he’s finished a marathon. Or like he’s in the middle of a panic attack. And for the first time in months, I find myself scared.
No.
Terrified.
Only I haven’t the slightest clue what I’m terrified of.
And that might be the most terrifying thing of all.
Niall’s already unbuckling his seat belt by the time we fly into the driveway. He’s so distracted, he almost forgets to shift into park, the car lurching toward the garage door until he slams on the brakes.
I steady my trembling hands in my lap. My eyes sting, wet and hot. My entire world is crumbling beneath me, and I haven’t the slightest clue how or why, just that everything that was a few hours ago no longer is .
I follow him in through the back door, and he tosses his keys on the counter, careless and unlike him. And then he turns to me with an unfamiliar, almost panicked look in his eyes.
“You’re scaring me.” My small voice breaks.
He forces a breath from his nostrils before dragging his hand through his hair.
“Have a seat in the dining room,” he finally says. His expression is bordering on crestfallen, the way I imagine he looks when he’s about to deliver the worst kind of news to his patients. “I’ll meet you there in a minute. And I’ll tell you everything.”
CHAPTER 20
There’s dust on the dining room table. The grandfather clock chimes from the hallway, three times. Niall’s footsteps on the second floor are heavy, hurried. Closet doors and desk drawers open and close. Papers rustle. More footsteps follow. It’s almost as if he’s ransacking the upstairs.
Finally, he returns, taking the chair beside me, placing a shoebox, a photo album, and a stack of papers between us. Without saying a word, he watches me, studies me like I’m some subject in his laboratory.
“What is all this?” I ask, reaching for the shoebox first.
He places his hand over mine, preventing me from exploring any of this on my own just yet.
“Your name,” he says, drawing in a long breath, “is Kate Emberlin.”
I squint at him. “No. Kate Emberlin is your wife .”
The spot beneath his left cheekbone divots. “You are my wife.”
I’m at an extraordinary loss for words, racking my brain for any type of memory involving a wedding, vows, a kiss, a consummating night together.
But I get nothing.
The kiss we shared the other night felt as brand-new and unfamiliar as it should have, as my mind recalls no other with him. I know my memory has been shoddy at best lately, but I think I’d remember if I were married, in love, if I took vows with another person.
“I know,” he begins to say. “I know this is going to sound impossible. I know this isn’t going to make sense. But I have it all here. We’re going to sit here together. We’re going to go over everything. And we’re going to find a way to fix this. Again.”
Again?
“Kate, you have what’s called dissociative identity disorder.” He takes a paper from the top of the stack and slides it my way.
Examining the document, I find a marriage license for a Kate Conway and Niall Emberlin. According to this, we’ve been married three years next month.
How can someone erase over three years of their life?
“This doesn’t tell me anything,” I say.
He lifts a finger before removing the lid from the top of the shoebox. A second later, he produces a driver’s license.
The woman in the photo is undeniably me.
The name next to the photo is Kate Emberlin.
Next he digs out a birth certificate. The form states that I was born April 3, that my parents were Mark and Tricia Conway of Pleasant Hill, Iowa.
The date rings no bell.
As far as I’m concerned, Mark and Tricia are complete strangers, and I was born October 2.
“How do I know these aren’t fakes?” I ask. Niall has never given me a reason to distrust him, but given the absurdity of this claim, I have to ask every question, examine this with skepticism.
His shoulders sag as he pinches the bridge of his nose. When he
No.
Terrified.
Only I haven’t the slightest clue what I’m terrified of.
And that might be the most terrifying thing of all.
Niall’s already unbuckling his seat belt by the time we fly into the driveway. He’s so distracted, he almost forgets to shift into park, the car lurching toward the garage door until he slams on the brakes.
I steady my trembling hands in my lap. My eyes sting, wet and hot. My entire world is crumbling beneath me, and I haven’t the slightest clue how or why, just that everything that was a few hours ago no longer is .
I follow him in through the back door, and he tosses his keys on the counter, careless and unlike him. And then he turns to me with an unfamiliar, almost panicked look in his eyes.
“You’re scaring me.” My small voice breaks.
He forces a breath from his nostrils before dragging his hand through his hair.
“Have a seat in the dining room,” he finally says. His expression is bordering on crestfallen, the way I imagine he looks when he’s about to deliver the worst kind of news to his patients. “I’ll meet you there in a minute. And I’ll tell you everything.”
CHAPTER 20
There’s dust on the dining room table. The grandfather clock chimes from the hallway, three times. Niall’s footsteps on the second floor are heavy, hurried. Closet doors and desk drawers open and close. Papers rustle. More footsteps follow. It’s almost as if he’s ransacking the upstairs.
Finally, he returns, taking the chair beside me, placing a shoebox, a photo album, and a stack of papers between us. Without saying a word, he watches me, studies me like I’m some subject in his laboratory.
“What is all this?” I ask, reaching for the shoebox first.
He places his hand over mine, preventing me from exploring any of this on my own just yet.
“Your name,” he says, drawing in a long breath, “is Kate Emberlin.”
I squint at him. “No. Kate Emberlin is your wife .”
The spot beneath his left cheekbone divots. “You are my wife.”
I’m at an extraordinary loss for words, racking my brain for any type of memory involving a wedding, vows, a kiss, a consummating night together.
But I get nothing.
The kiss we shared the other night felt as brand-new and unfamiliar as it should have, as my mind recalls no other with him. I know my memory has been shoddy at best lately, but I think I’d remember if I were married, in love, if I took vows with another person.
“I know,” he begins to say. “I know this is going to sound impossible. I know this isn’t going to make sense. But I have it all here. We’re going to sit here together. We’re going to go over everything. And we’re going to find a way to fix this. Again.”
Again?
“Kate, you have what’s called dissociative identity disorder.” He takes a paper from the top of the stack and slides it my way.
Examining the document, I find a marriage license for a Kate Conway and Niall Emberlin. According to this, we’ve been married three years next month.
How can someone erase over three years of their life?
“This doesn’t tell me anything,” I say.
He lifts a finger before removing the lid from the top of the shoebox. A second later, he produces a driver’s license.
The woman in the photo is undeniably me.
The name next to the photo is Kate Emberlin.
Next he digs out a birth certificate. The form states that I was born April 3, that my parents were Mark and Tricia Conway of Pleasant Hill, Iowa.
The date rings no bell.
As far as I’m concerned, Mark and Tricia are complete strangers, and I was born October 2.
“How do I know these aren’t fakes?” I ask. Niall has never given me a reason to distrust him, but given the absurdity of this claim, I have to ask every question, examine this with skepticism.
His shoulders sag as he pinches the bridge of his nose. When he
Similar Books
