Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(21)

Dr. Alwood laughs. “I’ll bet. Well, I suspect your roommate won’t be nearly as pleasant post-op.”

Now Ginny shoots a scathing glare at the back of Dr. Alwood’s head.

Great.

With that, they wheel the cantankerous woman into the hall, leaving me with plenty of questions.

And all alone. Again.

“You touched my stuff, girl.”

The groggy accusation cuts through the darkness, startling me. Ginny hasn’t spoken since Amber wheeled her back into our room several hours ago.

“I thought maybe if I stuck that square in a heavy book, it’d flatten the pattern for you,” I explain, clearing my throat several times, suddenly nervous. I wait, staring at the parking lot light outside my window. I never draw my bed curtains fully at night. The space feels too small, too confining, and, with each creak of the door, a part of me fears the person who might enter my room.

Finally, I hear a low mutter of, “I don’t like people touching my stuff. You can’t be doing that.”

“I’m sorry. I was just trying to help.” I dare add in a light tone, “It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful quilt when it’s done.” Okay, I could be lying about that. I have no idea what that square was. All I could see were patches of red and orange and yellow. But her needlework is tidy and precise.

The sound of metal rings scraping across a rod fills the dark hospital room, revealing the old woman from the chest up, her eyes narrowed to slits. “Is this an act?”

“Excuse me?”

“This memory thing of yours. Are you lying?” I can’t tell if she’s asking or accusing.

“I wish I were,” I answer honestly.

“Don’t wish that, silly girl,” she snaps. “You should be happy.”

“Happy?” I burst out in shock. People have given me a lot of pieces of advice over these past few months. This has not been one of them.

The way I must be glaring at her now doesn’t seem to dissuade her. “Yes, happy. Happy that you can spend the rest of your life in ignorant bliss. That you don’t have to lie in bed with your memories—the smell of his breath, the feel of his weight on you, the sound of his voice when he yells at you to stop crying. Because those memories are like demons. They’ll chase you, and when they grab on, they hold on tight. They break you. You get to relive them over and over and”—her voice drops to a hiss—“over again.”

“But what about . . .” My voice trails off. She’s not talking about forgetting my entire life.

Just a very specific part of it.

My stomach drops as understanding slams into me. It would explain her reaction to the male nurse today. “You were . . . it happened to you, too,” I stammer.

“And I’ve spent almost fifty years wishing I could forget it. So be happy, girl, because if you ever wake up to your reality, I promise you’ll be wishin’ you could forget all over again.”

The curtain abruptly closes. Clearly, our conversation is over.

The first hints of blue appear in the sky when I finally manage to drift off, the old woman’s words a dark shawl of unease hanging over me.

Wondering what kind of demons may be lying in wait for me.

NINE

Jesse

then

“You changed your mind awfully quick.”

“I’m allowed.” That repetitive, irritating thrum of music hits me as we step around a group of guys in suits.

“If you’re gonna make this a habit, you’d better go buy some new shirts. Guys aren’t supposed to swap clothes like this. It’s weird.” Boone flicks the collar of a black button-down that I borrowed from him.

“It won’t be a habit. I just feel like hanging out with you tonight is all.”

He snorts. “Bullshit.” I trail him to the bar, where he waves down Priscilla. “Two of the usual, babe,” Boone orders, flashing her a suggestive smile. I caught him practicing that smile in the mirror once.

When she lays them on the counter, I throw down cash to cover it. I don’t want Alexandria’s husband paying for my drinks tonight.

Alexandria.

Since she climbed into a Hummer with her husband this afternoon, her name’s been dancing through my head, followed quickly by her smile. And then a strange tingle skitters down the back of my neck and through my body.

The only reason I came tonight is because I’m hoping she’s here.

With a salute toward Priscilla—promising myself that this is the only drink I’m having—I head with Boone to the same alcove at the back of the lounge. The way Boone walks toward it, I know that Viktor and his friends own this table.

Sure enough, they’re already here.

And so is Alexandria.

My heart jumps when I see her. She’s sitting next to Viktor, her hands folded on the table, the relaxed air she had earlier today traded in for the hard mask. Instead of a blue sparkly dress, this time she’s wearing red, to match her bright lips, and her long, white-blond hair has smooth waves in it.

She definitely doesn’t look cheap now.

She looks like a damn movie star.

And her husband has his back turned to her, in deep conversation with the same big blond guy as last time.

“Rust!” Boone dispenses with the pleasantries as I stand slightly back, watching Alexandria’s eyes lift to meet the newcomers.