Do You Remember?: A gripping psychological thriller Read online

  Do You Remember?

  a novel by

  Freida McFadden

  Do You Remember?

  © 2022 by Freida McFadden. All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are the products of the authors’ imagination, and are not to be construed as real. None of the characters in the book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

  To my girls

  Table of Contents

  DAY ONE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  DAY TWO

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  DAY THREE

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  DAY FOUR

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  DAY FIVE

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  DAY ONE

  Chapter 1

  An ice pick is jabbing me in my right temple.

  It feels that way, anyway. The pain is enough to make my eyes fly open, giving me a view of the cracks on my bedroom ceiling. The intense light pouring through the window by the bed doesn’t make the situation any better. But after a few seconds, the pain dulls to a mild ache behind my right eye. Bearable.

  This always happens when I have too much wine at night. I haven’t been able to hold my liquor since I was twenty-five. And last night, I definitely had too much wine.

  But I couldn’t help it. It isn’t every night that I get engaged.

  I roll my head to the side and gaze at the sleeping lump beside me. No, not just a sleeping lump. My fiancé. The man I’m going to marry. Harry.

  It’s not like it was a huge surprise. We have, after all, been living together for over a year. And after our one-bedroom apartment on the lower east side went condo six months ago, we bought a big old house in Queens together, within reasonable commuting distance of Manhattan. After we went in on the mortgage together, we were pretty much stuck with each other. Even more so than if we got married. I mean, a divorce is easy. But splitting up this house would be such a hassle.

  As I lie in bed, I replay the events of last night in my head. I have a feeling I’m going to be telling this story a lot. To my father. Possibly to our future children someday. At the very least, my best friend Lucy will want to hear every juicy detail.

  So we had just finished dinner and were going to watch a movie together, but I told Harry I wanted to check my email first. I was confused by the way he followed me to my laptop, tripping over his feet in his eagerness. It didn’t make sense until I opened my laptop—he had replaced the keys on my keyboard. The new keys spelled out: WILL YOU MARRY ME?

  And then when I turned to look at him, he was down on one knee, holding a blue velvet box, gazing up at me with his deep brown eyes. The diamond was small, but the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

  I was shocked. So shocked that I made the poor guy wait just a little too long before answering, and he looked a bit nervous. He reached out and grabbed my hand. “Please marry me, Tess,” he said. “You’re my whole life.”

  Of course, I said yes. I mean, I’m crazy about the guy.

  To celebrate our engagement, Harry popped the cork on the really good bottle of Cabernet that he had stashed away in the kitchen cabinet for a special occasion. I’m pretty sure that bottle is now lying empty on our coffee table, hence my pounding headache. We spent the evening talking about what we wanted to do for a wedding, but especially where we wanted to go for our honeymoon. Someplace hot with lots of beaches.

  After that first glass of Cabernet, the rest of the events of the evening are kind of foggy. But clearly, we made it back into bed. And I managed to change into one of the oversized T-shirts I always sleep in, even though I don’t quite remember doing so. But I must have. I’m wearing it, after all.

  I rest a hand gently on the blanket covering my fiancé. (Does that sound pretentious? I love saying it.) He has dark brown hair that always sticks up a bit, but somehow, in the morning light streaming in through the window, it looks much lighter. He doesn’t stir at my touch. Harry could sleep through an earthquake, but especially when he’s had a few drinks. Usually he snores after he drinks, but he’s dead silent now.

  I kick off the blankets and sit up in bed. I feel another jab of pain in my right temple, but then it eases up, replaced by a dull ache at the base of my spine. Wow, I really need to stop drinking. It’s not worth it to feel so crummy in the morning. And why can’t I remember anything that happened after Harry proposed?

  I stumble in the direction of the bathroom in my bare feet, trying to ignore the various aches in my body. I’m not even thirty yet—it seems like I should be able to drink a little wine without feeling like a decrepit old lady the next morning. But maybe this is what happens when you get older.

  I flick on the lights in the bathroom, bracing myself for the brightness. I squint into the master bathroom, waiting for my pupils to adjust. And…

  What the hell happened here?

  I stare at the sink, utterly confused. Okay, the events of last night are sort of fuzzy, but is it possible Harry and I went on a home repair spree after drinking the Cabernet? Because the sink that was rusted and cracked when we bought the house—and still was as of last night—is now a flawless, gleaming white. And the toilet… when we first saw this place, Harry commented, “Hey, it’s a prison toilet!” He sounded way too excited about it, but he had a good point. Our toilet did look like something out of a prison bathroom.

  But now it’s been replaced. By a sleek white toilet that appears to have a bidet attachment.

  Did Harry and I install a bidet on the night of our engagement?

  I shake my head, trying to dredge up the memory of having done this last night. But it’s all still a blank.

  I look back at the bedroom. Harry is still asleep under the covers, which are practically covering his entire head. It’s only now that I notice the covers look different. During the winter, Harry and I bought a white down comforter. I remember going to the store together and cuddling with him under the sample comforters while the staff shot us dirty looks. We picked the white one. We have a white comforter.

  So why is Harry covered in a brown comforter? Did we buy a new comforter last night?

  I really think I would remember that.

  A sudden dizzy sensation almost overtakes me. I hold onto the door frame of the bathroom, but then I end up sinking onto our beautiful toilet before my legs give ou
t. I don’t know what’s going on here, but it’s very strange.

  We have a gorgeous bathroom. This is exactly how I imagined it looking when Harry and I bought the place. But how did it happen overnight? I mean, Harry knows computers better than anyone, but he’s not great with a hammer or a screwdriver. I’ve heard of people having superhuman strength when they’ve been drinking. Did the two of us somehow get superhuman home improvement power? Is that a thing?

  “Harry?” I call out in a shaky voice.

  He still doesn’t stir.

  I grab onto the sink and pull myself back to my feet. I just need to splash some cold water on my face. I’m sure it will all come back to me.

  My hands are shaking as I turn on the cold water nozzle, figuring ice-cold liquid is the best thing to snap me out of this haze. I let some water run into my hands, then I splash it on my cheeks and eyelids. And then raise my head to look into the vanity mirror.

  And I scream.

  Chapter 2

  “Harry!”

  To hell with waking him up. I’m going to drag that man out of bed by his ankles if he doesn’t get up in the next two seconds. I would do it right now, except my legs seem to be frozen in place.

  “Harry!”

  I could have dealt with the sink being different. I could deal with the toilet and the mystery bidet. Even the fact that somehow all our normal toothbrushes have been replaced by a single mechanical toothbrush with little rotating heads lined up on a plastic piece mounted to the wall.

  But I can’t deal with what’s looking back at me in the mirror.

  “Harry!”

  Ever since I was in high school, I wore my thick, glossy cinnamon-colored hair long, running down my back. When I went to work, I would pull it back into a bun, secured with a spider clip. I have been doing that for more years than I can count.

  And now my hair is chopped short. Chin length. A bob—not unattractive, but not me. Not the way it looked last night. And not just that. There are strands of gray weaved into my formerly dark hair. Many strands. Like, at least twenty.

  Maybe I could convince myself that I gave myself a haircut last night, although it looks pretty professionally done. But that doesn’t explain my face. It doesn’t explain the fine lines around my eyes that weren’t there last night. I always thought I looked young for my age, maybe early twenties, but the woman staring back at me doesn’t even look twenty-nine. She looks… old.

  Well, older.

  “Harry!” The pitch of my voice is bordering on hysterical now. “Harry! Come here!”

  Finally, our bed springs creak as my fiancé pulls himself into a sitting position. Thank God. I need Harry to explain what is going on here. Or at least, acknowledge that the two of us have entered some kind of crazy parallel universe where we have a brown comforter and a bidet. I hear the covers being shoved away, his heavy feet pounding against the floor.

  The hinges whine as the bathroom door swings the rest of the way open. I wrench my gaze away from the mirror and turn to my fiancé. “Harry, what—”

  Oh God.

  It’s not Harry.

  There’s somebody else standing there. Some other man, wearing a pair of boxer shorts and an undershirt, his sand-colored hair tousled. I have never seen this man before in my life. And somehow, he’s in my bedroom—has been sleeping in my bed, in his underwear.

  This is even more shocking than the bidet.

  “Tess,” he says.

  I don’t know who this man is, but this has gone from strange to terrifying. I look around wildly, searching for a weapon. Like a razor. There’s got to be a razor in here, doesn’t there? But there isn’t.

  Then my eyes fall on a pair of tweezers. Not as good as a razor, but better than nothing. I snatch up the tweezers and brandish them in my right hand.

  “Tess,” the stranger says again. “Put down the tweezers.”

  “Where is Harry?” I say through my teeth.

  A pained look passes over the man’s face. He lets out a long sigh. Admittedly, he doesn’t look dangerous. First of all, he’s in his underwear. Also, it’s hard not to notice that he’s quite attractive. Nice blue eyes, thick hair with blond undertones visible under the bathroom lights, and a solid build with firm biceps peeking out under the wrinkled undershirt. He looks to be in his mid to late thirties.

  “Harry doesn’t live here anymore.” His voice is calm and slow. Like he’s talking to a crazy person. “I’m Graham.”

  I squeeze the tweezers in my right hand, waiting for more of an explanation. Finally, he gives it to me: “I’m your husband.”

  What?

  “Tess.” He raises his hands in the air. “I’m not going to hurt you. Can we talk in the bedroom?”

  I look down at my right hand—I am gripping the tweezers so hard, my fingers are bloodless. I’m also shaking like a leaf. Tweezers or not, if this guy wanted to hurt me, he could. Easily. But he doesn’t seem like he wants to hurt me.

  “Tess?”

  Finally, I nod. “Okay.”

  He looks at the tweezers. “You can hold on to those if it makes you feel better. And if you don’t like what I have to say, you can… reshape my eyebrows any way you like.”

  He’s making a joke. But there’s nothing funny about this situation.

  There’s a pink silk bathrobe hanging on the inside of the bathroom door, and I grab it and wrap it around myself. Then I follow this man, Graham, who claims to be my husband. Obviously, he’s not my husband. I can imagine forgetting about installing a toilet or cutting my hair, but I would never forget an entire marriage. I don’t know why he’s sleeping in my bed though. Or where Harry went. But I intend to get to the bottom of it.

  Graham settles down on the edge of our bed. It’s only now that I notice our comforter isn’t the only thing that’s different about the bed. It’s a completely different bed. Harry and I had a metal bed with a saggy box spring, but this is a nice, firm mattress with an elaborate wooden headboard. It’s probably got memory foam and everything.

  Graham looks like he’s going to reach for my hand, but I yank it away before he can grab it. He flinches and bows his head. I don’t know what this guy’s game is. Is this some kind of elaborate con? Am I missing a kidney now?

  “I know this is disconcerting,” he says. “I understand.”

  Gee, you think? “Who are you really?”

  His shoulders sag. “I’m your husband, Tess. Do you remember at all?”

  When I shake my head no, he points to the dresser across from us. The dresser itself is unfamiliar. Last night when I went to bed, we had a warped wooden dresser from IKEA. That old dresser has been replaced with a chestnut brown wooden chest of drawers with burnished edges. It does not look like it came from IKEA. But what’s even more shocking is what’s on top of the dresser.

  Photographs.

  There are about half a dozen framed photos. And each of the photos has me in it. Me and Graham, usually. The two of us bundled up on a ski lift. Dressed up fancy, drinking champagne, our lips frozen with laughter. Lounging on a beach somewhere.

  And then there’s the photograph right in the middle. Me and Graham. Holding hands. Him in a tuxedo. Me in a white dress.

  “No,” I whisper.

  I don’t understand what’s going on here. Last night, Harry asked me to marry him. Harry—the love of my life. He got down on one knee, for God’s sake. We celebrated with Cabernet. And now… he’s vanished. And somehow I have entered some other crazy life that I don’t even recognize.

  Tears gather in my eyes. “Harry,” I whimper.

  Graham drops his face into his hands and rubs his eyes. A few seconds later, he lifts his head. “I need to show you something.”

  “What?”

  “It…” He pushes up to his feet. “It will help. It usually does.”

  Wordlessly, I watch Graham walk around our bed to the night table. He opens the top drawer and pulls out a piece of lined paper, folded into thirds. He hands the paper to me.


  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “It’s a letter.”

  “From who?”

  He smiles crookedly. “From you.”

  I put down the tweezers, although I’m still watching Graham out of the corner of my eye. I start to unfold it, but then I look up at him. He is standing over me, watching me.

  He notices my expression and rubs the back of his neck. “I’ll go take a shower. Give you a little privacy.”

  At first, I’m worried he’s going to strip right in front of me. If he is truly my husband, I suppose he would have the right to do that. But I’m grateful when he goes into the bathroom, still in his boxers and undershirt. A second later, I hear the water running in the shower. My shoulders relax—the stranger is gone.

  Gingerly, I unfold the piece of paper. The creases of the letter are worn, like it’s been folded and unfolded dozens of times before. The entire page is filled with writing. I recognize my own handwriting.

  And I start to read.

  Chapter 3

  Dear Tess,

  I know what you’re thinking. I know how you’re feeling. Because it’s the same exact thing that I was thinking and feeling this morning. So today I am writing you a letter hoping it will help you/me in the future.

  So here are the basics:

  You have been in a car accident. You were the one driving, and nobody else was hurt. You swerved to avoid an animal on the road and lost control of the vehicle. You hit a tree. The animal was unharmed.

  Unfortunately, you suffered a brain injury during the accident. You had a lot of bleeding in your brain and the doctors did what they could. You survived, but you have permanent memory problems. Some days are not that bad. Some days you remember more than others. Other days, you wake up and can’t remember anything that happened in the last seven or eight years. I’m writing this on one of the better days. If you are reading this, it’s probably because you’re having one of your bad days.

  If you’re having a bad day, you may not remember Graham. So let me assure you, he has been a good husband to you for many years. You had a beautiful wedding that was the happiest day of your life. He has been taking care of you since the accident. This has been hard on him too, and he’s been trying his best.