The Memory of You (Sanctuary Sound #1)(102)

Cigarette smoke.

Keep fucking quiet, bitch.

“Steffi?” Claire’s voice cut through Steffi’s thoughts.

Steffi released the table and swallowed bile.

“Did you say . . . ‘raped’?” Claire’s face paled and her lips parted. “Is it true?”

I guess so!

“Does it matter?” Steffi sniveled, swiping a tear from her cheek. “The point is that he violated my privacy. He’s as bad as the criminals he represents.” She stood abruptly, fleeing Claire’s pitying stare, and dumped the rest of her coffee down the drain.

“Wait, Stefanie. Just . . . if you don’t want to talk about the . . . thing, then let’s talk about why Ryan did this.”

“He thinks my blackouts will stop if I go to therapy to cope with . . . it.”

“So he thinks the blackouts are what? Repressed memories poking through?”

“Basically.” She closed her eyes and shook her head as if shaking off snow. “I don’t know and I don’t care. How does his force-feeding me horrible news make anything better? Isn’t an occasional zone-out better than remembering something awful!” Her voice had risen to a screech. “How is this news better?”

Claire hugged her, which was unusual for both of them. But Steffi melted into her arms and broke into deep sobs.

“Oh, Steffi. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what else to say. How can I help?”

She couldn’t. No one could. If Ryan’s claims were true, would she ever see herself the same? Her body? Sex? A thousand hot showers wouldn’t make her feel less dirty even though she still couldn’t remember. If those memories came back, she might never fully recover. “I hate him.”

Claire stroked Steffi’s hair. “Don’t hate him. He didn’t do this to hurt you.”

“Don’t defend him!” Steffi broke free of Claire’s hold.

“Steffi, his intentions matter. He’s trying to help because he cares. Isn’t that what you’ve wanted all this time?”

“I’m telling you, Claire, this house is a Ryan-free zone.”

Claire cocked a brow and crossed her arms. “So you expect me to talk about—and to—Peyton, but you won’t discuss or talk to Ryan? Tell me you see the hypocrisy. At least Ryan had your best interests at heart, unlike Peyton, who only cared about herself.”

“How is it loving to demand I go to therapy in order to have a relationship with him?”

“He said that?” Claire’s brows shot upward.

“Not in those words, but he’s worried about everyone’s safety. He even made an appointment with someone for this morning, but I’m not going. I already left a message with the doc and then texted Ryan not to bother showing up here to take me.”

Claire clapped her hands to her cheeks. “The thing with Emmy must’ve really scared him.”

Steffi couldn’t deny that. “It scared me, too. That still doesn’t give him the right to do what he did.”

Claire approached her like a child trying to capture a butterfly. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but just because he went about it wrong doesn’t mean it can’t help you.”

“Don’t start!” How could she talk to a therapist about something she didn’t even remember? Didn’t want to remember, either. “I have to go to work. Please don’t mention this to anyone.”

“Of course not, but is that best? I have to be honest. Seeing you, listening to you today . . . however you got to this place, focus on the positive. This means it can get better, Steffi. You just need to talk to someone who knows how to handle this. Go—go to the appointment. I’ll come if you want.”

“It’s my life, Claire. I don’t need you or Ryan making decisions for me, okay?”

Claire raised her hands. “Okay. Sorry. But at least take the day off. I could hang out, we could rent movies and get ice cream or whatever.”

“How many ways can I tell you and show you that I’ll. Be. Fine.” Steffi snatched her keys. “See you later.”

She would be fine, too. No poking for pain on a shrink’s sofa. No wallowing. Moving forward. Staying focused. It’d worked for her before, and it would work again. She could get right on her own. She didn’t need Ryan. She didn’t need anyone.

On her way toward the Hightop project, she passed the cemetery where her mother was buried. That had been the hardest day of her life . . . until now. Despite her affirmations, she felt loss and lost, uncertain of everything. She couldn’t even trust her own thoughts because, apparently, they were incomplete and unreliable.

Two blocks later, she made a U-turn and drove back to the cemetery. She’d visited her mother’s grave a few times each year: the anniversary of her death, her birthday, and Christmas. On those occasions, the stoic Lockwoods would gather to talk about memories, and they’d carpet the ground in peonies—her mom’s favorite flower.

They’d leave arm in arm as if they’d been at a party, none of them talking about how, each year, they wished she was there to mark a milestone or celebrate some occasion. How some nights they’d stare at the ceiling wondering if she could see them . . . or if a warm summer breeze or a butterfly on the car was a message. They never acknowledged the gaping hole in their lives that would always exist.