elbow with the swab that Belinda hands him. Uncapping the syringe, he moves the sharp point to my skin, ready to pierce my epidermis and inject me with this unknown substance.

  “Stop.” My voice cracks when I state my refusal. “I want to know what’s in this.”

  Belinda tuts at me from her position behind Jax. I ignore her, intent on gauging how he’s going to react to my defiance.

  “Amber, baby.” Jax sounds soothing, nothing like the autocratic dictator he’s been since he burst into the office after his run-in with Charles. “This is a special medication that I designed just for you. If it wasn’t for my abilities, you’d still be lying in intensive care in a vegetative state with your parent’s contemplating turning off your life support.”

  Lifting my hand to the scar on the side of my head, I run my finger down it. The dizziness returns, and I shake my head to ward it off. When it dissipates slightly, I contemplate his words, and wrack my brains for memories—something, anything—that can validate what he’s saying.

  “My parents?”

  “Yes, baby. Malcolm and Cynthia.” I shake my head again when their names mean nothing to me. “They gave me permission to try this, among other techniques, on you. Everything’s worked so far, baby. You’re my miracle woman.”

  His words are dripping with arrogance, telegraphing his delight with himself.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m still giving you my wonder drug. The surgery performed on your brain helped, but this is the most important part.” He lifts the syringe in the air, and I swear the sharp tip gleams evilly when the light in the room bounces off it. The panic that was subsiding returns, and I shake my head again. This time not from confusion, but because something is telling me that while his explanation makes sense on the surface, it’s not the whole truth.

  “I don’t want it any more. Not until I get a second opinion.”

  “For crying out loud, Amber. Be realistic!” Jax explodes, rising to his full height. I shrink away from him for the second time today. “You were hit by a car. You should be dead, not sitting here arguing with the person who kept you alive. I have your parent’s permission to treat you as I see fit. I refuse to let your stubbornness derail the progress I’ve made.”

  The invisible cord is yanked again, my momentary rebellion stopped in its tracks by my own traitorous mind. Doubt and fear vie for dominance while my mind races.

  “Do as he says. You don’t want to make him mad,” my subconscious instructs. The voice in my head sounds like Jax, scaring me witless. “He knows what’s best,” my mind cautions me again. This message, delivered once again in Jax’s voice, makes my head pound. Pain bursts behind my eyes as the other voice in my head—the one that sounds like me—screams, wanting to know how he’s infiltrated my thoughts. It’s drowned out by more prompting to do as Jax says.

  The battle taking place in my subconscious is making me dizzier. My stomach churns with nausea and the pain in my head grows into an agonizing throbbing that is stripping me of my vision.

  Struggling to regain control of myself, I’m jolted out of my thoughts when Jax seizes my arm again. This time he doesn’t give me time to argue. Quickly swabbing my elbow once more, he motions Belinda to hold my arm straight and he injects the ugly fluid into me with one efficient movement.

  Ecstasy floods my bloodstream. The mortal combat my mind was undertaking is instantly quelled, and relief fills me when the voices quieten. I’m calming and kicking myself for my ridiculous refusal of the medication that is obviously what I need, until the nausea kicks up a notch and I feel my throat filling with the contents of my stomach.

  “Gonna be sick,” I mumble, yanking my arm from Jax and holding a hand over my mouth. He shoves a wastebasket under my chin and I expel the contents of my stomach.

  “Did you give her all of it?” I hear Belinda ask over my heaving. “What if it’s too much?”

  “I was losing her,” Jax sounds defensive. “She’s mine. I won’t let them take her from me. I needed to wipe away all of today. If she can’t remember, she can’t leave.”

  Darkness grips me, swirling in my vision and dulling the light. My attempts to process what they’re saying is impeded by the infernal dizziness that makes the world spin. My head feels light. Thankfully, the need to vomit reduces to a manageable level. The wastebasket drops out of my hands as the darkness wins, sending me blind. I fight to keep my eyes open even though I can’t see.

  I’m going to pass out.

  I try to tell Jax, but my mouth won’t work. I feel myself slump to the side; strong, warm arms catch me in time and lower me to the couch.

  “It’s okay, baby.” Jax sounds like he’s talking underwater. Forcing my eyes open again, I
find I have a tiny bit of sight if I squint really hard. He’s looking at me funny, like he’s worried but excited all at once. His words about wiping away today return to my mind and I ponder what they mean.

  How can he wipe away today?

  That thought keeps flitting around in my head as the little bit of vision that had returned dims. The answer flashes in my mind, like a bright beacon of alarm. My suspicions, my intuitions—they were right. The man in front of me is not telling the truth.

  “Jax,” I manage to whisper, using every ounce of strength I have left. He needs to know I’m on to him before I lose consciousness. “I know you’re up to something.”

  SIX

  Xander

  "I know you're full of shit," I mumble to myself as the ornate door is slammed in my face. The gold door knocker clangs against the heavy wood. The lions head with the handle in its mouth mocks me, reminding me of the futility of my mission. "Amber wouldn't just leave me without a word."

  Looking up at the mansion that looms over me like a monolith to the obscene wealth and overblown egos that it houses, I try for the umpteenth time in the ten years I've been with Amber to reconcile the sweet, giving woman I love with the family she comes from. It's impossible. Her graciousness is in such stark contrast to the pompous attitude with which her father just closed his front door in my face. My fist curls of its own accord when my mind is invaded by thoughts of Malcolm and what he's allowed to happen to his own daughter.

  "Let it go, Xander. Consider them a dead-end."

  My pep-talk is ringing in my ears, reminding me that my need to find Amber is greater than my desire to tell her abusive father what I think of him. Upsetting the megalomaniac billionaire politician will result in him calling in one of the many cops he has on his payroll, and that's only going to make them less inclined to help me than they already are.

  Pulling on the driver's door of my car, I yank it again when it doesn't open. A wry smile breaks over my face when it creaks loudly, announcing its reluctance to admit me to my vehicle. My piece-of-shit Ford hatchback isn't out of place in the parking lot of the school where I work with Amber. Here. In this neighborhood. It's as out-of-place as a teetotaller at Oktoberfest.

  Settling into the driver's seat, I crank the key in the ignition, praying with increasing reverence the longer the motor whines. Fuck me dead. The last thing I need is to be forced to abandon my twenty-year-old car at the St. George's curb side and take a taxi home. Malcolm and Cynthia will take great delight in having her towed before I can return.

  Not that I really blame them. Deep down, I know if I was rolling in the sort of money they are, I wouldn't take too kindly to having a still-life monument to the early Nineties abandoned in front of my multi-million-dollar mansion.

  With dread rising within me, I pump the accelerator as I turn the key one last time. Hallelujah! My beautiful beast roars to life, the sound of her spluttering motor the equivalent of an expensive Boeing jet flying overhead to my begging ears. Pounding the steering wheel with the side of my hand, I cheer her on as the straining engine begins to sound stronger.

  "Come on. That's it." My vocal encouragement comes to an abrupt end when I'm startled by someone rapping their knuckles on the driver's window. Jumping in my seat, a small shriek leaves my throat which I quickly turn into a cough when I see Amber's mother staring at me with one elegant eyebrow arched. My face heats and I take a steadying breath. My nerves are shot to buggery. Have been for over four long months—ever since Amber didn't turn up at the café where we were meeting before we headed to see our wedding planner.

  Winding down the window, I pretend I can't see her distaste at the screeching sound the window makes as it lowers. Screw her. This is how the other half lives; it'd do her well to learn what her daughter already knows—wealth doesn't make you better than anyone else. It just means you're luckier.

  "Cynthia?" I let her name leave my mouth with obvious reluctance. Sizing her up, I take in the sneer which seems to be a permanent fixture on her fine-boned face before running my gaze down the rest of her form. At first glance, she's an older version of Amber. From the glossy black hair and chocolate brown eyes down to the slender frame and short stature, they could pass for sisters. It's when you look deeper than the surface that the similarities fade. While Amber's eyes are full of life and she has a ready smile for everyone, her mother appears emotionless, almost dead on the inside. It’s as if she's examined what the world has to offer and found nothing to her liking.

  Honestly, if I lived with Malcolm, my inner spark would've shrivelled up and died as well. It's a testament to how tough my fiancée is that she managed to escape her shitty upbringing with her sense of humor and joie de vivre intact.

  "If you have any sense," Cynthia sniffs after she says this. Apparently, she doubts my intelligence. Rolling my eyes, I bite my tongue so I don't verbalise the cutting retort that's on the end of it. "You'll stop with this harassment and move on with your life. Amber has made it quite clear that she wants nothing more to do with you. If you persist with your foolishness, we will pursue every legal avenue available to us."

  Grinding my teeth, I pull myself upright in my seat and turn to face this crazy bitch. Certainty pounds in my mind, coating my words as I hiss them at her. "I'll never accept your lies. You and Malcolm can bring whoever you want down on my head, it won't stop me. Not until I hear the words from Amber's mouth myself."

  Twisting the key in the ignition, my prayers are answered when my car starts straight away. Pressing the accelerator, I rev the engine before turning my gaze to the infuriating woman. She's staring at me, astonishment and worry creasing her eyes.

  "We both know that Amber wouldn't come back here willingly. She'd rather die than spend another night under the roof of the monster who calls himself her father."

  Ignoring the pang of sympathy that tries to hit me as the corners of her mouth tighten and then droop when she learns that I throw the truth at her, I pull the seatbelt over my shoulder and grip the steering wheel in a white knuckled embrace. I leave the curb in a cloud of exhaust fumes, my hands shaking as I navigate the sharp bend that will take me away from this hellhole masquerading as utopia.

  I'm still fuming, the rage that percolates in my gut making me nauseous, while my pulse pounds in my ears. Thinking about the dead ends I've met, one after the other, in my search for my fiancée, the desire to turn my car around and storm into the mansion on Seventh Avenue almost overwhelms me. My gaze is darting from left to right as I look for somewhere to execute a U-turn and do just that when my mobile rings. Reaching over, I grab it from the passenger seat next to me and swipe the screen to answer the call without looking at who's calling.

  "Xander Barrett, speaking."

  "It's Charles St. George." My car swerves onto the wrong side of the road, forcing me to right it before I can answer the man on the other end of the call. He's the last person I expected to hear from. Amber's paternal uncle. The fellow black sheep in her family. Although, unlike Amber who they’d love to reel back into their fold, Charles is dead to the rest of them, and has been for as long as I've known her.

  "This is a surprise. How did you get my number?"

  "Listen. None of that matters. What matters is I saw Amber today and she's—"

  With wheels that screech their indignation at the NASCAR move I pull so that I can reach the shoulder of the road as quickly as possible, I pretend that I can't feel the pricking behind my eyes as I throw the gear lever into neutral. "You better not be fucking with me."

  "I'm not. She was at the hospital today."

  Relief floods me. It silences the worry that's been circling my head like a pack of vultures for weeks, lifting the weight that's been bowing my shoulders. She's alive. The realisation makes me feel like a kid at Christmas.

  Shit. My excitement dies. Does that mean she is hiding from me? That she's left me, but is too afraid to tell me, just like Cynthia and Malcolm have been saying the entire time?

  "Did you spea
k to her? What did she say? Where has she been?" The words fall from my tongue in a rush. The questions tripping over themselves in their hurry to be answered.

  "Xander. Xander." Charles raises his voice. "I'm confused. She was in an accident. I thought you knew that?"

  My core gives out and I flop forward, my forehead hitting the steering wheel with a thud. Closing my eyes, I pray to God for clarity.

  "An accident? I didn't know. I've been looking for her for months."

  I hear Charles exhale, his breath rushing against the phone. In it, I recognize the same frustration and cluelessness that's gripping me.

  "I don't understand. I'm phoning because she was with Jaxon and she didn't recognize me which worried me. Not because I knew you were looking for her."

  If I thought this situation couldn't get any worse, I was mistaken.

  Dread—pure, potent, panic-producing dread—threatens to swallow me alive.

  Please tell me I heard wrong.

  "Jaxon Ray? As in her childhood friend?" I emphasize the word "friend", knowing that Charles knows as well as I do that Jax wasn't Amber's friend. He was her childhood tormentor turned abuser come potential husband if her father could've persuaded her to fall in line with his plans. Dr. Jaxon Ray is the reason why Amber ran away from her home the minute she could—penniless and psychologically damaged. He's the reason why, even after ten years together, my beautiful, broken bride-to-be can't bear to sleep in the same bed as me.

  "Yes, him."

  "What the fuck is she doing with him?"

  Silence greets me. As it drags on, a million scenario's—each one worse that the one before it—run through my head.

  Has he kidnapped her?

  If he's kidnapped her, why is he taking her out in public?

  What if her father has found some way to bully her into doing as he says?

  "Xander, I think we need to meet. Discuss this in person."

  It's the tone in his voice that tells me I need to know what he knows right now. Waiting until we are looking at each other isn't an option. It's abundantly clear that he has information that I need to learn … right bloody now.