Blood and Bone (Blood and Bone Series Book 1), page 5
“The hospital where I worked. I got them from the morgue, they were going to be cremated anyway.” He has to be lying. “There was nothing left but bone chunks and jewelry.”
My trembling lips part. “Why would you do that?”
He wipes his face, staring at the wall, refusing to look in my eyes. “Because I loved you and I needed you, and I knew if you were killing things at night they would lock you up in a mental ward. I knew I could take care of you and help you keep it under control.”
“Things? Not people?”
He shakes his head, sniffling and wiping his eyes. “You never got that far. It was animals, mostly wild animals. I followed you once. You were like a sleepwalker, but you were ravenous. You killed a cat, smearing the blood on yourself, and then walked home. It was bizarre. I tried to talk to you, but you didn’t see or hear me. Classic sleepwalking.”
I cover my face in shame, wanting to block it all out. There is no way. I would never hurt a single thing. I don’t have it in me. I know that. I can feel it. Especially a cat. I have Binx.
Thinking of his name sends me into a panic, wondering if he is the thing I killed. I lift my head, but my panic is instantly deflated as I see him crashed on the couch. He’s sleeping and fine.
I close my eyes, shaking my head and wishing I could shake the words away. Wishing I could take them from my memory.
He walks to me. I hear his footsteps on the tiles. He drops to his knees again, wrapping himself around me. “You’re Jane now. You’re different now.” It isn’t the response I expected.
“But I was her. I was a girl who had a life. I had a college education. I knew Ronald.”
He rubs my back, kissing my head. “You did. You are a smart girl—no one is disputing that. But you have a disease, a sickness. So until there’s a cure, I keep you safe as best as I can. No stress, no anger, no worry, no problems. You can’t handle a job more intense than being a shopgirl. You need familiarity and calmness all the time. We will pack up and leave tomorrow, go on a little trip.”
I freeze, stilled by the words he has spoken.
My blood is still and my heart stops, so every single aspect of this moment is untouched, untainted by anything else. I need to be able to remember everything.
My stomach falls somewhere inside me, making an instant ache.
I went to Berkeley? My name is Sam? I feel like throwing up. My past has finally caught up to me, and all along it was hiding here, with him. I trusted him, and he hid all of it from me. Why would he keep lying all these years?
I gag back the heave in my throat. I feel like I’m standing in the desert and he is across from me and the ground is breaking off, separating us. There is a massive split in the earth in front of me, and he is on the other side.
Tears splash down from my eyes as the reality of it all hits. Everything moves as if there is a delay, just like it did when I first opened my eyes from the coma. I see the memories I have of the last three years. They are all of him—him and Angie and me. Is Angie in on it? Does she know me? Did a man really come in looking for me, or was she trying to help me remember?
“What are you thinking?” His voice is panicked.
“That I don’t know you or me. That the dead guy in the park knew me better than either of us.”
“Don’t say that.” He lifts my hands, kissing them. “I love you. I just wanted you to have a chance to start over.”
I lift my head. “You almost killed me with the car accident on purpose?” I open his robe I’m wearing, revealing my scars and naked body. “You did this to me to protect me?”
He shakes his head. “You really had a car accident. You really did almost die.”
I don’t know what to say or do or think. I don’t know what is true. Killing cats sounds pretty far-fetched to me. It doesn’t ring true inside me. What if he’s lying about that just like he’s lied about everything else?
His eyes and the look on his face are killing me, but I can’t get past it all. It’s too much.
He walks to the bathroom, not closing the door all the way. I don’t know why that bothers me but it does. He always closes it. Is he in there watching me? Or am I becoming paranoid?
Something inside me, an animalistic instinct, perhaps, takes over. I stand, without thinking, and pull on my dirty clothes from the floor, a habit he hates but tolerates. How many of those are there? How many habits do I have that he just looks past? How much of this is real love, and how much is lying to protect us?
When I get into the hallway, I place my cell phone on the desk at the front door. I don’t want to talk to him. Not yet. I need to sort through the things he’s said and the possibilities in every statement he made.
I back up to the door, snagging my Chucks from the shoe rack on my way out, and slowly close the door.
I don’t know what to do or where to go or why.
All I know is that when I start to walk toward the backyard, my body goes into something I assume is survival mode. It’s no longer animalistic but more as if I already know how to do it.
When I get past the stairwell on the side of the building behind us, I’m sheltered from the view of the house. I pull on my Chucks and run between the buildings to the alley at the end of the road. It feels colder, and I feel more alone than I think I ever have.
I turn toward Angie’s place, but my earlier thought dawns on me that she might be involved. And even if she’s not, he will likely look there first when he realizes I have left. I turn around and walk toward the only other place I can think of—the bus station.
I pay for the longest ride I have cash for, and sit in the warmth. My brain gets stuck on his smile, repeating it over and over. Without him as my safe place I have nothing, almost literally nothing. I can feel Jane dying off inside me, but Sam is still a distant blurry image. I don’t know how to be her. I don’t want to be her.
There’s a chance I am now neither of them. I am lost.
5. AGENT BARNES
His hands run up the insides of my pants, trailing across my inner thighs with tickles and feather-light touches.
In my dream, I’m lying back on the bed and Derek’s telling me how beautiful I am. I laugh and make a joke about him wanting to get into my pants. His fingers brush across my groin just as I’m startled awake to the vile breath of a stranger groping between my legs.
My hand flies out, choking him. My other hand grabs his fingers from between my legs. I snap his fingers back, breaking bone and joints. He cries out, but it’s hushed from the hand around his throat. I squeeze harder with my fingers, attempting to break the windpipe. I know that is my goal.
It scares me. I let go and kick him into the seat across from me.
“Fucking bitch!” he chokes out, cradling his dirty fingers.
Another man glances over at me from a few rows up. He gives us each a confused look. The pervert ignores the man and me, muttering obscenities and clutching his broken hand to his raggedly dressed chest.
I get up, walking quickly to the front of the bus. The seats up there are empty. I don’t know how long I’ve been riding, but it’s daylight again. I don’t even know where I am. I don’t see the city anymore, so I get off at the next stop. All I know is I’m starving.
I walk down the stairs to the cold cement and then down the street that’s lined with buildings, cars, and houses. It’s not the kind of stop a person like me wants to take. It’s residential but not the sort of residential I’m used to. It’s dirty and seedy. I walk along the sidewalk, glancing at the cars lining the road. My fingers itch when I glimpse the cars, as if I could take one of them.
It’s not as comforting as I would have imagined, the possibility I might be able to steal cars.
The streets are nearly empty here; not a single pedestrian walks by me. I look over at the houses I pass, getting an even fouler idea. I need to sleep, shower, eat, and use the washroom. I need to do the things I should have been able to do at my house. I feel like Goldilocks.
Wishing I had my phone, I climb the steps of the next house I see with no car out front, and knock. No one comes.
I knock again, but there isn’t movement in the house, so I walk around to the rear, slipping into the backyard. It’s small and neat. I rub my hands together as I try the basement door. It opens. I stand there, watching my breath play with the cold air, and try to decide if this is the right choice.
I push the door open and call into the darkness of the strange basement. “Hello?”
There is no answer from the shadows, so I step inside, smelling something that makes me wrinkle my nose. It’s musty and overwhelming. It’s the opposite of our house.
I close the door and lock it behind me. It’s the least I can do for the owners who have left their home unlocked for strangers like me to invade.
The basement is silent. There is no movement in the house, no water or footsteps or voices or heat. It’s as cold inside as it is outside.
The back room is icy and dark. The only light comes from the window in the basement door. I stay there with my back pressed against the window.
If my feet go any farther I am breaking the law, badly, but my stomach is aching and I need to call Angie. Desperate to be warm and to speak to someone who will help me, I push myself off the door and force my feet to venture into the strange house.
The basement is old and dingy. It reminds me of something but I can’t recall what.
Behind the misery, lies, and everything else, I miss Derek. I miss our home and the warmth we make there. In a spinning world of chaos he is the only constant thing I have to keep my eyes on, to keep me from falling. Now I don’t know if I have him, and I feel like I might plummet any second.
I climb the carpeted stairs and realize the smell that is bothering me is smoke. It’s old smoke. It worsens as I reach the top step of the upstairs floor.
A song plays in my mind, as if I am watching a movie the moment the smoke triggers a memory.
I remember a car ride and a lady singing a song on the radio. The Rolling Stones. It was the Rolling Stones. I don’t know who she is, but she sings and reaches into the back to stroke my hair. Her face is fuzzy, like my mind. She tells me to stay low—the smoke will bother me less if I sit on the floor. I curl up and close my eyes again, and she sings softly. I can see the light through my eyelids.
The flash is there one minute and instantly gone the next. I make a conscious decision to make that a memory. My first real memory of before. I am strong enough to let the memories in and deal with what I find. I have to be. Besides, if I remember her I’m not alone. Maybe she is the mother I don’t recall.
I walk into a living room and then a kitchen. Everything is older, not like our house. It’s dull, like their life started in a small house and they will die in a small house and they will never matter beyond the block they live on.
I don’t know why but that feels like a life not worth living.
My eyes take a second to adjust to the dull house. I am so lost in thought I forget why I’m here. Then I see the old phone in the corner. It looks like the one I saw in the picture books from my memory testing. I have never seen one except in the picture book. I brush my fingers against the smooth beige plastic of it, almost like I am unsure of how to use it. I press too hard on the top, and the handle falls off. I step back as it clangs, and I hear the dial tone.
Looking around, hoping no one has seen me come in, I pick up the handle and listen to the side with the dial tone. There are buttons to push like any other phone. I dial the shop and hope she answers.
“Lenora’s Boutique, Angie speaking.”
I sigh. “Angie.” My voice is a whisper.
Hers drops too. “Where are ya? Derek’s freaking out. He came to my house last night in the middle of the night, looking for ya, but I dinna know where ya got to. He said he has the cops looking for ya. Are ya all right? Did ya get in a fight?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just need to figure some things out. Can I stay with you?”
She is silent for a moment.
“Just for a bit? I need to work out a couple of things.”
She sighs into the phone. “I think ya should go with Derek, Jane. He seems worried about your memory again. He said ya seemed like ya were having a bit of trouble. Maybe being with a doctor is a good idea.”
I’m racking my brain to figure out how to make her see how odd all of this is, but I can’t. Not without explaining the cat killing and all the other horrors of my past. And especially not if her brain works the same way mine does. I already wonder if I killed Ronald or was responsible for his death in some way. If subconsciously I knew I was Sam and went to him and killed him. If Derek found me wandering and cleaned me up, and that’s why I felt so weird about Ronald being dead.
My brain seems to think I am up to no good.
I blurt out the thing I have wanted to tell her since he said it. “My real name is Samantha Barnes. Derek just told me that—my real name isn’t Jane. He lied to me and told me my name was Jane when I woke from the coma three years ago.”
Finally, after several tense seconds she talks, again in a hushed tone, “He said your name is Samantha? Like the guy who came back today did? The Irish guy who demanded to know where ya were?”
“He came back?”
“Aye, this morning. He just left a few moments ago.” She sounds funny. Her accent is thicker than normal.
“Did you tell Derek?”
“Och, no. The man seemed touched. He said ya were in danger and he needed to save ya. He said to tell ya they found ya and not to be scared of him. Course with Derek lying, now I’m not sure. I mean, what if ya are in danger?”
I shake instantly, like my body understands the threat. “What does that even mean? How does he know me?” Oh God, he could be the police. He could know I killed things—people. What if I did? What if I did kill someone?
“I don’t know, Jane. I do know Derek has been here three times this morning. He keeps coming and asking if you’ve called. He looks like a wreck. What’s his reason for lying? I don’t understand.”
“Me either.” Emotions and ideas are both lost to me. I don’t budge. I stand there in the dull kitchen, hating the stale air and lifelessness of the house I am in. I can’t reach the way I feel or what I should do. So I ask her, “Now that you know he was lying to me, do you think I should come there?”
She sighs. “I don’t know. Why was he lying to you?”
“I don’t know.” I can’t tell her about the killings.
“Well, I agree it’s all quite weird. The man who came in here—he was off a wee bit, but not like he wanted to hurt anyone or lie about who they are. He seemed desperate. Where are you?”
I look around the room, shaking my head. “I don’t know.” It’s the truth. I don’t know.
“Have you thought about going to the police? I might have done that first, not to sound smug or anything.”
I wince, wondering why my instincts never took me to the police. “No.”
“Just come here and talk to Derek here. That’s what I would do. If he doesn’t answer the questions you want him to or tell the truth, then you come home with me. No one can force you to do anything. You are your own woman.”
Home. It’s a nice thought, but inside my stomach there is a storm. My body is screaming at me suddenly. My hand drops the phone into the cradle as my body turns and runs from the house, long before my mind has a clue as to what is up. My brain is still wondering why I didn’t use the bathroom or eat or shower or even lock the door. Instead, I run from the front door and across the road, down a block, and turn up another road. Glancing all around me, I duck into an alley and sit between two garbage cans with my legs tucked into me, holding them tightly and hugging myself as I lean into the fence behind me. The chain link makes a noise like someone is shaking it. Until I realize it’s me trembling, and sit still.
The whole world stops for me when I hear a siren and then another. As if this has been the plan all along, I lift the lid off the can next to me and hold it over my head, like I too am a trash can. My eyes dart up to look at the lid, and I wonder if I’m psychic or a psycho. It doesn’t feel like either, oddly enough.
It feels like I’ve run before.
Everything thus far has been a muscle memory. Everything has been as if I practiced it.
The crunch of footsteps in the alley gets my attention, but I don’t move, just sit there between the large metal cans and wait.
Until I hear voices from the house in front of me: “She’s had a massive heart attack. We need the police car out front when we head for the hospital, clearing the way.” I close my eyes, listening to the voices. The sirens are not for me. They aren’t coming to take me away for whatever shit I’ve done that I don’t know about.
I sit there, not moving, and wait even though I am lost, tired, and scared. My own actions terrify me.
The footsteps crunching along the alley, to the right again, startle me. My heart starts to pound louder as they draw nearer. One man walks along the alley until his feet are directly in front of me. His boots look like he’s a construction worker or something akin to one. He plucks the lid from my hands and tosses it to the side. “Miss?” I don’t look up, struggling with the terrible feeling inside me. He drops to his knees. “Are you okay?” He’s an older gentleman. He has a sweet smile and genuine concern on his face.
I shake my head. “Who are you?”
He gives me a funny look. “Stan. I live just over there. I wanted to go check out what the ruckus is. Are you all right?”
I shake my head again. “I hardly know.”
He lowers his gaze to mine. “Those are cops over there. Wanna go see one and see if maybe they can take you somewhere warmer than this alley?” He offers me his hand.
I place my hand in his and nod. “Okay.” I might actually be crazy and be a danger to myself. I did hurt that man on the bus, and I did wake covered in blood.
Maybe there is a reason I don’t remember anything.
Against the animalistic urges inside me, I let him pull me down the road to the place where the police and ambulance drivers are. The ambulance and half of the cops leave in a mad rush of sirens and lights.
