Silence

Page 7

“Does anyone else have a key to the house?” I asked.
She held her finger up, signaling for me to wait. Voice mail, she mouthed. “It’s Blythe,” she told Detective Basso’s message system. “Call me as soon as you get this. Nora found a note in her bedroom tonight.” Her eyes cut briefly to mine. “It may be from the person who took her. I’ve had the doors locked all night, so the note had to have been placed under her pillow before we got home.”
“He’ll call back soon,” she told me, hanging up. “I’m going to give the note to the officer out front.
He might want to search the house. Where is the note?”
I pointed at the crumpled paper ball in the corner, but I didn’t move to pick it up. I didn’t want to see the message again. Was it a joke … or was it a threat? Just because you’re home doesn’t mean you’re safe. The tone suggested a threat.
Mom flattened the paper on the wall, ironing out the wrinkles with her hand. “This paper is blank, Nora,” she said.
“What?” I walked over for a closer look. She was right. The writing had vanished. I hastily flipped the paper over, but the back side was also blank.
“It was right here,” I said, confused. “It was right here.”
“You might have imagined it. A projection of a dream,” Mom said gently, drawing me against her and rubbing my back. The gesture didn’t do anything to comfort me. Was there any way I might have invented the message? Out of what? Paranoia? A panic attack?
“I didn’t imagine it.” But I didn’t sound so sure.
“It’s okay,” she murmured. “Dr. Howlett said this might happen.”
“Said what might happen?”
“He said there was a very good chance you’d hear things that aren’t real—”
“Like what?”
She regarded me calmly. “Voices and other sounds. He didn’t say anything about seeing things that aren’t real, but anything could happen, Nora. Your body is trying to recover. It’s under a lot of stress, and we have to be patient.”
“He said I might hallucinate?”
“Shh,” she commanded softly, taking my face between her hands. “These things might have to happen before you can recover. Your mind is doing its best to heal, and we have to give it time. Just like any other injury. We’re going to get through this together.” I felt the sting of tears, but I refused to cry. Why me? Of all the billions of people out there, why me?
Who did this to me? My mind was spinning in circles, trying to point a finger at someone, but I didn’t have a face, a voice. I didn’t have one shred of an idea.
“Are you scared?” Mom whispered.
I looked away. “I’m angry.”
I crawled into bed, falling asleep surprisingly fast. Caught in that woozy, topsy-turvy place between awareness and a full-on dream, my mind aimlessly wandered down a long, dark tunnel that narrowed with each step. Sleep, blissful sleep, and given the night I’d had, I vigorously welcomed it.
A door appeared at the end of the tunnel. The door opened from within. The light inside cast a faint glow, ill uminating a face so familiar, it almost knocked me over. His black hair curled around his ears, damp from a recent shower. Sun-bronzed skin, smooth and tight, stretched over a long, lean body that towered at least six inches over me. A pair of jeans hung low on his hips, but his chest and feet were bare, and a bath towel was slung over his shoulder. Our gazes locked, and his familiar black eyes bored into mine with surprise … followed by instant wariness.
“What are you doing here?” he said low.
Patch, I thought, my heart beating faster. It’s Patch.
I couldn’t remember how I knew him, but I did. The bridge in my mind was as broken as ever, but at the sight of him, little pieces snapped together. Memories that put a swarm of butterflies in my stomach. I saw a flash of sitting beside him in biology. Another flash as he stood very close, teaching me how to play pool. A white-hot flash as his lips brushed mine.
I’d been searching for answers, and they’d led me here. To Patch. I’d found a way to get around my amnesia. This wasn’t merely a dream; it was a subconscious passageway to Patch. I now understood the great feeling crashing around inside me that never seemed satisfied. On some deep level I knew what my brain couldn’t grasp. I needed Patch. And for whatever reason—fate, luck, sheer will power, or for reasons I might never understand—I’d found him.
Through my shock, I somehow found my voice. “You tell me.” He stuck his head out the door, looking down the tunnel. “This is a dream. You realize that, don’t you?”
“Then who are you worried followed me?”
“You can’t be here.”
My words came out stiff, frozen. “Looks like I found a way to communicate with you. I guess the only thing left to say is I’d hoped for a cheerier reception. You have all the answers, don’t you?” He steepled his fingers over his mouth. All the while, his eyes never wavered from my face. “I’m hoping to keep you alive.”
My mind lagged, unable to understand enough of the dream to read a deeper message. The only thought pounding through me was, I found him. After all this time, I found Patch. And instead of matching my excitement, the only feeling he harbors is … cold detachment.
“Why can’t I remember anything?” I asked, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Why can’t I remember how or when or—or why you left?” Because I was sure that was what had happened.
He’d left. Otherwise we’d be together now. “Why haven’t you tried to find me? What happened to me? What happened to us?”
Patch hung his hands on the back of his neck and closed his eyes. He went deathly still, except for the tremble of emotion that rippled under his skin.
“Why did you leave me?” I choked.
He straightened. “You really believe I left you?”
That only thickened the lump in my throat. “What am I supposed to think? You’ve been gone for months, and now, when I finally find you, you can barely look me in the eye.”
“I did the only thing I could. I gave you up to save your life.” His jaw worked, clenching and unclenching. “It wasn’t an easy decision, but it was the right one.”
“Gave me up? Just like that? How long did it take you to make your decision? Three seconds?” His eyes turned cold with recol ection. “That’s about as long as I had, yes.” More pieces snapped together. “Someone forced you to leave me? Is that what you’re telling me?”
He didn’t speak, but I had my answer.
“Who forced you to leave? Who scared you that much? The Patch I knew didn’t run from anyone.” The pain bursting inside me forced my volume higher. “I would have fought for you, Patch. I would have fought!”
“And you would have lost. We were surrounded. He threatened your life, and he would have made good on that threat. He had you, and that meant he had me, too.”
“He? Who is he?”
I received another brittle silence.
“Did you even try to find me once? Or was it that easy”—my voice caught—“to let me go?” Whipping the towel off his shoulder, Patch flung it aside. His eyes flared, his shoulders rising and falling with every breath, but I got the feeling his anger wasn’t directed at me.
“You can’t be here,” he said, his voice rough. “You have to stop looking for me. You have to go back to your life, and make do the best you can. Not for me,” he added, as if guessing my next resentful barb. “For you. I’ve done everything to keep him away from you, and I’m going to continue doing everything I can, but I need your help.”
“Like I need your help?” I shot back. “I need you now, Patch. I need you back. I am lost and I’m scared. Do you know I can’t remember one single thing? Of course you know,” I said bitterly, as realization dawned. “That’s why you haven’t come looking for me. You know I can’t remember you, and it lets you off the hook. I never thought you’d take the easy way out. Well, I haven’t forgotten you, Patch. I see you in everything. I see flashes of black—the color of your eyes, your hair. I feel your touch, I remember the way you held me… .” I trailed off, too choked up to continue.
“It’s better if you don’t know,” Patch said flatly. “That’s the worst explanation I’ve given you yet, but for your own safety, there are things you can’t know.”
I laughed, but the sound was thick and anguished. “So this is it?” He closed the distance between us, and just when I thought he’d draw me against him he stopped, holding himself in check. I exhaled, trying not to cry. He leaned his elbow on the doorjamb, just above my ear. He smelled so devastatingly familiar—of soap and spice—the heady scent bringing back a rush of memories so pleasurable, it only made the current moment that much more difficult to bear. I was seized by the desire to touch him. To trace my hands over his skin, to feel his arms tighten securely around me. I wanted him to nuzzle my neck, his whisper to tickle my ear as he said private words that belonged only to me. I wanted him near, so near, with no thought of letting go.
“This isn’t over,” I said. “After everything we’ve been through, you don’t get the right to brush me off. I’m not letting you off that easily.” I wasn’t sure if it was a threat, my last stab at defiance, or irrational words spoken straight from my splintered heart.
“I want to protect you,” Patch said quietly.
He stood so close. All strength and heat and silent power. I couldn’t escape him, now or ever.
He’d always be there, consuming my every thought, my heart locked in his hands. I was drawn to him by forces I couldn’t control, let alone escape.
“But you didn’t.”
He cupped my chin, his touch unbearably tender. “Do you really think so?” I tried to pull free, but not hard enough. I couldn’t resist his touch; back then, now, or ever. “I don’t know what to think. Can you blame me?”
“My history is long, and not much of it is good. I can’t erase it, but I’m determined not to make another mistake. Not when the stakes are this high, not when it comes to you. There’s a plan in all this, but it’s going to take time.” This time he gathered me into his arms, stroking hair off my face, and something inside me broke at his touch. Hot, wet tears tumbled down my cheeks. “If I lose you, I lose everything,” he murmured.
“Who are you so afraid of?” I asked again.
Resting his hands on my shoulders, he tilted his forehead against mine. “You’re mine, Angel. And I won’t let anything change that. You’re right—this isn’t over. It’s only the beginning, and nothing about what lies ahead will be easy.” He sighed, a tired sound. “You’re not going to remember this dream, and you won’t be coming back. I don’t know how you found me, but I have to make sure you don’t do it again. I’m going to erase your memory of this dream. For your own safety, this is the last you’ll see of me.”