Lies(69)

“Did you do this?” I ask, pulling up the sleeve on my T-shirt to display my shoulder. It’s a beautiful piece. A cluster of violets with olive-green stems and leaves. It’s almost like a scientific drawing, but missing the root structure.

His gaze narrows. “Of course I did it.”

“I was your client. Okay.” That’s now a definite. Good. Definites give my world structure and help things make sense. Unknowns just piss me off. “Did I not pay you or something?”

“’the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re angry.”

And it’s obvious the moment he sees my brow. The hostility and confusion in his eyes changes to surprise.

I immediately smooth down my bangs, trying to hide. Stupid to get self-conscious, but I can’t help it.

He gently brushes my hand aside, parting my hair to see. An intimate gesture that sets me on edge. As hands-on as tattooing must be, the way he’s touching me and getting in my space is … more. I try to step back, but there’s nowhere to go. Besides, he’s not actually hurting me, just making me nervous. And as much as I abhor being crowded, some part of me doesn’t mind him touching me.

Weird. Maybe I need sex or something. Maybe he’s my type. I don’t know.

Deep lines are embedded in his forehead as he studies me. This is exactly the reason I cut my hair in the first place. The scar starts an inch into my hairline, ending below my right eyebrow. It’s wide and jagged, dark pink.

That’s enough. I put a hand to his chest, pushing him back. Happily, he goes. A small step, at least.

“So you know me?” I ask, trying to clarify things. “Like, as more than a customer.”

The man just stares. I don’t know what his expression means. A mix of unhappy and perplexed, maybe? He really is quite handsome. A new song starts, this time it’s a woman singing.

“Well?”

Finally, he speaks. “What the fuck happened to you?”




A week earlier …



“Are you ready?”

I stop kicking my feet and hop down off the hospital bed. “Yeah.”

“Good. The car’s waiting in the drop-off zone and we’ll go straight home. Everything’s organized,” says my sister, a confident smile on her face. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not worried,” I lie.

“Did you want to see the photos of my house again?”

“No. It’s fine.”

My sister’s name is Frances (not Fran or Frannie), and she’s a police officer who lives in North Deering. She blames herself for what happened. It probably comes with the job.

At thirty, Frances is five years older than me. We have the same strawberry-blond hair and blue eyes, small breasts and child-birthing hips. Her words, not mine, and I told her it was a shitty descriptor. But given my current condition, there’s something to be said for relying on others’ descriptions.

Anyway, my sister and I look alike. I’ve seen this in various photos and in the mirror, so it’s a definite.

“Hey, Clem.” Nurse Mike sticks his head around the doorway. “Everything’s sorted; you’re good to go. Any last-minute questions or anything?”

I shake my head.

“Call Doctor Patel’s office if you have any problems, okay?”

“Yes.”

“Keep in touch, kid. Let me know how things go.”

“Okay.”

Mike disappears.

“Did you want to bring the flowers?” asks my sister.

I shake my head. This is it. Time to go. Frances just stands by the door, waiting.

My first memory is of waking up in this hospital, but really, I was born late at night on an inner-city street. A couple found me unconscious and bleeding on the sidewalk. No identification. Handbag and wallet missing. And the weapon, a blood-splattered empty bottle of scotch, lay abandoned nearby. Walter, half of the pair who found me, gets teary every time he describes that night. But Jack, his partner, did two tours in ’Nam and has seen far worse. They’re the first ones who brought me flowers. Not that I got many. My friends are few.

Previous me had, apparently, gone out to dinner alone. Her last meal consisted of cheese and spinach ravioli in a pumpkin sauce with a bottle of Peroni. (Detective Chen said it’s a yeasty Italian beer that goes well with pasta. It sounds nice. I might try it sometime.) From there, security cameras have her withdrawing a hundred and fifty dollars before walking off into the night. There were no cameras on the quiet side street where she’d parked the car. No one around apart from the attacker.

That’s how Clementine Johns died.

Out in the hallway, there’s a mix of patients, visitors, and medical staff. Same as always for midmorning. I wipe my sweaty palms on the sides of my pants. It’s nice to be wearing actual clothes. Black sandals, blue jeans, and a white T-shirt. Nothing too exciting; nothing that would make me stand out. I want to blend in, watch and learn. Because if we’re the sum of our experiences, then I’m nothing and no one.

Frances watches me out of the corner of her eye, but doesn’t say anything. Something she does a lot. I’d say her silence makes me paranoid, but I’m already paranoid.

“Sure you’re all right?” she asks while we wait for the elevator.