Undiscovered (Unremembered #1.5)(33)

I know I could easily yank it away. I’m about a hundred times stronger than she is, but I also know that it would be the wrong thing to do right now.

“It is!” she exclaims, studying it closer, and clearly ignoring her husband’s warning. “I’ve heard Mary Adams describe it.” She sucks in a hissing breath through her teeth. “That’s Satan’s mark!”

I don’t know who Satan is but I can only surmise that he or she is not someone you want to be associated with. All four children shudder in unison and seven-year-old Myles whimpers and climbs into his father’s lap, his small brown eyes narrowing accusingly in my direction.

“Mrs. Pattinson,” her husband roars. “That is enough. You are frightening the children. I’ve warned you before about listening to the likes of Mary Adams. She’s a gossip and a meddler. I’m sure Sarah has a perfectly reasonable explanation for her”—he looks toward my wrist and clears his throat anxiously—“for whatever that is.”

Everyone turns expectantly to me and I turn to Zen, my eyes pleading with him. I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know what to say. Whatever I do will undoubtedly only make things worse.

I watch Zen’s expression shift. Sliding effortlessly from one of disquiet to one of calm. He chuckles and I immediately wonder if laughing at Mrs. Pattinson is really the best choice right now. But Zen appears to know what he’s doing.

“Oh that,” Zen says, casually flicking his hand toward my wrist, which is still pinned in Mrs. Pattinson’s mighty clutch. “That’s a great story! You’re going to love it!”

His easy movements and the buoyancy of his voice calm the tension in the room almost instantly. Zen then launches into a flawless account of the time my father’s merchant ship was raided and seized by pirates when I was only eight years old. The invaders took everyone captive and tattooed us with this special mark, branding us as prisoners.

Within moments everyone is completely rapt listening to his story and the animated way in which he tells it. He stands up and swings his arms valiantly to enact the final epic battle of swords that led to our victory and daring escape.

No one is even looking at me anymore. Everyone is intently focused on Zen as though they’ve completely forgotten about the scandal that prompted the telling of this story in the first place.

Everyone except Mrs. Pattinson, that is.

When I glance up, her vicious, distrustful eyes are still drilling into me. Her mouth is clenched, slicing a rigid horizontal line across the bottom of her face. She is not in the least bit dazzled by Zen’s spirited story. In fact, I doubt she believes a word of it.

I force a timid smile and ever so gently begin to pry my hand out from under her hers. My arm snaps back when I finally break free. The whole time her gaze never abandons me. She never stops accusing.

I hastily finish the sock that I’ve been darning, place it on the table, and clean up my work space. Zen is still engrossed in the story of the great battle with the pirates, making up details with impressive ease and diligence.

I stand up without a word and head toward the stairs. Zen stops talking long enough to raise his eyebrows inquisitively at me. Are you okay?

I shrug and nod weakly in response, anxious to leave the room, to disappear behind a closed door. To vanish.

I hurry toward the stairs, wanting so badly to bolt up them as fast as my legs can carry me. But I force myself to take cautious, timed, human steps—one, one thousand, two, one thousand—feeling Mrs. Pattinson’s eyes stinging the back of my neck the entire time.





4


TELLING


As soon as the door is closed behind me, I slide out of my mules, rip the bonnet from my head, untwist my bun, and shake out my long honey-brown hair. The bed squeaks under my weight as I collapse onto my back. I rest my hand on my chest, feeling my heart pounding. My rib cage rises and falls in desperate ragged breaths.

I close my eyes and try to calm myself. Try to tell myself it’s all right. By tomorrow she will have completely forgotten about it.

But I know I’m only lying again.

I wish I had access to one of Diotech’s recognization receptors so I could dig into Mrs. Pattinson’s mind, find that memory, and erase it forever. I was wearing a set of them when we arrived here but Zen insisted we throw them into a nearby pond, reasoning that they would only arouse suspicion if they were ever found in our possession.

Not that they’d be of any use to us without the right equipment. Even if I was able to sneak into her bedroom while she was sleeping and secure the receptors to her head, I’d still need some kind of computer connected to them in order to find the memory within her brain and delete it.

Absentmindedly, I run my fingertip gently over the ink-black strip of skin on the inside of my wrist.

“Satan’s mark.”

I remember when they found me the first time. When the thin black line buzzed with electricity. When they were close enough to track me.

It was August of 2013. In the small town of Wells Creek, California. When I was living with the Carlsons, my foster family. Heather, Scott, and their thirteen-year-old son, Cody.

People believed I was the sole survivor of a deadly plane crash. That I had somehow managed to fall from the sky and live to tell about it. That I had lost my memories as a result of the accident. And that I was just a normal sixteen-year-old girl with a family, and friends, and a home somewhere.