Unremembered (Unremembered #1)(41)

‘Why would I need to be reminded of what’s real?’

He slows slightly and looks to the ground. ‘Because not everything in your life was.’

I see a clearing up ahead. We’ve almost arrived back at the highway. Every few seconds another set of car headlights passes by, illuminating the road for a moment before it returns to darkness.

But I can still see everything flawlessly.

Which is unfortunate because I notice smoke rising above the trees a few miles to our left and I know immediately that it’s the site of the accident. The one I caused. The guilt wrenches through me again and I have to swallow another rise of acid in my throat.

‘Why are they looking for me?’ I ask, thinking back to the man with the scar who chased me all the way out here.

Zen starts walking towards the road and beckons for me to follow. ‘Because you escaped. Well . . . we did. Together.’

‘Because we’re soulmates?’ I ask, the unfamiliar term feeling awkward on my lips.

As much as I once wanted to believe that everything he told me was a lie, after all that’s happened in the past hour it’s decidedly more difficult to do so.

Zen laughs. It echoes beautifully in my ears. ‘Well, yes. There was that reason. But mostly it was because we figured out what they were doing to you.’

‘What exactly were they doing to me? I still don’t completely understand.’

Zen’s smile fades almost instantly. ‘Neither do I.’

‘But you just said—’

His arm juts out in front of me, bringing me to a halt. We’ve stopped in front of the highway. There’s a lull in the traffic and Zen reaches for my hand. We sprint across together. The touch of his skin against mine makes my entire body hum. I don’t want him to let go but he does as soon as we reach the other side.

He doesn’t seem to notice my disappointment when his fingers slip from mine. He just keeps walking.

‘I know you have a lot of questions,’ he begins, as he heads towards the far north side of town. ‘But I think it’s better if I don’t answer them.’

My feet slow to a stop and I scowl in his direction. ‘What? Why not?’

He stops too and glances back at me. ‘Because knowing you, I honestly don’t think you’d believe me.’

His response makes my head spin. How am I supposed to remember anything if he won’t even tell me what happened?

‘You’ve always had a tendency to trust only what you can see and touch and define,’ he goes on. ‘Facts and numbers. They’re what you rely on.’

I’m somewhat staggered by how accurate his description is.

‘Which is why,’ he continues, ‘I think it’s better if I show you.’

Show me?

He starts walking again and I follow closely behind as he leads me back into the small, sleepy town of Wells Creek. We cross the deserted main street and continue up a hill. I note the street sign as we turn on to a narrow road: BRADBURY DRIVE. And the building we eventually stop in front of is marked by the number 1952.

1952 Bradbury Drive, room 302.

Where Zen told me he was staying. Where he asked me to meet him when he cornered me in the dressing room.

But the part that confuses me is the sign out front that reads MARK TWAIN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL.

Why would Zen be staying at a school?

He taps on a small numeric keypad on the front door and then yanks it open. He beckons for me to enter but I hesitate.

‘Sera,’ he urges gently, ‘I would never lead you into danger. I’m doing my best to keep you away from it.’ He smiles ever so slightly. ‘I promise.’

I walk past him into the building and Zen lets the door swing shut behind us. He guides me up two flights of stairs and down a hallway to room 302.

The lock has been broken. Busted open. He holds the door for me, flips on the light switch, and we step inside. The room is hot and a bit stuffy but I hardly notice. I’m far too distracted by the walls. They’re utterly fascinating. Bright and colourful and decorated with hundreds of pictures and drawings and maps of the world.

There are shelves stuffed with books and a handful of small round tables with blue plastic chairs tucked in around them. Every letter of the alphabet is displayed in various colours near the ceiling.

‘What is this place?’ I ask, spinning in a slow circle, trying to absorb everything.

‘It’s a kindergarten classroom.’

‘What’s kindergarten?’

He chuckles. ‘It’s the first year of school. When children start their education. Typically around age five.’

I smile, immediately feeling a peculiar kinship with the room. After all, I seem to be starting from the beginning as well.

‘Sorry it’s so warm in here,’ Zen says, walking to a table in the centre of the room. ‘They don’t turn on the air-conditioning in the summer when school is out.’

On the floor near his feet I notice a thin foam pad with a pillow and a crumpled blanket on it. ‘Are you . . . living here?’ I ask.

‘Temporarily.’

‘Why?’

‘I had to find a location that was deserted. So I could stay under the radar. And a kindergarten classroom seemed like the perfect place. There’s no one here during the summer and they have blankets and pillows for nap time.’