Silence

JUST BECAUSE YOU’RE HOME

DOESN’T MEAN YOU’RE SAFE.

CHAPTER 4

I CRUMPLED THE PAPER, FLINGING IT AT THE WALL OUT of fear and frustration. Striding to the window, I rattled the lock to make sure it was secure. I wasn’t feeling gutsy enough to open the window and have a look out, but I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered into the shadows stretched across the lawn like long, lean daggers. I had no idea who could have left the note, but one thing was certain. I’d locked up before leaving. And earlier, before we’d headed upstairs for the night, I’d watched my mom walk through the house and check every window and door at least three times.

So how had the intruder gotten in?

And what did the note even mean? It was cryptic and cruel. A twisted joke? Right now, that was my best guess.

Down the hall, I pushed on my mom’s bedroom door, opening it just far enough to see inside. “Mom?”

She sat up ramrod straight in the darkness. “Nora? What is it? What happened? A bad dream?” A pause. “Did you remember something?”

I clicked on the bedside lamp, suddenly fearful of the dark and what I couldn’t see. “I found a note in my room. It told me not to fool myself into believing I’m safe.”

She blinked against the sudden brightness, and I watched her eyes absorb my words. Suddenly she was wide awake. “Where did you find the note?” she demanded.

“I—” I was nervous about how she’d react to the truth. In hindsight, it had been a terrible idea. Sneaking out? After I’d been abducted? But it was hard to fear the possibility of a second abduction when I couldn’t even remember the first. And I’d needed to go to the cemetery for my own sanity. The color black had led me there. Stupid, unexplainable, but nonetheless true. “It was under my pillow. I must not have noticed it before bed,” I lied. “It wasn’t until I shifted in my sleep that I heard the paper crinkle.”

She pulled on her bathrobe and jogged to my bedroom. “Where’s the note? I want to read it. Detective Basso needs to know about this right away.” She was already dialing on her phone. She punched in his number from memory, and it occurred to me that they must have worked closely together during the weeks I was missing.

“Does anyone else have a key to the house?” I asked.

She held her finger up, signaling for me to wait. Voice mail, she mouthed. “It’s Blythe,” she told Detective Basso’s message system. “Call me as soon as you get this. Nora found a note in her bedroom tonight.” Her eyes cut briefly to mine. “It may be from the person who took her. I’ve had the doors locked all night, so the note had to have been placed under her pillow before we got home.”

“He’ll call back soon,” she told me, hanging up. “I’m going to give the note to the officer out front. He might want to search the house. Where is the note?”

I pointed at the crumpled paper ball in the corner, but I didn’t move to pick it up. I didn’t want to see the message again. Was it a joke … or was it a threat? Just because you’re home doesn’t mean you’re safe. The tone suggested a threat.

Mom flattened the paper on the wall, ironing out the wrinkles with her hand. “This paper is blank, Nora,” she said.

“What?” I walked over for a closer look. She was right. The writing had vanished. I hastily flipped the paper over, but the back side was also blank.

“It was right here,” I said, confused. “It was right here.”

“You might have imagined it. A projection of a dream,” Mom said gently, drawing me against her and rubbing my back. The gesture didn’t do anything to comfort me. Was there any way I might have invented the message? Out of what? Paranoia? A panic attack?

“I didn’t imagine it.” But I didn’t sound so sure.

“It’s okay,” she murmured. “Dr. Howlett said this might happen.”

“Said what might happen?”

“He said there was a very good chance you’d hear things that aren’t real—”

“Like what?”

She regarded me calmly. “Voices and other sounds. He didn’t say anything about seeing things that aren’t real, but anything could happen, Nora. Your body is trying to recover. It’s under a lot of stress, and we have to be patient.”

“He said I might hallucinate?”

“Shh,” she commanded softly, taking my face between her hands. “These things might have to happen before you can recover. Your mind is doing its best to heal, and we have to give it time. Just like any other injury. We’re going to get through this together.”

I felt the sting of tears, but I refused to cry. Why me? Of all the billions of people out there, why me? Who did this to me? My mind was spinning in circles, trying to point a finger at someone, but I didn’t have a face, a voice. I didn’t have one shred of an idea.

“Are you scared?” Mom whispered.

I looked away. “I’m angry.”

I crawled into bed, falling asleep surprisingly fast. Caught in that woozy, topsy-turvy place between awareness and a full-on dream, my mind aimlessly wandered down a long, dark tunnel that narrowed with each step. Sleep, blissful sleep, and given the night I’d had, I vigorously welcomed it.

A door appeared at the end of the tunnel. The door opened from within. The light inside cast a faint glow, illuminating a face so familiar, it almost knocked me over. His black hair curled around his ears, damp from a recent shower. Sun-bronzed skin, smooth and tight, stretched over a long, lean body that towered at least six inches over me. A pair of jeans hung low on his hips, but his chest and feet were bare, and a bath towel was slung over his shoulder. Our gazes locked, and his familiar black eyes bored into mine with surprise … followed by instant wariness.

“What are you doing here?” he said low.

Patch, I thought, my heart beating faster. It’s Patch.

I couldn’t remember how I knew him, but I did. The bridge in my mind was as broken as ever, but at the sight of him, little pieces snapped together. Memories that put a swarm of butterflies in my stomach. I saw a flash of sitting beside him in biology. Another flash as he stood very close, teaching me how to play pool. A white-hot flash as his lips brushed mine.

I’d been searching for answers, and they’d led me here. To Patch. I’d found a way to get around my amnesia. This wasn’t merely a dream; it was a subconscious passageway to Patch. I now understood the great feeling crashing around inside me that never seemed satisfied. On some deep level I knew what my brain couldn’t grasp. I needed Patch. And for whatever reason — fate, luck, sheer willpower, or for reasons I might never understand — I’d found him.

Through my shock, I somehow found my voice. “You tell me.”

He stuck his head out the door, looking down the tunnel. “This is a dream. You realize that, don’t you?”

“Then who are you worried followed me?”

“You can’t be here.”

My words came out stiff, frozen. “Looks like I found a way to communicate with you. I guess the only thing left to say is I’d hoped for a cheerier reception. You have all the answers, don’t you?”

He steepled his fingers over his mouth. All the while, his eyes never wavered from my face. “I’m hoping to keep you alive.”

My mind lagged, unable to understand enough of the dream to read a deeper message. The only thought pounding through me was, I found him. After all this time, I found Patch. And instead of matching my