Do You Remember(9)

Then when I was ten years old, while I was trying to think of an excuse to get out of our daily visit to the hospital, my father told me she had died that morning.

You might say I’m scarred from the experience. I’ve got a terrible phobia about doctors and hospitals. And especially tests. Whenever I used to go for my annual OB/GYN visit, I would make Harry come with me and hold my trembling hand in the waiting room until the nurse called my name.

“Let me give your doctor a call,” Graham says. “I just want to know what they think.”

“Please don’t. I’m okay.”

“But—”

“Please, Graham!” I snap at him. He jerks his head back like I slapped him, and I feel guilty yet again. I soften my voice. “Sorry. I just don’t want to go to the doctor. I’m fine, I promise.”

Graham studies my face for a moment. I smile and do my best to look as perfectly healthy as possible. At least, as healthy as a woman who had a massive brain trauma could possibly look. If I say I don’t want to go to the doctor, will he force me? Could he? Has he?

“Okay,” he finally says. “But if anything changes…”

I place a hand over my heart. “I promise I’ll tell you.”

I definitely won’t.

“Also…” Graham reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little black rectangular object. He places it down on the kitchen island, right in front of me. “This is for you.”

I stare down at the object. What now?

“That’s your phone,” he explains.

“My… phone?” This looks about a hundred times fancier than my phone. I have a little silver flip phone. Harry and I are on the same account. We recently got unlimited texting and were super excited about it.

“It’s an iPhone,” he says. “You should hang onto it.”

I have an iPhone? Wow, we must be pretty wealthy. “How does it work?”

One corner of Graham’s lips quirks up. “You usually figure it out on your own.”

I’m about to ask him what the hell he’s talking about, because I’ll never figure out how to use this fancy phone in a million years. It’s even more confusing than the shower. But then I pick it up and almost instinctively, my thumb goes to the little button at the bottom of the screen, and the screen jumps to life. I don’t know how, but it’s like I already know how to use this phone, even though I’ve never seen it before. Obviously, I learned how to use it at some point and the memory never left me. Sort of like riding a bike.

I bring up the list of phone numbers programmed into the phone. Graham’s name is listed first. Then there’s a listing for “Dad”—thank God it seems like my father is still alive and well. And then there’s Lucy. I feel a rush of relief at the sight of her name. Lucy has been my best friend since the first day of college, even before I knew Harry. It’s a comfort to know that with just one click, I can hear her voice. I’m tempted to call her now, but with Graham right next to me, it seems rude.

There’s only one other name on the favorites list. And it’s one I don’t recognize.

“Who is Camila?” I ask.

Before Graham can answer me, the doorbell rings. He swivels his head in the direction of the sound. “Actually,” he says, “you’re about to meet her.”





Chapter 5


Graham disappears into the living room to open the door and greet Camila. I stay behind, pushing the eggs around my plate. They don’t taste much better than the overcooked bacon, but at least they’re edible. Barely.

Ziggy has gone to the back door, and he’s yapping at it, eager to go outside. I wonder if I could take him out into the backyard. I assume the backyard must be fenced in. I’d love to sit outside with him while he plays. It will be nice to get some fresh air.

But then when I go to the back door and try to open the lock, I realize there’s a problem. You can’t simply turn the lock to open the door. There’s a keyhole.

The back door requires a key to open it from the inside.

A sick feeling washes over me as I jiggle the door knob, wondering if this is some kind of mistake. I’m not locked inside here, am I? Why would the door lock this way? What’s going on?

“Tess?”

I whirl around, my heart pounding. Graham is standing in the kitchen, and next to him is a woman in her mid-twenties. The woman is gorgeous. She has black hair pulled into a stylishly messy bun behind her head, falling in sexy tendrils around her face, a perfectly pert nose, and plump lips. She doesn’t have one scrap of makeup on her flawless light brown skin. She blinks her big brown eyes at me, probably having witnessed my struggle with the back door.

“Hello, Tess.” The woman’s voice is gentle and has a bit of a rasp to it, like the voice of someone far older than her twenty-something years. “I’m Camila.”

Considering her number is programmed into my phone, I suspect I have met this woman dozens if not hundreds of times before. It’s embarrassing that she has to introduce herself to me. It wasn’t quite as bad when it was just me and Graham, but I’m starting to feel like a mental patient.

“Hi,” I say. “Um. Sorry to be rude but… who are you?”

“Camila keeps the house clean for us,” Graham says.