Chapter 12

"You've had a hard day," Julian said. His voice was carefully, precisely even. "The doctor said this kind of thing might happen. Strangers who seem familiar. We'll call him in the morning."

She looked out the window as the hotel entrance receded.

Damian Blackwood was standing on the pavement, perfectly still. He did not try to follow the car. He simply stood there in the cold as they pulled away, getting smaller.

She watched him until she couldn't anymore.

She slept badly that night. She could feel Julian lying awake beside her, not sleeping either.

In the morning, he looked at her over coffee with an expression she couldn't quite read.

"Do you want to talk about last night?" he said.

She thought about it. "Not yet," she said.

He nodded. He poured more coffee. She noticed that his hands weren't entirely steady.

She got up before dawn.

She didn't know why, exactly. She just needed to be outside, needed the particular quality of early morning air that made the world feel unfinished and therefore possible.

She had dressed quietly, letting Julian sleep, and was reaching for the front door handle when she opened it to find Damian Blackwood on the doorstep.

He was wearing the same suit as the night before. His hair was damp — it had rained at some point — and he had the look of someone who had spent a night alternating between determination and defeat without sleeping.

"I'm sorry," he said immediately. His voice was rough. "I know this is — I know you said you didn't—" He stopped. Started again. "I was across the street. In the café. I know how that sounds. I needed to see if—" Another stop.

She stood in the doorway and looked at him.

"You used to wear a green velvet dress to dinner," he said. "The one with the buttons down the back. You wore it to the Whitmore Charity Gala in 2019 and you spilled wine on it in the car and spent the whole evening holding your wrap in a particular way so no one could see." He wasn't looking anywhere but at her face. "Your right thumbnail grows faster than your left one. You always check your phone one last time before you go to sleep even if you've already said you're going to sleep."

Something in her skull was beginning to hum. Not the bad kind of pressure — something different, something that felt almost like recognition trying to form, knocking at a door from the inside.

She pressed her hand to her temple.

He stopped talking at once. "I'm sorry. I know this is — I won't—"

The door opened behind her.

Julian appeared, and she felt him register the situation in about two seconds flat. She heard his breathing change.

He stepped past her and hit Damian — properly, controlled, the blow landing on his jaw with a force that sent him a step back. "What did I say last night?" Julian's voice was very precise and very cold. "She is not your wife. You are not welcome here. If you do this again I will call the police."

Damian steadied himself. He looked at Julian, and then at Lily behind him, and whatever he saw in her face made him go very still.

"Lily," he said. Just that.

The humming in her head peaked and subsided. The almost-recognition withdrew.

"Please," she said. She made her voice as steady as she could. "I don't know you. If you do know me — if what you're saying is true — then I'm sorry. But I can't help you. I can't give you anything I don't have."

His hand was still half-raised, as if he'd been about to reach for her. He lowered it.

Julian closed the door.

Inside, she sat down on the sofa and put her hands flat on her knees.

"Julian," she said. "That man said he was my husband."

A silence.

"You told me we were married," she said. "He said the same thing." She looked up. "At least one of you is lying."

Julian was standing in the middle of the room. He had a quality of stillness that she'd learned, over the months, meant he was thinking very carefully about what to say next.

She waited.

"Lily," he said finally. His voice had lost its composure. "Whatever my answer is — I need you to know that I have never, not once, wanted to hurt you."

The silence that came after that was its own kind of answer.

She felt the architecture of her rebuilt world shift, very slightly, underfoot.

"Who am I?" she said.

And then she was on her feet and moving, past Julian's outstretched hand, out through the front door and into the morning street, walking very fast because standing still suddenly felt impossible.