CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

New York City

Noon and Night had transformed itself into a very hip bar for the evening, open to the warmish night. Well-dressed twentysomethings drank cocktails, a few of them standing outside to smoke. Soft jazz played on the speakers. Tillie stepped up to the bar. A young male bartender dropped a napkin in front of her. "What'll it be?"

"I don't need a drink. I might have lost my phone here earlier today. Did anybody turn one in?"

"I'll check."

She stood there. Nearby, a man leaned in to whisper into a woman's ear, his hand lightly stroking her upper arm. She suddenly missed Liam with a ferocity that was both surprising and unnerving. She was desperate to find out if he'd texted.

The bartender returned. "Sorry. They don't have anything in the lost and found."

"Is it okay if I check under the booth where we were?"

"Go for it."

The booth was occupied, of course, with a pair of women with heads close, having a deep chat. "Sorry to bother you, but do you mind if I check for my phone under your table?"

One gave her a weird look, but the other pulled out her phone. "I lost mine two weeks ago. It was such a pain." She turned on her flashlight and handed it to Tillie.

She crouched and shone the light under the table while the women lifted their feet. It was bright enough to illuminate the carpeted area connecting the booth to the floor. There was no place for a phone to hide.

"Thanks." She handed the phone back.

"Good luck."

The co-op wasn't far, but without her phone map, Tillie wasn't exactly sure where it was. She looked around carefully, remembering that she and Liam had been only a block or so from the train. She headed that way, trusting her gut to lead her. She turned right, down a couple of blocks, then left, and there it was, bright lights spilling out of the basement. Again, she felt the loss of Liam, the fact he'd been here and now he wasn't. It felt tragic.

Which was ridiculous.

A bearded man of about forty was ringing up a woman with a dowager's hump. Tillie pretended to be looking at the bulk items while he finished. He caught sight of her and lifted his chin, smiling in a friendly way. Tillie wondered if he'd waited on her earlier. Discomfort wiggled through her. How had she behaved? What had she said? It was horrifying not to know.

When the old woman exited, she headed for the counter, feeling weird and embarrassed. "Hi, I was in here earlier—"

"I remember."

Damn. "And I left my phone somewhere. I'm retracing my steps."

He made a little noise, holding up one finger, and reached behind the counter. "I figured you'd be back. It's dead, and I didn't have a charger, so I couldn't do anything with it until I got home."

Relief sent cooling waves through her body, almost shocking after the heat of the last few hours. "Thank God." She smiled. "And you. Thank you."

"No problem. I hope you find your sister."

Tillie froze, trying to work out what that meant. What she'd said. How could she ask for more information without seeming like a weirdo? But she couldn't think of a way, and just nodded. "Thanks." She headed for the door.

But seriously, this guy would never see her again, and she didn't have to please him or seem normal, but she really did need some answers. She spun around on her heel.

"Look, this is weird, but I'm having memory issues from ... medication ... and I know I was here because I brought tea home, but I don't remember what I said about my sister."

His brown eyes were concerned. "Wow. Are you okay?"

"Uh, that's a hard question to answer. Do you remember what I said?"

"Yeah, we talked for like five minutes about you losing her when you were a little girl and now you're trying to find her."

"I didn't say she was dead?"

"No. Is she?"

Tillie paused, trying to collate this information. "No. I am looking for her. Thanks."

He grabbed a piece of paper from the counter and scribbled something down. "If you need anything, just call or text. Anytime." His gaze was kind as he held out the paper. "I've been through a few things myself."

She realized that he thought she was an addict or something, and her face flushed. Although, why be embarrassed if he wanted to help, and honestly—

A roar filled her ears—embarrassment or confusion or both—and she snatched the paper and hurried out, phone clutched to her belly. She was anxious to get home and plug in the phone, but she was also worried about every single moment she'd be out in the world, fearing another dissociative issue. She flagged a cab, gave the driver her address, and let go of a breath.

My sister. She'd told the clerk that she was looking for her sister, not that her sister was dead. What did her memory know that she didn't? Were the lies her mother told even deeper than she suspected?

The tattered visions or memories that were surfacing gave her the sense that the two girls were sisters, and one of them was Tillie, but how did that fit the rest of what she knew—that her mother had a child who'd died in the Valencia firestorm and then moved to upstate New York?

It didn't make sense. None of it fit together.

A ripple of headache blipped across her forehead, and she immediately took a breath, let it out, and rubbed circles on her temples.

When the cab pulled up, Jared was sitting on her stoop. She blurted out, "What the hell?"

"Everything all right, miss?" the driver asked.

Tillie sighed. "It's fine, thanks." She ran her card, then grabbed her phone and stomped out of the car. "What are you doing here?"

"Hey, hold on." He raised his hands. "You told me to meet you here."

"What?" She closed her eyes, feeling her arms drop, her entire body droop. "When?"

"What do you mean, when? This afternoon. You texted me."

"My phone has been dead for hours. I lost it while I was shopping earlier."

Disappointment soured his features. With barely controlled fury, he smashed his finger against the app on his phone and turned the screen to face her.

Jared, I need help. Can you meet me at my apartment around eight?

You told me not to talk to you, and now you want my help?

Please. It's important. I'm scared.

What about Liam?

He left.

No games.

No games, I swear.

She stared at the words as if they would wake something up. Her heart thudded a warning, slow and hard. "I don't remember," she whispered. Because they'd been together five years and she maybe owed him something, she added, "I'm sorry. I'm having memory problems, and I can't remember what I wanted to talk to you about."

"You look like shit," he said, and did what he had always done—stepped forward and tugged her into an embrace that felt like a bulwark against the world. "It's okay. Let's get you upstairs and into a hot bath."

In the past, he would have done this for her when she'd had a migraine or a bad day. Helped her into the bath, washed her hair, brought her a cup of tea. One of the things she'd loved about him was his gentleness. In her fear during her blackout, that was probably what she'd yearned for.

But now that she was in her right mind, she knew she didn't want that. Still not with Jared.

Whatever else was going on, Tillie didn't want to give him the wrong idea. "Jared, I don't want to get back together."

His body tensed.

She pulled out of his arms. "I don't remember texting you. I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong idea."

He stared at her. "Memory issues? What does that even mean?"

She was too fried to even begin to explain. "I don't know."

They stood there, looking at each other, and suddenly he capitulated. "You know what, Tillie? Fuck you, and fuck this. Fuck everything. Don't call me again, for anything. Ever."

"Jared—"

"No. You're not going to use me and throw me away."

"I didn't mean to—"

But he was storming off.

Storming. Stormy. The hostile little girl looked up from her memory.

We are you, silly.