False Memory

by Meli Raine

  We ride the rest of the way to my appointment in silence, pulling into the parking lot of a medical complex where the wig store is located. Catering to patients with complicated cases, the store is the only one of its kind near here, offering real hair from donors.

  As Duff gets out, I stay in place.

  And burst into tears.

  Duff’s on my side of the car, waiting, as I let the tears flow, my hands over my eyes, weeping without one stitch of control. The muscles of my left eye are tight and lopsided, so crying feels weird on top of being an emotional experience. What used to be part of the background is now so conscious, every physiological experience relearned and relived.

  Even crying.

  Tap tap tap.

  “Lily?”

  I look up. His blank expression changes as he reaches for the handle and opens the door.

  “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

  “I’m so tired. So tired of–of this.”

  “Of what?”

  “Everything.”

  He nods, standing there, the wind blowing into the car, making a piece of my hair fly into the tears on my cheek, clinging.

  Normally, when I’m with someone and we’re quiet, I fill in the space with chatter, as if the empty space itself is bad. That was Before.

  Now, the space fills with feelings, all of them mine, expanding like a balloon, a tidal pool, a cloud. It grows and grows and grows, the space and the toiling of my mind.

  The wind joins in like an unexpected houseguest who, seeing he’s not welcome, makes a quiet retreat.

  And all along, Duff just stands there, a presence who is quiet in form but represents anything but peace.

  I’m sorry are the words on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow them fast, knowing they’re not true. Conditioning overrides even the worst neurological blow, doesn’t it? I’ve been trained to be happy, sunny, bright, and sweet.

  Sitting here, I’m anything but.

  And with Duff, I don’t have to be anything but real.

  “Want to cancel?”

  I look up at him. “No, I should–wait a minute.”

  He waits. His phone buzzes. He looks at it. He sighs.

  “Lily,” he says, voice low and filled with emotion. “I lied to you.”

  “What?”

  “I lied.” He wags his phone in front of me. “This does concern you.”

  “The thing you’re being texted about?”

  “Yes.” Scrubbing his face with his hand, it’s clear he’s struggling with what to say. Stoic Duff is showing vulnerability.

  The world really is off kilter.

  More silence.

  “Well?” I ask him.

  “You going in to your appointment or not?” he replies, as if that’s the topic of conversation.

  “DUFF! You can’t drop a bomb like that and not tell me what the hell’s going on!”

  His eyes meet mine.

  “Someone broke into your medical files. They’re digging deep into all of it, but with a very specific focus.”

  “On what?”

  “Your neuro and psych team.”

  “Why? Why would someone want my records?”

  “Because,” he says, bending down so he’s eye to eye with me, the space between us so small, we’re inches from kissing, if Duff wanted to kiss me. My heart rate spikes.

  “Because what?”

  “They’re trying to figure out if you’re lying.”

  Chapter 24

  All of the blood inside my skin stops moving, as if someone dehydrated me, leaving nothing but red sand and wind.

  “Lying about what?” I gasp.

  “Whether you caught a glimpse of the shooter.”

  My lips are numb, flapping like sails as the wind picks up. “Why would I lie?”

  “I don’t know, Lily.” His voice is soft, a butterfly of doom on the wind. “Why would you?”

  “You seriously think I woke up from a fourteen-month coma, spent another nine months recovering, living under constant surveillance, having every part of my life under a microscope–only to lie about the man who did this?”

  “Man?” Skepticism fills his face. “You were all about not pinning down a gender yesterday.”

  “Go to hell! I don’t remember a damn thing!” I lie. Lie right to his face, eyes locked on his, my tears drying from the rising heat of my horror. “I’m falling apart and you’re interrogating me? Like this? Damn it, Duff, maybe my mom’s right!”

  “What about your mom?”

  “She says you feel guilty for letting me get shot on your watch.”

  “I do.”

  “And that guilt makes you sloppy.”

  Anger fills in the very edges of his face, the tips of his ears going red, the jaw clenching, nostrils flaring. He exhibits the kind of anger that would have terrified me Before.

  But now?

  Now I revel in seeing him rattled.

  “She thinks I should request Romeo for my detail. He calls my parents every week.”

  Duff takes on the strangest expression, like I’m seeing face after face roll underneath his skin. It’s as fascinating as it is creepy. Is he trying on reactions inside? Can he control himself to a point?

  Have we reached his breaking point?

  “He does, does he?”

  “Yes. Mom thinks he’s great.”

  “What about you?

  “What about me?”

  “Do you think he’s great?” The last word is spat out like poison.

  “I don’t know,” I lie again. A muscle in my jaw starts to burn, the neuralgia making it hard to concentrate. I need all the words I can find, all my wits, and to coast on the fumes of my old, functional brain.

  “You wouldn’t have brought him up if you weren’t thinking about him.”

  No kidding.

  “I’m just telling you what Mom said.”

  “Why? Why are you telling me what Bee said? What’s your agenda here, Lily?”

  “I have no agenda.”

  “You want Romeo assigned to you?”

  “NO!” The word comes out like a scream, a snap, a broken stick across a knee, a spank.

  A gunshot.

  “Don’t like Romeo?”

  “I have nothing against him.” Except for the fact that he tried to kill me in cold blood.

  “Then what?”

  The world takes one long, intense inhale and then holds its breath. I can’t tell him the truth. Yet there’s also something more in his scrutiny, the way his eyes move across my face, resting for a few beats too long at my mouth. A heady mix of emotion and–dare I say it?–arousal forms a veil around us, making the rest of the world pale in comparison.

  I’m imagining this, aren’t I? Duff’s not...

  “I–I don’t want anyone new,” I blurt out.

  “Why not? I failed you.”

  “You didn’t fail anyone.”

  His eyes jump to my scar cluster. He points. “There’s physical proof.”

  “I am not a failure.”

  “No–that’s not what I’m saying.” Hands go up in an expression of protest, his face twisting with emotion. Good emotion. Connective emotion.

  The kind you extend to someone you care about.

  “When you say you failed me, it makes me feel like the object of your mistake. As if it’s all about the ‘poor Lily’ and nothing about the ‘yay Lily’ who survived this clusterfuck.”

  His eyes narrow at my profanity.

  “The old Lily would never have used that word.”

  “The old Lily would never have imagined she’d be shot in the head and survive.” I let out a really harsh sound. It’s as close to a laugh as I can muster. “Are you really tone-policing me? Who turned you into my mother?”

  “I’m the furthest you can get from being your mom, Lily.”

  Electricity crackles between us. I don’t know what to do with it. Like static cling that turns every touch into a shock, it’s everywhere and nowhere, popping wher
e I least expect it.

  “Right,” I gasp, reeling. A minute ago we were arguing about Romeo and suddenly, my quickening pulse has nothing to do with fear.

  And from the way Duff’s looking at me, I’m not the only one who feels this way.

  “Here’s what we know,” he says, stretching his neck as if working out a kink, “someone just cracked your medical records. They’re looking for something very specific. What would they find, Lily, if they got your confidential notes from a psychiatrist or psychologist?”

  “A lot of complaining about my hairline. My pain.”

  “Nothing you haven’t told us or the police about the shooting?”

  “No. Nothing.” Because I didn’t even tell my therapists the truth.

  “Then it’s a fishing expedition. Someone is scared.”

  “Scared? You mean the killer?”

  “Or the people who hired him.” I get a gimlet eye. “Or her.”

  “Him,” I say reflexively, thinking of Romeo, imagining his dark hair, eyes black as coal, the flash of his image in that mirror.

  “You do know.”

  “What?”

  “Some part of you knows it was a guy. Second time you've mentioned a man.”

  “Well, it certainly wasn’t Monica Bosworth herself!”

  “No. She operated behind the scenes.”

  “You were there, weren’t you?”

  “Where?”

  “At the house in D.C., when she tried to kill the president.”

  “He wasn’t president then.”

  “You know what I mean. When she shot her own daughter. Lindsay.”

  “Right.”

  “Did you see it coming? You were around them a lot.”

  “No. No one did.”

  “Do you blame yourself for Lindsay Bosworth being shot?”

  Slowly, like a hawk spotting desired prey off in the distance, calculating how to capture information to attain its needs, Duff looks at me, eyes peering, tightening to triangles that show a little white, a lot of iris, and a pupil that is as close to a camera lens as it gets.

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Then why blame yourself for what happened to me?”

  “Because I was on duty.”

  “Were you on duty when Monica Bosworth fired that shot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what, Duff? What’s the difference?”

  Soulful eyes meet mine. “You.”

  Chapter 25

  “Me?”

  “You–” Whatever’s between us, unspoken and waiting breathlessly for its turn, has to be patient. Duff’s standing a respectful distance away from me, but his eyes are touching me, his gaze like a caress.

  “You didn’t deserve what happened to you. You’re an innocent. You are innocent, Lily. You’re the purest person I’ve ever met.”

  “Don’t go all china doll on me, Duff. Not you, too. You were the one person through my recovery who never pulled that on me. Don’t start now. I’m not some fragile little girl who needs to be handled with care.”

  “That’s not what I mean. You’re not delicate. You’re pure of heart.”

  Protest forms in my mouth, the words tasting very distinct and crisp. Before I can let them out, I hold an arm to block them, ushering a different set to take the stage. “What do you mean by that?” I question him.

  “It’s hard to explain.”

  “You’re a man who seems to enjoy challenges.”

  Oh, God, the grin he gives me. I could swim in that grin forever.

  “I do.” The look he gives me tells me I’m one of them.

  “Then... explain? Pure of heart?”

  “You have no fakery. No subterfuge. No lies. You are who and what you are and that’s it.” He takes a step closer to me, the sunlight shining on his face as he gives me a bemused smile. “No one is like you, Lily. It’s refreshing.”

  “Lots of people are like me,” I scoff. “You need to widen your circle of people you interact with. If all you do is protect people from violent assholes, you’re going to get a skewed worldview.”

  “You’re not wrong.”

  “Was that an admission I’m right? I feel all warm and tingly inside!”

  “That’s post-surgical neuralgia. Your nervous system isn’t firing on all cylinders.”

  But we laugh.

  “I don’t want Romeo assigned to me,” I say, finally able to be honest.

  “Good. Because you don’t get him. He’s been hand picked to protect Bosworth full time now. Lives the job.”

  “The president.”

  “Yes.”

  “You said hand picked. By whom?”

  “Geez, Lily. Your grammar’s better than mine! Whom?”

  “Mom drilled it into me as a kid. So who picked him?” I persist.

  “Romeo was hand picked by the president himself. Harry wanted him specifically.”

  Hand picked.

  President of the United States.

  Father of Jane.

  The real target of the shooting.

  I can’t tell them that the president of the United States has a hitman protecting him.

  A hitman who must have been hired by the president’s dead wife, who tried to shoot her own husband in the chest.

  “Lily?” Duff asks as I process it all, slow as molasses but with the racing heart of a hummingbird.

  “Huh?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Just... I’m tired.”

  “Right. You blew off the wig appointment.”

  I touch my head. “The glamour will have to wait.”

  “I think you look fine without it.”

  There it is again. The shift in the air between us, like I can’t take a deep, cleansing breath because there’s no air at all to inhale.

  “You must be half blind, Duff.”

  “My eyes work just fine.”

  “Then you’re a diplomat.”

  “That I am.” He pauses. “Where to? You’re in charge.”

  An idea hits me. It’s time. It’s more than time.

  Green. Fresh. Flowers. Mom. Dad. The words are right there, paused and waiting for me, crouched to lunge up my vocal cords and come flying out of my mouth. I wait. Then I blurt out, “The Thorn Poke.”

  Duff’s eyes bug out of his head. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him express so much emotion. “You sure?”

  “Dad’s there now, working alone. I’m sure.”

  “You ready for that? You haven’t gone back in months. Since we first took you to the scene of the crime.”

  “The shop is way more than the scene of a crime, Duff,” I say, suddenly testy and unsure of my plan.

  “Of course it is. It’s also a source of stress for you. Remember what the doctor said?”

  “Which one? Which appointment? Which lecture? You have to narrow it down.”

  “The neuro. Your stroke risk is high.”

  “You think going to The Thorn Poke would be more stressful than sitting in that room with Silas?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Are–are you uncertain? Don’t want to face my dad?”

  I’ve hit a big nerve.

  “What? No!” he spits out, suddenly folding in, all his emotions disappearing. “I’ve got no problem with Tom.”

  “Dad’s got a problem with you.”

  “Your agenda is my job, Lily. If you tell me we’re going to The Thorn Poke, we’re going.”

  “The way Dad and Mom talk to you doesn’t bother you?”

  “Should it?”

  “It bothers me.”

  The implacable facade cracks just a little. “Don’t project your emotions onto me. I’m fine.”

  “That’s my line. ‘Fine.’”

  “They say when two people spend a lot of time together, they start assuming each other’s quirks, speech patterns, the whole bit,” he points out.

  “Like calling my mother Mam?”

  He just blinks.

  “Are you I
rish, Duff?”

  “No.” He blinks more, then looks down. “But my Gran was.”

  “Gran?”

  “Grandma.”

  “Ah.”

  “Done with your ancestry lesson?” he asks.

  “Don’t you want to know where my grandma’s from?”

  “Where?”

  “Medina, Ohio.”

  “She have an accent?”

  “No one from Ohio has an accent!”

  Duff lets out a strained laugh as he heads back around to the driver’s side of the car. This whole morning has been nothing but curveball after curveball thrown at me. Yesterday, a medicine ball, today these curveballs.

  The target isn’t my head, or a bat.

  It might be my heart.

  Definitely my gut.

  Romeo’s been hand picked by the president of the United States to be his bodyguard? Not Secret Service, either. I didn’t ask, but I don’t have to. Whatever kind of company Andrew Foster is running, it’s one that works in the shadows.

  For him to hand off Romeo Czaky to become part of the president’s team seems awfully convenient.

  How far up does this scandal go?

  And how deep down does it stretch?

  The man who shot me in cold blood is now one arm’s length from the leader of the free world.

  And if I open my mouth, I die.

  If I don’t open my mouth, the president could die.

  Or... maybe he hired Romeo because he knows? He knows Romeo tried to kill Jane. His daughter. Instantly, I'm repulsed, the thought too grotesque to entertain.

  There’s a special bond between dads and daughters. I know it all too well. A father would never do that, right? No matter how ambitious. How driven.

  But then again, my dad acknowledges me. Everyone knows he’s my father. Jane doesn’t have that.

  And as we turn the corner to the street where The Thorn Poke resides, waiting to embrace me with oxygen and trauma, I think about my father. What my shooting, my coma, my awakening did to him.

  How it literally broke his heart.

  One block ahead, flashing lights make me cover my eyes. Seizures are a risk for me still, as my wiring mends.

  “Is that near the shop?” I ask Duff.

  “Yes.”

  “Is it–is it at the shop?”

  Silence.

  “Duff! I can’t move my hands. Tell me!”

  “Sorry, Lily, but there’s an ambulance right in front of The Thorn Poke.” He pulls the car over and I open one eye.