Chapter 18

I wake alone.

Silence.

"Caleb?"

Nothing.

Dawn streaks through the window. I look to the left, and see that my closet door is open. The racks are bare, not even a hanger in sight.

My throat seizes. I leap out of bed, headed for my library.

It is there, intact.

I return to my bedroom, to my closet. Empty. Totally empty. Even the bureau against the far wall of the walk-in closet is empty. I have not a single stitch of clothing left to me.

Back out to the living room. The couch is gone, the coffee table, the Louis XIV armchair. The dining room table is gone.

My front door stands open.

The elevator door is open, the key in the slot inside the car.

I am utterly confused.

Back inside, to the library. There is my chair and the table in the triangle between shelves. On the table is an envelope containing a stack of hundred-dollar bills, and a note handwritten in bold, slanting letters:

Madame X,

This dress is the one I found you in. It's yours, from before.

I leave you the books, because I know you treasure them.

The cameras and microphones are off.

There will be no more clients.

Leave, if you wish; there is money enough in the envelope to allow you to go wherever you wish. But if you do choose to leave, you will be on your own. I will not chase you this time.

Or, you may take the elevator up to the penthouse. But if you choose this, you leave everything in this apartment where it is, and come to me as you are now, naked, with only the name you chose for yourself that day in the Museum of Modern Art.

~Caleb

Folded on the cushion of the chair is a dress. Deep, dark blue. Of course. A shade of blue that seems to be a defining feature in my life...

Caleb Indigo.

Logan's indigo eyes.

And now this dress . . .

Indigo.

Except this dress is not new. Not beautiful. It was, once, perhaps. I lift it, and I am strangled by ravaging emotion. I do not recognize this dress; it is ripped, torn. From neckline to hem, it is torn open. Ripped in half and stained with blood. There is another rip, this one on the side, low, on the right.

I touch my right hip, where there is a scar.

There is blood staining the dark blue fabric at the neckline, all over the shoulders, down the back.

Why, I don't know, but I lift it, step through the gaping hole. Fit my arms through the sleeves. Tug the ends together.

It is too small. Even undamaged, it wouldn't fit me. I am too large in the bust and backside for this dress. Too tall, as well, perhaps.

Six years.

I would have been around eighteen or nineteen when I last wore this dress.

I remove the dress; I feel as if phantoms of the past cling to my skin, seeping into me from the fabric.

The tag says Sfera . Even the style is strange, to me. So short, coming not even to midthigh. Sleeveless, intact the neckline would have been high around my throat, but the back gapes open to midspine. I stare at the material clutched in my hand, a useless clue to who I used to be. An empty fragment of my past.

The girl who wore this dress from Sfera... who was she? What was her name? Did she have parents? A sister? What did she like to do? Did she have friends? Did she sketch hearts on notebooks? Did she have a crush on a boy? Did she speak Spanish? If she did, I have forgotten it.

This dress can tell me nothing. I cannot even wear it, and if I could, if I could sew the ends together... would I?

No.

So this choice of yours, Caleb?

I see through it.

It is a way of retaking what you feel I took from you last night.

Naked, hesitant, I enter the elevator, twist the key to the PH .

The doors close, and the car rises.

The doors open, and now I see the penthouse, whereas the last time I was here, I didn't, not really.

Expansive space, thick white carpeting, a wall of windows with a commanding view of the city. Black modern furniture. I recognize the sectional in front of the elevator as the one Caleb had me over. It is one of a set: an L-shaped couch, a modern minimalist chair, a small round silver table, and another chair, forming a small square to block off the space in front of the elevator.

In the distance, in the farthest corner of the penthouse, the kitchen, and near it a small eating nook in the corner where two walls of glass merge. You are there, sitting at the table, leaned back in a chair, elegantly casual in blue jeans and a white crew neck T-shirt. A mug in your hands, a rectangular electronic tablet on the table in front of you.

There is a place setting beside you. A saucer and a cup. A plate, with a bagel neatly presented, sliced into halves, one half laid facedown on a just-so angle atop the other. Precise, perfect.

"Come, sit." Your voice is very far away: The penthouse is enormous; it suits you exactly.

I cross the space hesitantly. If there is anyone in the buildings across the street, they can see me, and I am still naked.

You smile as I approach you, set down your mug of coffee.

You stand. Pull off your plain white T-shirt. Settle it onto my head, tug the neck opening over me, and I feed my arms through the sleeves. Clothed, somewhat, I feel more confident.

I glance at the cup of tea—I can see the tag: Harney & Sons Earl Grey —and the bagel, plain with light cream cheese spread thin. "You knew I'd come."

Your eyes are still impenetrable, but I am starting to see glimmers of something. Perhaps I am finally learning to read you. Or perhaps you are learning to let me.

"Of course I did," you say." You are mine."

And this, from you, is a truth I cannot deny.

The question is: Do I want to?