Everafter Series 1 - Everafter (6 page)

“Let’s go back to bed,” she murmured.

I let her guide me under the covers, lying quiescent as she tucked the blankets under my chin. When she snuggled in close, I didn’t try to stop her. But I did turn my head away from the delectable expanse of her neck.

She fell into sleep immediately, her even breaths puffing against my shoulder. But I stayed awake for a long time, watching the daylight creep closer, until fatigue trumped the sharp ache in my throat.

*

The distant sounds of Avenue C filtered through the windows as I sat on the couch, cradling my Neuroanatomy textbook in my lap. A full glass of water sat on the coffee table, untouched despite the fact that my thirst had not abated. It was of no use—drinking liquids nonstop all day hadn’t done anything except make me have to get up every fifteen minutes to visit the bathroom.

I was alone for the first time since waking up in the hospital. I alternated between enjoying the peace and jumping at every harmless noise. The dream had haunted me all day, making me wary around Alexa. She had debated not going to her evening seminar, but I had urged her to go. Being afraid to touch her made my stomach ache.

I was obviously being silly. Then again, maybe I was just acting like a trauma victim. Was I expecting too much of myself? Creepy dreams were probably par for the course. I had been through hell, after all. My psyche was going to have to deal somehow. I cringed at the thought that any minute now, I might start remembering exactly what had happened to me. Part of me—a very big part of me—wanted to live in ignorance. But the rest of me knew that until I remembered, I would be afraid. I made a mental note to call Dr. Clavier tomorrow to get his therapist recommendations. Clearly, I needed to talk to a professional.

A few seconds later, the buzzer rang. My heart began to pound and a thin layer of sweat broke out across my palms. I forced myself to get up and walk to the intercom next to the door, silently berating my autonomic nervous system. If my attacker wanted to find me in order to finish the job, he wouldn’t ring the damn doorbell. Would he?

“Hello?”

“Valentine, it’s Harold Clavier. May I come up?”

I frowned at the coincidence. Think of the devil and he shall appear. “Of course.” I buzzed him in, but when he knocked on the door, I didn’t take the chain off before opening it. When I peeked through the crack, my anxiety faded into a background murmur. It really was him, in a long, black wool coat. I undid the chain.

“This is a surprise, Doctor,” I said. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank you.” He sat in our threadbare armchair, and I took my place on the love seat. “I was on my way to the hospital and thought I’d make a house call to see how you’re recovering.”

On his way to the hospital? I didn’t envy him the night shift. “This is above and beyond, really. Thank you for dropping by.”

It had only been a day and a half since I’d last seen him, but I had forgotten just how unnerving his stare was. Did the man ever blink?

“So?” he prompted.

I grimaced. “The headache is pretty much gone, but I’m still very weak. I expected to feel at least a little stronger by now.”

“And the incisions?”

“Fine. No signs of infection.”

“How is your appetite?”

At that moment, my throat throbbed painfully. Out of instinct, I reached for my water. “I’m eating fine. The strange thing is that I can’t stop feeling thirsty, no matter how much I drink. I’ve probably had over a gallon of water today, and I still feel parched.”

He steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Interesting.”

“Do you have any idea what might be causing that?” I asked, hearing the note of desperation in my voice. “Any idea about what I can do to fix it? It’s really uncomfortable—painful, even.”

“Yes, I imagine so.” He sounded distracted, but pulled a business card out of his coat pocket and handed it to me. “It will be helpful to run some additional tests. Come and see me on Wednesday at this address. This is my second office, in Midtown. Not the hospital.”

I took the card from him. “Do I need to call to make an appointment?”

“Come at three thirty. Does that work for you?”

“That’s fine. Thank you.”

“And how about psychologically?” he asked. “Any memories resurfacing? Violent dreams?”

My heart sped up again. Dreams. Why had he asked about violent dreams? I took a futile sip of water and pulled myself back under control. Maybe because violent dreams were normal after a violent attack. Jeez. I really needed to give my neuroses a break.

“Memories, no. Dreams, yes. Actually…you offered me a list of recommended therapists. I’d like to take you up on that.”

“Of course. I can give you several names on Wednesday.”

“Thank you.”

He got to his feet. Interview over, apparently. I started to rise, but he held out one hand to stop me. “Don’t tax yourself—I’m sure that your leg is still very sore. I can see myself out.”

“Okay. Thank you for taking the time to make a house call.” I smiled, but he only nodded in return.

“Good night, Valentine,” he said, halfway through the door. “See you soon.”

When it clicked shut behind him, I got up and refastened the chain. So much for me not taxing myself. I went back to the couch and flipped open my textbook again, determined to at least finish this chapter before Alexa got home. But instead of seeing the words, all I saw was his expression after I had told him about my bizarre excessive thirst. His face hadn’t really betrayed emotion—it never did, as far as I could tell—but for one split second, I could have sworn that his eyes sort of…gleamed. It was the way my cousin looked when he won a hand at poker; the way my father looked when he talked about his latest financial conquest.

Triumphant.

*

I was going out of my mind.

I had barely slept last night. Fear of my dreams and for Alexa’s safety had made me twitch awake every time I felt myself descending into a deep sleep. Once she had left for class, I collapsed back into bed and crashed for three hours, before being wakened by the burning ache in my throat.

It was getting worse.

Now I stared at myself in the mirror—at the dark bags under both eyes, at the gruesome stitches in my shoulder, at the fine tremor in my hands—and felt disgust. The fear was ruling me. It was taking me over and eating me up, because I kept feeding it. It was winning because I was letting it.

No more.

I went back into the bedroom and pulled a sports bra over my head, wincing as one of the straps caught on a stitch. My NYU sweatshirt was next, followed by a windbreaker. I limped to the front door and frowned at the cane propped against the wall nearby. I didn’t want to take it, but I was about to try walking a distance much farther than I had since being injured. Sighing through my teeth, I grabbed the cane, limped out the door, and made my slow, painful way down the stairs.

I was afraid of two things: what might be causing this awful thirst, and the horrific memories that were waiting to resurface. I couldn’t do anything about the former until my appointment tomorrow. I could, however, do something about the latter. I could retrace what my steps might have been, willingly putting myself in the path of places likely to jog my memory. Willingly subjecting myself to the terrifying truth. But at least it would be my choice, my timing. At least I would be in control.

I paused for a moment outside the red door of my building, leaning heavily on the cane. Stairs were a bitch. When I felt a little stronger, I took off limping down the sidewalk, past the familiar row of walk-ups. At the corner, I debated whether to turn left or right on Avenue D—there were stores that sold alcohol in both directions. Deciding on right, I hobbled past the 24/7 supermarket. Across the street, the projects rose into the sky like accusatory fingers. Hunching my shoulders against the dread that churned in my gut, I peered furtively down every new block, expecting at any moment to be bombarded by memories.

I hated feeling this way. Alphabet City was my neighborhood. It was Bohemian still—wild and unkempt, queer and unapologetic. I loved it. Had loved it. Now, it frightened me.

When I reached the first liquor store, I paused. No epiphanies, not yet. Would going inside help? Maybe. And we were out of Jameson anyway. I might as well make myself useful while out on this fool’s errand.

The bell tinkled lightly as I stepped inside. The store smelled musty and a little dank, like an ill-maintained wine cave. I shuffled in the direction of the whiskey aisle, past the watchful eye of the manager on duty. His beer belly made me glad that I mostly stuck to the hard stuff.

In the act of grabbing a bottle off the shelf, I looked around the store. It was familiar to me—I’d been coming here occasionally for almost a year now—but no dark memories stirred beneath the surface of my psyche. So much for taking back control of my life. Sighing, I limped up to the counter and awkwardly fished for my wallet. Maybe the Jameson would help my throat.

“You’re back,” said the manager as he scanned the barcode on the bottle.

I blinked at him. “Sorry?”

“Did she say yes, or what?” He scoffed, taking in my battered appearance. “Or did she beat you up?”

Realization struck. My God. This was the place. He had been working here when I had come in, two weeks ago. I could feel the blood draining from my face. How was it possible that this perfect stranger remembered a part of my life that was still barred to me? How many of the blanks could he fill in?

“That night. Do you remember what I bought?”

“Sure, yeah,” he said, looking at me as though I’d gone crazy.

“Show me.”

Shrugging, he came out from behind the counter and led me halfway down the champagne aisle before pausing to extract a bottle two-thirds of the way up the shelf. “J Schram. 1999.”

He held the bottle out to me. I didn’t take it—not this time. But I remembered the triumph I’d felt as my fingers had closed around the smooth, dark green glass. I remembered dumping the contents of my wallet onto the counter, and confessing to an uncaring Stan that I was on the verge of proposing to my girlfriend.

The memories were coming back. God help me.

“What the—”

“Have to go,” I choked. “Sorry.” I staggered for the door, desperate to breathe the cool autumn air. Once outside, I lurched into the graffiti-covered brick wall. Catching myself, I leaned hard against it, forcing it to bear my weight as I gulped fresh air into my burning throat. The veil had been torn away. Oh God. I had thought I could do this, but what if I couldn’t? What if the next thing I remembered was him, hurting me?

Only a few minutes ago, I had been fighting to reclaim my memories. Now, I fought against them. My cheeks were tingling. I was hyperventilating. Calm down, I had to calm down. Deep, slow breaths. Foster—I had to call her. To show her where. Not Canal Street. Here. It took me three tries to navigate to her name on my new cell phone and hit the Call button, but I finally managed.

“I’m flashing back,” was all I said.

“Valentine. Where are you?” I could hear her snapping her fingers at someone.

“Avenue D and Fourth. The liquor store.”

“Don’t move.” Her voice was strong and steady. My head was spinning—I was still breathing too fast. “Stay exactly where you are. I’ll be there within minutes.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?”

I considered it for a split second, before the memory of how she had looked at Alexa flashed over my vision, tinged in red. Hell no. I hung up.

In the ensuing minutes, I tried to make my mind blank, afraid that if I dwelled too long on what I had just remembered, I’d trigger an avalanche. My fingers twitched toward my phone. Alexa. Maybe if she were here, I wouldn’t feel so afraid. It was so tempting to hit speed dial—she wouldn’t blame me for pulling her out of class. But even as the thought crossed my mind, I clenched my hand into a fist. No. Alexa was my rock, not my crutch. She was already playing catch-up this semester because of me. I could be strong. I could.

A dark car pulled up next to the curb, its tires screeching. Detective Foster jumped out, closely followed by her partner, who I hadn’t seen since that first day in the hospital. Wilson. I stopped leaning against the wall and drew myself up to my full height, ignoring the ache in my leg.

“Are you all right?” Foster’s voice was crisp and professional, but her dark eyes were shining with a fierce excitement. I was the key to the fucking city as far as she was concerned—the only known survivor of this criminal’s spree. I was going to be indispensable to her quest to take him down.

The knowledge was calming. It gave me strength. I wasn’t helpless—not totally. “I’m fine.”

“Okay.” She turned to Wilson. “I’ll stay here. You question whoever’s working in there.”

When he nodded and went inside, her attention returned to me. “Can you tell me what you’ve remembered?”

“I came here on Tuesday night, shortly before Alexa got home,” I said. Foster whipped out her little black notebook.

“What time?”

I frowned in thought. “Must have been about quarter to eight. On my way in, I noticed a man hanging out…” I looked to the right and pointed. “Over there. He was smoking.”

Foster paced over to the spot that I had indicated and crouched to examine the ground. Even from here, I could tell that at least a dozen cigarette butts littered the sidewalk. “Can you describe him to me?”

I took a deep breath and focused in on that particular memory. “Pretty tall—at least six feet. Burly. Wearing a knit hat and a leather jacket.”

Foster’s pen was a blur against the white page. “What happened after you noticed him?”

This, at least, was the easy part. “I went into the store, chatted with the manager for a minute, and bought a bottle of champagne. Then I left.”

“And then?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You would have gone directly home?”

I thought about it for a moment, before recalling that I had been in a hurry inside the store. “Yes.”

Foster jerked her head toward the direction of my apartment. “Let’s retrace your steps. We’ll take it as slowly as you like.”