Don't Look Back(41)

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you don’t have your memories back? Because this sounds terribly familiar, Samantha.”

“Does it? That’s great.” I tried to stomp past her, but damn she was quick, blocking me.

Regret turned the flecks of green in her eyes darker. “I’m sorry, sweetie. None of this is your fault. No matter what happened or what you might have done, none of this is your fault.”

Shock rippled through me as my mom turned away. I heard her stop by the liquor cabinet, and I knew she was taking the bottle with her. In a daze, I left the kitchen and saw my dad standing there.

He looked away, eyes closed and brows furrowed. “Samantha—”

“She thinks I did it?” My voice was small, hoarse. “She thinks I did something to Cassie?”

“No.” His eyes shot open wide. “No, she doesn’t think anything like that. She’s just tired, and all the stress has ... has affected her. Your mom isn’t...” He shook his head. “She doesn’t think that.”

Nice of him to try to convince me, but I didn’t believe him. “Do you think I did?”

“No, baby, I don’t think you had anything to do with what happened,” he said, trying for a smile but failing. “It’s late. Go upstairs. Things will be better tomorrow.”

For a moment, all I could do was stare at him in icy disbelief. Tears built in the back of my throat, and when I could move, I flew past him. I wasn’t sure what I was running from, but it didn’t matter where I went. What Mom had said haunted me as I stripped off my clothes and changed with shaky hands.

I sat down on the bed, pulling my legs up to my chest. Resting my head against my knees, I dragged in deep breaths that did nothing to quell the rising panic. Carson might have believed I wasn’t capable of such a thing, but what was I supposed to think when my own mother thought I was?





Chapter twelve





M rs. Messer had this thing with her glasses. She

put them on when she started talking, took them off before she finished a sentence, and then nibbled on the temple piece. Within the first five minutes of our session on Wednesday, she’d already completed the cycle five times.

I slid down in the seat, smothering my yawn with my hand. She’d spent the better part of our time together checking over reports from my teachers.

She placed the papers in a folder and set it aside. “As expected, none of the teachers have any concerns. If anything, you’re actually paying more attention in class now than before.”

“Well, I guess that’s one good thing.”

Her smile was tight-lipped. “How’s everything been at home?” I schooled my features blank. “Everything’s okay.” On went the glasses. “Your mother contacted me yesterday.

She’s concerned about how you’re adjusting to everything.” Jerking up in my seat, I snapped my mouth close. Mom hadn’t spoken to me since the blowup on Monday night. And I was okay with that. “She called you?”

“Yes. She’s worried that you’re having a hard time connecting things from before the ... incident with your life now.” Off went the glasses. “Do you want to talk about it?”

My teeth ached from how hard I was clenching my jaw. “It’s more like she’s having a problem with the way I am now.”

Mrs. Messer nibbled on the end piece. “Something to do with a boy...?”

Heat swept over my cheeks. “I was eating ice cream with a boy and she freaked out.” I couldn’t believe my mom had called her! Mom hadn’t made good on calling an actual therapist, but telling the school counselor was bad enough. Gripping the arms on the chair, I took a deep breath. “I’m not the same person I was before the incident. And you know what? I think it’s a good thing. I was a complete and utter bitch before.”

Putting the glasses back on once again, her lips twitched as if she really wanted to smile. Not the fake, tight ones she always gave me. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I did explain to her that she would see personality changes.”

“I bet she took that well,” I grumbled. “She thinks I’m...”

“She thinks what, Samantha?”

I started chewing on my thumbnail as my foot anxiously tapped the floor. The urge to spill my secrets came at me fast and hard, and I wanted to cave. “I don’t know. She’s embarrassed by me. I think she’s always been.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” the counselor said, watching me. “Have you been able to recover any more memories?”

Focusing on the picture of the cherub-faced little boy in the photo on her desk, I gave a lopsided shrug. “Just bits and pieces, and they don’t make much sense. There hasn’t been a rush of memories, even though I’ve been doing like you’ve told me. I thought... I thought the news about Cassie would trigger something, but it hasn’t.”

“And how are you handling the news about Cassie? Do you still feel apathetic toward her?”

I hated it when she said things like that, even though I understood what she meant. My inability to recall the feelings surrounding my relationship with Cassie did make it hard to share in the grief everyone felt over her sudden death. “I’m trying to remember her.”