by M. D. Waters
Do you really need a lesson in covert operations? She says. Don’t let them see you.
I step away from the corner without question and duck into an unused hospital room. It is several minutes before their voices amble by, and I wait a couple more before stepping back out. The way is clear and I head home to await my husband and hopefully the truth about my accident.
• • •
The mattress dipping beside me wakes me from a deep sleep. I cannot remember dreaming, which is nothing short of a miracle. I am lying on my stomach with my pillow clutched in my arms under my head. When I open my eyes, it is to see the failing light outside the glass wall. The remaining day’s light makes the snow sparkle in muted reds and oranges and yellows. It feels wrong to mute colors such as these.
I blink dry eyes and find my body is still too weary to fully wake. Not even for Declan, who runs a hand over my back. I cannot even find the energy to greet him.
“You left your session today,” he says, and I cannot tell if he is annoyed, but he is definitely not amused. “Emma, you can’t do that.”
I roll to my back and cover my face with my palms. “I know. I was just so tired. I will apologize to Dr. Travista tomorrow.”
“I think that’s a good idea. He has a tight schedule, so to walk out as if his time is a waste of yours is insulting.”
Annoyance sparks heat in my chest. I come up on my elbows and eye him narrowly. “I said I will apologize to him, Declan.”
His lips draw scarce and his shoulders lift with a deep inhalation. “Emma, it’s been a long day and my patience is thin.”
I scoot down to drop off the end of the bed. “That makes two of us.”
“Lights,” I say inside the bathroom and blink against the sudden brightness.
I run the tap to splash cold water over my face and rinse out my mouth. When I rise back up and grab a towel to dry my face, Declan’s reflection stares at me with arms folded, shoulder pressed into the door’s frame. His expression tells me nothing about his mood, but I am not used to this unsmiling Declan. He can usually summon something for me.
I pat my face with the thick hand towel. “Have you changed your mind about telling me?”
His gaze drops to the floor. “No.”
My stomach tightens and I clutch the towel tighter with quivering hands. I almost want to tell him to forget it because they make it sound like such a horrific incident. Maybe I will be better off not knowing.
Replacing the towel, I turn and lean into the sink. “So? What happened?”
Declan sighs and turns, loosening his tie. He goes through the agonizing process of undressing down to his undershirt and pants before saying, “Remember the attack you saw in the news scroll?”
I recall the scrolling headlines of the Richmond Times newspaper. BURKE ENTERPRISES BACK UP AND RUNNING AFTER LARGEST ATTACK TO DATE. Declan had gotten upset about it.
He throws a sweater over his head—thin rather than the thicker versions he usually prefers, and light blue. The neck dips in a V to show the white undershirt. “That same group—the resistance—went after you,” he finally says. He pauses. Takes a deep breath. “You were just another attack on me.”
CHAPTER 27
I stiffen toward my husband, who is having a hard time meeting my eyes. Finally, he takes my hand and pulls me from the bedroom. A fire rages and crackles in the fireplace already. He leads me to the couch and leaves me to tend the fire, which does not need tending. He kneels and jabs a poker into the glowing embers. Sparks fly and explode; logs snap. The orange blaze reflects in his unblinking eyes and flickers over his skin, at war with the shadows there.
“They took you from our home,” he says. “We lived in the suburbs of Richmond. Gated community, parks, swimming pool in the backyard. You loved it there. I thought you were safe there.” He glances around the living room, careful to avoid my eyes. “This was only a vacation home.”
“What happened?” I cannot get my voice to rise above a whisper. I am shocked to hear how my accident had something to do with the resistance. The very group I stand accused of working with in my past.
Declan stands and leans into the brick over the fireplace with a single hand. His eyes never leave the fire itself. The muscle working furiously in his jaw distracts me from the fact that it is taking him a long time to answer. “They left you for me to find: broken, scarred beyond recognition . . . paralyzed and lying in a pool of your own blood.” He closes his eyes. “They raped you.”
My body grows numb, detached, like he is speaking of something vile happening to someone else. Not me. I repeat the words in my head. Broken. Scarred. Paralyzed. Raped.
Emma, She says in a warning tone. You can’t listen to this.
But I am not listening to Her. The phrase “they raped you” is on repeat in my mind. Especially the last word. “You.” He said “you,” and my mind races to exchange the word with “her.” “You” does not feel right, except he did say it. He means me.
Me?
I run mental fingers throughout my entire body, doing an internal examination, searching for evidence of this violation, but come up empty.
Someone violated me in the most personal of ways. Left me for dead.
I clutch at my stomach, sick, and cannot look at him. I cannot stop blinking, as if this will clear my vision of these horrors he speaks of. And now certain things make sense: Declan was so careful with me in the beginning. Hesitant to touch me. Kiss me. Letting our first time making love be my decision.
He runs a hand over his jaw and sighs. Looks away. “Emma, I tried protecting you from this. I’m so sorry.”
I nod, but the movement feels like it comes from someone else’s body. “How—” I stop and clear my throat. “How am I”—I look down at the perfect skin of my hands—“like this? Walking? Without scars?” Without the luckenbooth, I add silently.
“What Arthur did was highly experimental, but it worked. And you’re fine. With the exception of your missing memories—probably due to the trauma—there’s absolutely nothing wrong with you.”
Except I do have memories. Memories that contradict every word he says to me. Memories of a life nowhere near suburbia or him. Far from it, in fact.
Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? She says.
Makes me wonder who to trust, I say. You feed me the memories.
She says nothing to defend Herself.
The couch dips beside me and I swivel toward Declan. He watches me in that careful way of his. Waits for me to lead him. Will I accept, question, freak out? I do not know which to choose. Maybe all three.
I study his face, all traces of his earlier annoyance gone. “Where did they leave me?” I ask.
His eyes lower and there is the tiniest pulse of muscle below one eye. “You were missing for more than a day. They left you on the side of the road in our neighborhood.” He does not elaborate any further.
“And you found me?” I need answers. Details. Proof. I need him to tell me what to believe.
He turns to face forward and nods. Stares down at his clasped hands.
“Do you not travel by teleporter?”
“Yes. Now I do. I didn’t always.”
“What else did they do? You said I was scarred? How? Where?”
“Emma, you may not remember the details, but I do.” His voice is strained and he closes his eyes. “I understand you have a lot of questions, but is having these details that important to you?”
I stand, wiping my sweaty palms over my pants. How can he ask that? It is selfish of him to keep all the answers. I understand it is painful for him to remember me like that, but this is not about him. This is about me and a past I want—no, need—to remember. But more than that, I do not know whom to trust.
But I cannot say this to him, because if I do we will end up fighting, and I do not want to fight with him. Not right now. My urge to be alone is overwhelming. I have to think. I have to make sense of what he has told me versus what She shows me. I need to find the tru
th in the jumbled mess and black holes that are my mind. And I cannot do this with him watching me.
I round the couch and lift a coat from a hook near the teleporter. It is a small, puffy white thing that I have never worn, as I never go outside the house. I shove inside it and am zipped completely before Declan stands before me, watching all this with narrowed eyes.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“I am going outside.” I will not let him control this situation like he does everything else. I never usually mind, but this time is different.
He shakes his head. “Emma, I don’t think that’s—”
“I am going outside,” I say and force my feet into matching boots. My jaw aches from clenching my teeth and my skin flushes with angry heat. “I need to be alone. I need to walk and think and I need you to not watch me do it for once.”
He opens and then promptly closes his mouth. After a moment, he nods. “Okay, but as for the security feed—”
I huff out a frustrated breath. “You never let me out of your sight. I cannot do anything without you watching over my shoulder. Do you not ever just want to be completely alone? I want space to scream and cry and yell if I feel the need, and I do not want you watching me do it.” Tears race from my eyes before I can stop them. “Please. Just leave me alone for once. We are isolated from the world up here. What harm is there?”
His eyes dart back and forth over my face, his lips thin. “You’re right,” he finally says. He looks down and away, blinking rapidly. He breathes out slowly. “You should be alone. It’s just that you’re my entire world, Emma. I have a hard time giving you freedom because I can’t lose you. Not again.”
He shakes his head as if to clear it. “Don’t listen to me. Try not to be too long, and stay close. There are some rocky cliffs to the west. They aren’t far and they’re dangerous. They could be icy. Not to mention the daylight is waning.”
I do not respond and I stride over to the sliding glass on the other side of the dining room table. I yank it aside and barely give myself time to react to the shock of cold before stepping out onto the pale wood of the outside decking. It is amazing to me how this house with all its glass can manage to hold the heat.
“Emma, wait,” Declan calls out.
I turn to find him jogging toward me with something in his hands. When he is near, I recognize the white beanie and gloves. He wordlessly pulls the hat down over my head. I take the gloves and he lifts my chin, his eyes intense as they look into mine. Finally, he leans down to kiss me. His warm lips press softly and linger. His palms cup my cheeks. When he pulls away, his thumbs blot the remaining trails of tears.
“Please be careful,” he whispers.
I nod and turn away from him, pushing my hands into the gloves. The glass slides shut behind me, and though the sound is soft, it makes me jump. While the idea of being out here had seemed like a good idea before, I suddenly realize what I am in for. The deck is wide and circles the house. Deck furniture sits under the overhang against the outer walls with a light dusting of snow. But where the overhang ends, where the wind can only push it so far, the thick snow forms a nearly perfect line.
I stop with my toes kissing this soft edge, but only long enough to take a deep breath. There is nothing to fear from the snow. It is only frozen water. I will not find any dead bodies out here. Just a perfect spread of untouched winter. Winter has its own beauty, does it not? The way the snow shimmers like diamonds in the failing sunlight?
I make my first foot impression in the snow. Then my second. And I keep going until cold seeps through my boots and blankets my toes. And still I continue. I focus on the sounds of my feet crunching the perfect surface with each step and try to slow my heart to my slower-paced steps. I watch my breath crystallize into clouds before my eyes and disappear in time for the next cloud to materialize.
I reach the tree line and find the snow thinner and in patches. The dense woods make it difficult for the snow to penetrate. Inside the cluster, my lungs expand to breathe to their fullest capacity, overwhelming my senses with the scent of juniper trees. Each step crunches, not with snow, but with fallen needles and branches.
Though frozen to my core, I am already calmer. Clearer headed. I just wish my urge to cry and the ache in my throat would go away. I do not want to cry. I do not want to feel so emotionally unbalanced, but it is hard when I just found out what those people did to me.
What the resistance did to me.
The resistance Charles Godfrey accused me of working with? The same resistance Noah Tucker would kill me to prevent me from becoming a part of again? Is Noah part of this resistance as well? He wanted to know what my orders were as if I received them from outside the group, not within it. As if the orders were to infiltrate in some way.
Did you think you could slide right back into place?
He abhorred the idea, but not in the way Charles had. He acted as if I were a traitor.
Foster trusted me. You talk a good game, but when it comes down to it, you’re doing what you were meant to do. You were born for this.
If I am to believe these dream memories, I trusted him, too. That, and he did not try to kill me in the gallery last month. He did not alert the troops in his shock.
Or did he?
Maybe Foster is the reason Noah knew where to find me and when. The idea of Foster giving me up feels like the deepest of betrayals. I sense from the dreams he is my closest friend, but the truth is, I do not know him.
I do not know myself. I do not know what I have done to deserve a death sentence that has failed twice now—I have to believe the rape and torture was their first attempt. Somehow Declan saved me, only the resistance did not know until Foster found me in the gallery.
Who am I supposed to trust? This voice in my head showing me a life I cannot make sense of? She protects these people with a fierceness that would kill us both if I so much as breathe a word against them.
Or should I trust my husband, whom I love, but who also tells me things that contradict everything I have come to believe is real? He lies about something as simple as the length of our marriage. What else does he lie about?
In my mind’s eye, I see Declan’s heartache while recalling the memories of finding me. He seemed so sincere. And yet, he has seemed sincere from the very beginning.
If there is anyone I know for certain I cannot trust, it is Noah. He had his chance to explain how he knew me at the gallery, but he didn’t. Why is that? To protect himself, no doubt. He does not know I remember how he kept me in a tank of water. I was conscious of my surroundings, thinking clearly, so why? I can think of no medical reason no matter how often Sonya referred to me as a patient.
The tree line comes to an end and a wide chasm spreads out before me. Mountains rise and fall all around, dark with shadow on the side the setting sun does not touch. Gray rocks erupt from the snow in front of me and form jagged edges as well as smooth ones. They do not look icy, and I want to see over the side, so I tread carefully with arms out to balance myself.
A lake lies below. Not far, either. Farther to my right, the side of the mountain slopes in an easy trail to the water. When the weather warms, the lake will be my first destination. Right now, though, there is a layer of ice over the surface. The surface turns black in the growing night, and I decide it is time to head back. Or at least get away from the edge.
I shiver involuntarily as I picture how falling over the side would mean ending up crashing into the frozen lake. Would the ice freeze over me? Trap me underwater? That would be a torturous way to die.
I pull to an abrupt halt and freeze. That is it. The reason for the tank. Torture. Declan said they tortured me. Was the water a part of it? In my memory I cannot move. It is as if I am paralyzed just as Declan said he found me.
The sick feeling returns, twisting my stomach. It is all beginning to make sense. The dreams are memories of what happened to me. What Noah did to me. I have been wrong to doubt my husband. He protects me, and though I may no
t like the way he goes about it sometimes, his intentions are admirable. I can put my trust in him, but not Noah. . . . Never Noah.
Noah Tucker is my enemy.
CHAPTER 28
Declan is cooking dinner when I return. I have no way of knowing how long I have been gone, but I am utterly frozen. I cannot feel my face or fingers or toes. But the fog of confusion in my head has lifted. I will trust my husband and be wary of anything She shows me from now on.
The heat inside the house coats me and sends a painful tingle over my skin as I begin to thaw.
Declan turns at the sound of the sliding glass and removes the pan from the heat. He chuckles. “Your nose is red.” He hurries over and helps me out of my coat. “Go stand by the fire. I’ll pour you a bourbon.”
Alcohol is something I tend to decline, but tonight I want nothing more. I step down into the living room and see a tablet computer sitting on the couch. An angry flush heats my chest because he only brings this out to check security feeds. He promised he would not watch me.
I pick it up and swipe to unlock the screen. The security feeds to at least ten areas fill the screen. They are the usual ones he tends to monitor constantly, the house being one of them. I open my mouth to accuse him of watching me when I notice that the square for the house is dark. He turned off the feed as I requested.
Declan steps down the stairs, a glass in each hand, an eyebrow raised. “I promised, didn’t I? Need to check up on me?”
I shake my head and drop the tablet on the couch. “No, sorry, I guess not.” I take the glass of amber liquid he offers. “Thanks.”
He brushes my hair back behind my ear and kisses my forehead. “Better?”
I shrug a single shoulder and turn to stand in front of the fire. “I guess. I do not feel as jumbled or unfocused.”
I sip the bourbon, and in seconds, warmth spreads around my center. I take a larger drink, and fingers of heat lick up to my limbs and swirl in my head.