Silence

excitement, the only feeling he harbors is … cold detachment.

“Why can’t I remember anything?” I asked, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Why can’t I remember how or when or — or why you left?” Because I was sure that was what had happened. He’d left. Otherwise we’d be together now. “Why haven’t you tried to find me? What happened to me? What happened to us?”

Patch hung his hands on the back of his neck and closed his eyes. He went deathly still, except for the tremble of emotion that rippled under his skin.

“Why did you leave me?” I choked.

He straightened. “You really believe I left you?”

That only thickened the lump in my throat. “What am I supposed to think? You’ve been gone for months, and now, when I finally find you, you can barely look me in the eye.”

“I did the only thing I could. I gave you up to save your life.” His jaw worked, clenching and unclenching. “It wasn’t an easy decision, but it was the right one.”

“Gave me up? Just like that? How long did it take you to make your decision? Three seconds?”

His eyes turned cold with recollection. “That’s about as long as I had, yes.”

More pieces snapped together. “Someone forced you to leave me? Is that what you’re telling me?”

He didn’t speak, but I had my answer.

“Who forced you to leave? Who scared you that much? The Patch I knew didn’t run from anyone.” The pain bursting inside me forced my volume higher. “I would have fought for you, Patch. I would have fought!”

“And you would have lost. We were surrounded. He threatened your life, and he would have made good on that threat. He had you, and that meant he had me, too.”

“He? Who is he?”

I received another brittle silence.

“Did you even try to find me once? Or was it that easy”—my voice caught—“to let me go?”

Whipping the towel off his shoulder, Patch flung it aside. His eyes flared, his shoulders rising and falling with every breath, but I got the feeling his anger wasn’t directed at me.

“You can’t be here,” he said, his voice rough. “You have to stop looking for me. You have to go back to your life, and make do the best you can. Not for me,” he added, as if guessing my next resentful barb. “For you. I’ve done everything to keep him away from you, and I’m going to continue doing everything I can, but I need your help.”

“Like I need your help?” I shot back. “I need you now, Patch. I need you back. I am lost and I’m scared. Do you know I can’t remember one single thing? Of course you know,” I said bitterly, as realization dawned. “That’s why you haven’t come looking for me. You know I can’t remember you, and it lets you off the hook. I never thought you’d take the easy way out. Well, I haven’t forgotten you, Patch. I see you in everything. I see flashes of black — the color of your eyes, your hair. I feel your touch, I remember the way you held me….” I trailed off, too choked up to continue.

“It’s better if you don’t know,” Patch said flatly. “That’s the worst explanation I’ve given you yet, but for your own safety, there are things you can’t know.”

I laughed, but the sound was thick and anguished. “So this is it?”

He closed the distance between us, and just when I thought he’d draw me against him he stopped, holding himself in check. I exhaled, trying not to cry. He leaned his elbow on the doorjamb, just above my ear. He smelled so devastatingly familiar — of soap and spice — the heady scent bringing back a rush of memories so pleasurable, it only made the current moment that much more difficult to bear. I was seized by the desire to touch him. To trace my hands over his skin, to feel his arms tighten securely around me. I wanted him to nuzzle my neck, his whisper to tickle my ear as he said private words that belonged only to me. I wanted him near, so near, with no thought of letting go.

“This isn’t over,” I said. “After everything we’ve been through, you don’t get the right to brush me off. I’m not letting you off that easily.” I wasn’t sure if it was a threat, my last stab at defiance, or irrational words spoken straight from my splintered heart.

“I want to protect you,” Patch said quietly.

He stood so close. All strength and heat and silent power. I couldn’t escape him, now or ever. He’d always be there, consuming my every thought, my heart locked in his hands. I was drawn to him by forces I couldn’t control, let alone escape.

“But you didn’t.”

He cupped my chin, his touch unbearably tender. “Do you really think so?”

I tried to pull free, but not hard enough. I couldn’t resist his touch; back then, now, or ever. “I don’t know what to think. Can you blame me?”

“My history is long, and not much of it is good. I can’t erase it, but I’m determined not to make another mistake. Not when the stakes are this high, not when it comes to you. There’s a plan in all this, but it’s going to take time.” This time he gathered me into his arms, stroking hair off my face, and something inside me broke at his touch. Hot, wet tears tumbled down my cheeks. “If I lose you, I lose everything,” he murmured.

“Who are you so afraid of?” I asked again.

Resting his hands on my shoulders, he tilted his forehead against mine. “You’re mine, Angel. And I won’t let anything change that. You’re right — this isn’t over. It’s only the beginning, and nothing about what lies ahead will be easy.” He sighed, a tired sound. “You’re not going to remember this dream, and you won’t be coming back. I don’t know how you found me, but I have to make sure you don’t do it again. I’m going to erase your memory of this dream. For your own safety, this is the last you’ll see of me.”

Alarm shot through me. I pulled away, flinching at Patch’s face, horrified by the determination I found there. I opened my mouth to protest—

And the dream crashed down around me, as though made of sand.

CHAPTER 5

I WOKE UP THE FOLLOWING MORNING WITH A KINK IN my neck and a distant memory of strange, colorless dreams. After showering, I buttoned myself into a zebra-print shirt-dress and pulled on cropped tights and ankle boots. If nothing else, at least I appeared put together on the outside. Smoothing out the mess on the inside was a bigger project than I could tackle in forty-five minutes.

I breezed into the kitchen to find Mom making old-fashioned oatmeal in a pot on the stove. It was the first time I could remember since my dad’s death that she’d made it from scratch. Following last night’s drama, I wondered if this fell in the ballpark of a pity meal.

“You’re up early,” she said, and paused in her slicing of strawberries near the sink.

“It’s after eight,” I pointed out. “Did Detective Basso call back?” I tried to act like I didn’t care what her answer was, and got busy brushing nonexistent lint off my dress.

“I told him it was a mistake. He understood.”

Meaning they’d agreed that I’d hallucinated. I was the girl who cried wolf, and from now on, everything I said would be brushed off as an exaggeration. Poor thing. Just nod and humor her.

“Why don’t you head back to bed and I’ll bring up breakfast when it’s finished?” Mom suggested, resuming her slicing.

“I’m fine. I’m already up.”

“Given everything that’s happened, I thought you might want to take things easy. Sleep in, read a good book, maybe take a nice long bubble bath.”

I couldn’t remember my mom ever suggesting I play it lazy on a school day. Our typical breakfast conversation usually included rushed exchanges along the lines of, Did you finish your essay? Did you pack your lunch? Is your bed made? Can you drop off the electricity bill on your way to school?

“How about it?” Mom tried again. “Breakfast in bed. Doesn’t get better than that.”