Unremembered (Unremembered #1)(5)

‘Now that’s a question that needs a whole heap of an explanation, love. One that I don’t know if I can give you. But I’m sure that one of those calls will prove to be the real thing.’

I feel my shoulders sink and my body slouch. Like my spine has given out on me.

Impostors.

Liars.

Fakes.

Was that really what the boy was? Someone trying to meet the famous survivor of flight 121? The thought fills me with a surge of emotion. The idea that he was able to make me feel a sliver of hope – false hope – leaves me feeling foolish. And furious.

But then again, maybe he was never here at all. The drugs could have caused me to hallucinate. Invent things.

Invent people.

I fall back against my pillow, deflated. I reach for the remote control and turn on the television. My photograph is still on the screen, although it’s been resized and placed in the top right corner. A new female reporter is standing in front of the same Los Angeles International Airport sign.

‘Once again,’ she is saying, ‘anyone with information about this girl’s identity is encouraged to call the number on the screen.’ A long string of digits appears below the woman’s chest. The same ones as yesterday.

And I’m struck with a thought.

‘Kiyana?’

She’s writing something on her clipboard and pauses to look up at me. ‘What’s that, love?’

‘How do they know the callers are impostors?’

She glances back down at her clipboard and continues scribbling notes, answering my question distractedly. ‘Because none of them know about the locket.’

My gaze whips towards her. ‘What locket?’

She still doesn’t look up, oblivious to the alarm in my voice. ‘The one you had on when they found you.’ Her voice slows as she comes to the end of her sentence and notices the ghastly expression on my face. Something she clearly wasn’t expecting to see.

Her hand goes to her mouth, as though to recapture the words that she has inadvertently set free.

But it’s too late. They’re already imprinted on my barren brain.

I feel my teeth clench and my eyes narrow as I turn my glaring expression on her and seethe, ‘No one told me anything about a locket.’





4


MARKED


‘The only reason we didn’t tell you about it,’ Dr Schatzel says as he dances his hands around in some kind of apologetic gesture, ‘is that we didn’t want to overwhelm you.’

This overwhelms me. I hear the faint, rhythmic beeping of my heart monitor start to speed up. ‘You had no right to keep it from me. It’s mine.’

The doctor puts a hand on my arm in an act I assume is meant to calm me. ‘Relax,’ he coaxes. ‘The police are having it analysed in the hope that they can possibly identify where it was made or purchased. They thought maybe it could help us locate your family. Don’t forget that we’re all on the same side here. We’re after the same goal. And that’s finding out who you are.’

I can feel the rage building up inside me. ‘I don’t believe you!’ I cry out. ‘If we were all on the same side, you wouldn’t be stealing my stuff and not telling me about it. You wouldn’t be making me lie in this bed for two days when there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me.’ I shove the covers off my legs and sit upright.

‘Violet,’ he urges, ‘you really need to calm down. It’s not good for you to be getting so worked up. We were going to bring you the locket once you had stabilized more. You’ve been through a very traumatic experience and your system is—’

‘My system,’ I interrupt, fuming, ‘is fine! I’m already perfectly stable! In fact, I’ve been stable since the moment I arrived here.’ I launch to my feet. ‘See!’ I yell, motioning to my fully functioning body, covered by a wispy piece of pale blue fabric. ‘Perfectly healthy. You and your parade of nurses and specialists are the only things that have been making me unstable. And yet you insist on keeping me here anyway. When are you going to start believing me? THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME!’

I yank the suction cup from my chest. The machine next to my bed screams in protest. Kiyana looks anxiously to Dr Schatzel, who eyes the emergency call button on the wall.

I point at the IV needle in my arm. ‘This?’ I tug the cord free and let it fall to the ground. ‘Completely unnecessary.’ Then I pull the air tube from around my face. ‘And this is ridiculous. I can breathe perfectly well on my own. Better, now that I don’t have a tube up my nose.

‘And what is the purpose of this?’ I flick my finger against the strip of white plastic wrapped around my wrist.

‘Hospital ID bracelets are standard procedure for all patients,’ Dr Schatzel responds.

‘Well, then,’ I say, ripping furiously at the flimsy button clasp. ‘I won’t be needing it any more, will I? Since I’m clearly not . . .’

My voice trails off as the plastic snaps and the bracelet falls from my wrist, revealing the small patch of skin underneath. It’s pink and slightly tender from my struggle but that’s not the part that concerns me. That’s not the reason I gasp in horror and collapse back on to the bed the moment my eyes catch sight of it.

‘What is this?’ I ask, my voice no longer thunderous. It’s now weak. On the verge of breaking.