Do You Remember?: A gripping psychological thriller Page 3

  That’s exactly what he is to me. A stranger.

  “What’s your last name?” I blurt out.

  Graham looks from his eggs and bacon. It’s such an odd question for a woman to be asking her husband, but he does not look perturbed. “Thurman.”

  “Oh.” I toy with the handle of my fork. “Did I take your name?”

  He nods. “Yes. You liked the alliteration.”

  He certainly has my number there. I love alliteration. Tess Thurman. Although it’s not quite alliteration because the first letter of both names make a different sound. But it’s still pretty.

  “How old am I?” I ask. My cheeks burn at the question. It’s humiliating to have to ask something so basic. My age. Even a preschooler can tell you how old they are.

  “You’re thirty-six.”

  Thirty-six. The last thing I remember before I went to bed was being twenty-nine years old. And now suddenly, I’ve lost seven years. Seven years. I’m now within throwing distance of forty. And this is not anything like the way I pictured my life at age thirty-six.

  I push some of the brown eggs around my plate with my fork. “How long have we been married?”

  “Four years.”

  Four years. I’ve been married to this man for four years. Wow. Even though Graham is a stranger to me, he must know me very well. “Do we have children together?”

  He sips from his coffee. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “We just don’t.”

  He acts like it’s a stupid question, but I don’t think it’s a stupid question. I wanted children—very much. It’s something Harry and I used to talk about before we were even engaged. I want to press Graham further on this, but he doesn’t seem to want to talk about it. And it’s not like there’s any shortage of questions running through my head.

  “What do you do for a living?” I ask.

  “I’m an accountant by trade.” He dabs his lips with a napkin. “But right now, I’m managing My Home Spa.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “My company? You’re working there?”

  “Somebody had to keep it going.”

  He doesn’t have to say the obvious: I can’t do it anymore.

  It makes me wonder about how successful my little company has become. It must do decently if Graham felt it was worth his time to keep it going when I couldn’t. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  He smiles—it’s a bit condescending. “I don’t think so. But thanks for offering.”

  I pick up my own napkin from the table and start ripping it into little shreds. It’s a nervous habit I have. Whenever I go to a restaurant, I always leave behind piles of ripped tissue. Harry always says to me, I’ll always know how to find you because of the trail of paper you leave behind. Then he cleans it up before we leave.

  Did. Did clean it up.

  “How did we meet?” I ask.

  “You were about to cross thirty-fifth street.” He scoops up the last of his eggs. “And there was this car rushing at you, but you didn’t see it.” He pauses dramatically. “I grabbed you just before the bastard ran you down.”

  I cover my mouth with my hand. “Oh my God. So… you saved my life…”

  He nods slowly. “The second I laid eyes on you, I just knew we were going to be together for the rest of our lives. You said the same thing. It was… fate.”

  That’s just about the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. It’s like something out of a movie. I stare at Graham across the table, now seeing him in a little new light. This man saved my life. He’s been taking care of me for the last year, since my accident. He’s a good guy. And his cologne smells awful nice…

  Oh my God, what am I thinking? I hardly know this man. I drop my eyes, my cheeks burning.

  “So.” My throat tightens. “Do I ask you the same questions every single morning?”

  “More or less.” He shrugs. “I don’t mind. I mean, how else are you supposed to know what’s going on? It’s okay. You can ask me whatever you want.”

  “I…” I reach into the void of my memory, feeling a burst of frustration. He’s being so patient, but the sad truth is, I could ask him questions all morning and still feel lost. It’s better just to go about my day. “Could I have something to drink?”

  A smile twitches at his lips. “A little early in the day for that, isn’t it?”

  The heat in my cheeks intensifies. “I mean like some water or juice…”

  “But of course.” As he gets to his feet, he does a little bow. He is awfully cute. “Your wish is my command, m’lady.”

  I’d love to get my own drink, but it would be embarrassing to fumble around the kitchen, unable to find anything. I don’t even know where we keep the glasses. I’ll look around later and figure out where everything is. For now, I can only watch as Graham grabs a glass from the cupboard over the sink. He pours a blood-colored liquid into the glass, filling it to the top. As he picks up the glass, Ziggy leaves my side and growls at him, baring an impressive set of teeth. Remind me not to get on Ziggy’s bad side.

  “Ziggy.” Graham’s lips set into a straight line as the dog’s growls become more menacing. “For Christ’s sake…”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Your dog doesn’t like me.” As he says the words, Ziggy lets out another low growl. “He’s overprotective of you. Can you call him off, please? I don’t want him biting a hole in my suit. This is Armani.”

  I pat my hip. “Ziggy… Come over here.” I take the other strip of bacon off my plate. “Want more bacon?”

  Graham doesn’t look thrilled about me feeding the dog the rest of my bacon, but he doesn’t say anything this time. He picks up the glass of strange dark red liquid and places it on the kitchen island in front of me.

  I crinkle my nose. “What is that?”

  “Pomegranate juice. You love it.”

  “I do?”

  “You have a big glass of it every morning, so I would say you do, yes.”

  I look down at the red drink. It’s so… red. It looks like a big old glass of blood. I take a sniff of it—it smells sweet. It’s probably not blood. It’s probably actually pomegranate juice. Maybe it’s good. If I drink it every morning, I must like it. Graham is watching me, so I tilt the glass towards me and take a sip.

  Ugh!

  “I like this?” I cough, tempted to wipe my tongue with one of the napkins on the table. “This is terrible!”

  “Usually you do,” he insists. “Honestly. You love this stuff—really love it. I have to buy a quart of it every week. Just… maybe you need another sip or two to get used to it.”

  I love this stuff? He can’t be serious. But I guess he knows me better than I know myself.

  I take another sip.

  This time I outright gag. I leap out of my seat and run to the sink. I want to splash some water in my mouth, but the stupid sink has strange controls the same way as the shower did. I jab at one of the buttons and there’s a crunching sound—I think I just turned on the garbage disposal.

  “Graham,” I gasp.

  He leaps out of his seat to help me. He presses a button over the sink and cold water shoots out of the tap. He watches me with his brow furrowed as I splash water in my mouth. I feel ridiculous that I needed his help just to turn on the faucet, but it’s not my fault all of the water faucets in this household require a Ph.D. to operate.

  “Tess, are you okay?”

  “That’s the worst thing I ever tasted!” I take another handful of water and swish it around in my mouth, then spit it out. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

  “You know, that stuff is expensive.” He sounds hurt by my reaction. “You usually finish the whole glass and want more. I have to make a special trip to buy it for you.”

  “Oh.” Another flash of guilt. It must be hard for him to not know who I’m going to be and what I’m going to like on any given day. “I’m sorry.”

  I look up at Graham, who is watching me with a concerned expression on his handsome features. He’s wringing his hands together. “You’re having a bad day today,” he acknowledges. “You’re not yourself.”

  No kidding. I don’t even know who myself is anymore. “I’m okay.”

  But that worried expression is still there. “Maybe we should go see the doctor. After the accident, they said that there’s a possibility the blood could re-accumulate in your brain. Maybe you need to have a CAT scan or…”

  “No. No.” I swallow a bubble of fear in my chest. “I don’t want that.”

  I hate doctors. So much.

  When I was a kid, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was stage three when they caught it. I still remember her sitting me down on the sofa while I clutched my favorite doll, and she explained to me what cancer was. I was eight years old.

  Soon after, she had surgery to remove the cancer, followed by chemotherapy and radiation. Lots of hospital visits, lots of doctors’ appointments. She spent months at the hospital with tubes coming out of every part of her and oxygen prongs in her nose. Whenever I asked about it, she would explain that the doctors were making her better.

  But it didn’t seem like she was getting better. Every time I saw her, she was skinnier and the circles under her eyes were darker. It got to the point where I was scared to even visit her, because she didn’t look like my mother anymore. I figured I would wait until she was better—until she was her old self again.

  Then when I was ten years old, while I was trying to think of an excuse to get out of our daily visit to the hospital, my father told me she had died that morning.

  You might say I’m scarred from the experience. I’ve got a terrible phobia about doctors and hospitals. And especially tests. Whenever I used to go for my annual OB/GYN visit, I would make Harry co
me with me and hold my trembling hand in the waiting room until the nurse called my name.

  “Let me give your doctor a call,” Graham says. “I just want to know what they think.”

  “Please don’t. I’m okay.”

  “But—”

  “Please, Graham!” I snap at him. He jerks his head back like I slapped him, and I feel guilty yet again. I soften my voice. “Sorry. I just don’t want to go to the doctor. I’m fine, I promise.”

  Graham studies my face for a moment. I smile and do my best to look as perfectly healthy as possible. At least, as healthy as a woman who had a massive brain trauma could possibly look. If I say I don’t want to go to the doctor, will he force me? Could he? Has he?

  “Okay,” he finally says. “But if anything changes…”

  I place a hand over my heart. “I promise I’ll tell you.”

  I definitely won’t.

  “Also…” Graham reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little black rectangular object. He places it down on the kitchen island, right in front of me. “This is for you.”

  I stare down at the object. What now?

  “That’s your phone,” he explains.

  “My… phone?” This looks about a hundred times fancier than my phone. I have a little silver flip phone. Harry and I are on the same account. We recently got unlimited texting and were super excited about it.

  “It’s an iPhone,” he says. “You should hang onto it.”

  I have an iPhone? Wow, we must be pretty wealthy. “How does it work?”

  One corner of Graham’s lips quirks up. “You usually figure it out on your own.”

  I’m about to ask him what the hell he’s talking about, because I’ll never figure out how to use this fancy phone in a million years. It’s even more confusing than the shower. But then I pick it up and almost instinctively, my thumb goes to the little button at the bottom of the screen, and the screen jumps to life. I don’t know how, but it’s like I already know how to use this phone, even though I’ve never seen it before. Obviously, I learned how to use it at some point and the memory never left me. Sort of like riding a bike.

  I bring up the list of phone numbers programmed into the phone. Graham’s name is listed first. Then there’s a listing for “Dad”—thank God it seems like my father is still alive and well. And then there’s Lucy. I feel a rush of relief at the sight of her name. Lucy has been my best friend since the first day of college, even before I knew Harry. It’s a comfort to know that with just one click, I can hear her voice. I’m tempted to call her now, but with Graham right next to me, it seems rude.

  There’s only one other name on the favorites list. And it’s one I don’t recognize.

  “Who is Camila?” I ask.

  Before Graham can answer me, the doorbell rings. He swivels his head in the direction of the sound. “Actually,” he says, “you’re about to meet her.”

  Chapter 5

  Graham disappears into the living room to open the door and greet Camila. I stay behind, pushing the eggs around my plate. They don’t taste much better than the overcooked bacon, but at least they’re edible. Barely.

  Ziggy has gone to the back door, and he’s yapping at it, eager to go outside. I wonder if I could take him out into the backyard. I assume the backyard must be fenced in. I’d love to sit outside with him while he plays. It will be nice to get some fresh air.

  But then when I go to the back door and try to open the lock, I realize there’s a problem. You can’t simply turn the lock to open the door. There’s a keyhole.

  The back door requires a key to open it from the inside.

  A sick feeling washes over me as I jiggle the door knob, wondering if this is some kind of mistake. I’m not locked inside here, am I? Why would the door lock this way? What’s going on?

  “Tess?”

  I whirl around, my heart pounding. Graham is standing in the kitchen, and next to him is a woman in her mid-twenties. The woman is gorgeous. She has black hair pulled into a stylishly messy bun behind her head, falling in sexy tendrils around her face, a perfectly pert nose, and plump lips. She doesn’t have one scrap of makeup on her flawless light brown skin. She blinks her big brown eyes at me, probably having witnessed my struggle with the back door.

  “Hello, Tess.” The woman’s voice is gentle and has a bit of a rasp to it, like the voice of someone far older than her twenty-something years. “I’m Camila.”

  Considering her number is programmed into my phone, I suspect I have met this woman dozens if not hundreds of times before. It’s embarrassing that she has to introduce herself to me. It wasn’t quite as bad when it was just me and Graham, but I’m starting to feel like a mental patient.

  “Hi,” I say. “Um. Sorry to be rude but… who are you?”

  “Camila keeps the house clean for us,” Graham says.

  So… she is the cleaning woman? That doesn’t seem quite right. First of all, why would I have her number programmed into my phone? Also, how come she doesn’t have any cleaning supplies?

  “Also,” he adds, “if you want to go anywhere during the day, Camila will help you get there. She’ll keep you company. And drive you wherever you want to go.”

  I look over at the beautiful Camila, who is staring intently back at me. “I can handle driving,” I say.

  Graham and Camila exchange looks. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Tess,” he says.

  I fold my arms across my chest. “Why not? I’m an excellent driver. And I know this neighborhood. Why can’t I drive?”

  Graham’s eyes evade mine. “You have seizures from your head injury. Legally, you can’t drive.”

  Graham is looking away, but Camila is looking straight at me, her gaze unwavering. She doesn’t seem even the slightest bit uncomfortable about this conversation. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go, Tess,” she says. This time I notice a trace of an accent in her raspy voice.

  I stare straight back at her, trying to get her to look away or at least blink. But if this is a blinking contest, she is clearly the master.

  “The back door is locked from the inside,” I say. “Where’s the key?”

  “I’ve got a key,” Camila says.

  A lump forms in my throat. “Where is my key?”

  “Listen, Tess.” Graham comes around the side of the kitchen island to stand closer to me. “Like I said, if you want to go anywhere, just let us know.”

  My pulse starts to jump. The letter I wrote to myself said to relax and trust my husband, but I don’t like any of this. This woman is not here to clean—she clearly has been hired to watch me all day. I’m a prisoner in my own home and she’s my warden. There’s something off about this entire situation.

  “This is for your own safety, Tess.” Camila’s voice has softened. “I know it seems weird, but you and I are friends. We’re going to have a good day together. I promise you.”

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Just remember that the people around you care about you very much and only want you to be safe. Do what they say.

  Those were my own words. In my own handwriting. My wisdom to myself.

  “Okay,” I say softly.

  “That’s my girl.” Graham grins at me. God, he is very handsome. I can see how I fell for him, even if he’s not my type. Especially after he saved my life. “Anyway, I’ve got to get to work. But I’m going to leave you in Camila’s capable hands.” He winks at me. “So be good—both of you.”

  He stands there for a moment as he pushes his glasses up his nose. He’s about to leave for work, and I realize this is the sort of moment when a normal wife who had not forgotten most of the last decade of her life might give her husband a peck on the lips. But I don’t know this guy. Am I really supposed to kiss him?

  It feels like it should all come back to me. In the same way I knew exactly what to do with my phone, even though I didn’t remember having owned one. Or the way I looked down at Ziggy and instantly loved him. But when I look at Graham, he still seems like a stranger.

  I can see in his eyes that he knows what I’m thinking. “It’s okay,” he mumbles. “I’ll see you later, Tess. All right?”

  I bite down on my lower lip. “Okay.”

  He offers me a tiny smile. He’s disappointed, but he’s trying not to let on. I might not know this guy, but he’s been so nice to me today. He comforted me when I was freaking out in the bathroom. He made me breakfast, even though it was very slightly charred black. He’s been patiently answering my stupid questions all morning. Maybe I still can’t remember him, but I can tell my letter was correct: he’s a good man.