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  “That’s where she first heard the theory that led to her compound.”

  “Right,” Mason confirmed. “The project was cut short. She eventually made it her life’s work to do what that project didn’t accomplish, or what she thought it didn’t.”

  “But it had succeeded.”

  “Right again, but it was so top secret, no one outside the Order knew about it.” He tapped his chin as he tried to put it all into words. “I can’t fully remember, but whatever I was given wasn’t a onetime dose. And it didn’t eliminate only recent memories. It took them all—every fucking one. I was a man with absolutely no past other than what I was told.”

  I had never had this specific conversation with Mason. My knowledge came through Lorna and comments Mason had made on and off. Though he hadn’t told me all of this history, he’d been completely open with Sparrow. Patrick and I made a pact not to push. Maybe now was the time to start. “Yet you knew how to soldier. You knew languages. You knew technical maneuvering. You knew how to kill.”

  “I was retaught.” Mason shook his head. “The Order determined that reteaching what someone previously knew has been more effective than teaching someone who never knew. It’s the premise upon which they select the soldiers they do. Each one has the knowledge and abilities the Order wants; the soldiers just need to be reminded.”

  “Lorna remembers everything from before we all went to the ranch,” I said. “Everything.”

  Mason nodded. “That’s what fascinates Laurel. At the Sparrow Institute she’s made progress toward reaching the place she had been at the university, but this drug—whatever the ladies were given—is more refined or fine-tuned.”

  “So if they’re ahead of Laurel on their compound, why do they want her?”

  “We don’t know,” Mason admitted. He pulled a hair tie from the pocket of his jeans and secured his hair at the nape of his neck. “I’m headed to the docks. Learn everything you can about Jettison. Laurel brought my memory back by bringing back my past. If you really want to fuck Jettison, do the same. Remind him of who he was before you kill him for good. If you kill him as he is today, it won’t make a damn bit of difference.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He has nothing to lose. He’s already dead.”

  As Mason began to walk away, the cold reality of his words settled over me. I watched as he scanned his retina to open the steel door. “Mason, Lorna needs to know about Nancy.”

  “It can fucking wait.”

  “I don’t think it can. I’d be happy to bury it and her, but that’s not fair to Lorna.”

  “Let me face Top first. Then I’ll face my sister.”

  It was easy to think first and foremost of Lorna, but the man walking away had lived two lifetimes. He, too, deserved to face the reality of Nancy in his own time. “Fair enough.”

  Lorna

  Laurel opened the door to her apartment and gestured for me to follow. Whenever I entered one of the other two apartments, the difference in decor and personality always struck me. Essentially, we all had the same floor plan except ours was the mirror image—flipped. Still, we all had a living room and dining room that flowed into our kitchen. We also all had a master bedroom suite, two additional bedrooms, an office, and an exercise room. Laurel and Mason had made one of the spare bedrooms into an office for Laurel. She’d shown it to me a while ago.

  I stopped and took in the view, the other amenity we all enjoyed from our walls of windows. Laurel and Mason’s living room and master bedroom looked out onto the Great Lake. After Mason died, Reid and I discussed switching apartments as ours lacked the lake view. It truly wasn’t much of a discussion. This apartment was Mason’s. I wanted and needed to begin my life with my new husband in what would always be our home.

  “May I get you anything?” Laurel asked.

  “Is it too early for alcohol?” Since we had just finished breakfast, my question was meant as rhetorical.

  Laurel smiled. “There are no wrong answers or questions in therapy.”

  The word made me shudder. “Is this...that—therapy?”

  “We can call it whatever you want, but I don’t want to mislead you. I want to help you, as a friend and as a person educated in psychology and psychotherapy. And whether it’s me or someone else—Araneae has some fantastic therapists, psychologists, and psychiatrists on staff at the Sparrow Institute—I think talking to someone is best. With the knowledge that stays in this tower, I volunteer to be that person. But I’m sure Patrick could vet the right therapist if you’d prefer.”

  “I talk to Reid.”

  Laurel smiled as she pointed toward the L-shaped sofas. Their walls were covered in a light shade of gray with white trim. Upon their walls were large photographs of Chicago and the ranch, in black and white. They fit perfectly with the clean minimalist decor.

  “Well,” Laurel said, “we can sit here and watch a movie.”

  “I want to talk. I think...” I began as I sat on the soft sofa. “I have questions about memories.”

  “I’m going to get some more coffee. Are you sure you don’t want a cup?” she asked as she walked into the kitchen. “Memory is an all-encompassing subject. I’ll share what I can. What do you want to know?”

  What did I want to know?

  The list was long and the more questions I voiced, the more came to mind.

  I appreciated Laurel’s candor. When she knew an answer, she gave it. When she didn’t, she didn’t try to sugarcoat or pretend that she had the answer wrapped in fluff. Her analytical mind knew more than I could comprehend. Maybe it was her years as faculty in higher education, but she had a wonderful way of explaining.

  “How long can memories stay suppressed?” I asked.

  “There’s no way to answer that.”

  The clock moved and we continued to talk. Eventually, our conversation led to amnesia, how it occurred and why.

  “You do realize,” Laurel said, “you and Araneae don’t fit into any of the categories I just mentioned.”

  “You don’t think our minds are suppressing a traumatic experience or experiences?”

  Laurel thought for a moment. “Lorna, I would never be dishonest with a patient or a participant. I won’t be with you.

  “You and Araneae were taken from our ranch. You know that. We have seen the security video. You were both unconscious before the two men entered the kitchen.”

  “Do you think we were drugged?”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “I didn’t realize you hadn’t been told.”

  I lowered my feet to the floor and sat taller.

  “A canister was found placed in the main house’s ventilation system. It had a remote start to release its contents of what is known as knockout gas. After we’d all eaten lunch, Madeline went upstairs to rest. I went to the office.”

  “And Araneae and I stayed in the kitchen.”

  “Are you asking or do you remember?”

  “I don’t remember. But as you said, I’ve seen the video.”

  Laurel nodded. “So to answer your earlier question, yes, your and Araneae’s minds have every reason to block out those memories. You were kidnapped. That is traumatic.”

  “Then why don’t we fit?” I asked.

  “We’ve told you both—the toxicology report shows the presence of unique chemicals, numerous ones identified that I’ve used in my formula and compound.”

  We’d received information in small snippets. I was having trouble retaining it all. “I remember that now. So you believe we were given your formula?”

  “Not mine. Whatever you were given is further advanced. With whatever you were given, they were able to disguise a very specific segment of your memory. Think of blacking out at a party.”

  A smile came to my lips. “That’s funny. Araneae said something similar.”

  “This is similar. Can you think back to when that happened?”

  I shook my head. “It never has.”

  Laurel’s blue eyes opened wide as she
set her coffee mug on the nearby table. “Well, good for you. I can’t say the same thing.”

  “Really? I can’t imagine you...” Goody-goody Little Mary Sunshine. I sat taller, wondering why that would pop into my mind.

  Laurel was shaking her head. “I know people assume I was all about studies, but I was a young adult too. Experimentation is a normal and educational part of growing up.”

  “I’m sure if you tell Patrick that, he’ll be open to Ruby experimenting.”

  “No, he won’t,” she replied matter-of-factly. “No parent is and in reality, while experimenting is normal, it is also dangerous.” Laurel took a deep breath. “In alcohol or drug-induced blackouts, such as with the date-rape drug known as GHB, the chemical enters the bloodstream, usually through ingestion. That begins the process of covering memories. In many cases, the person to black out will remember up until a particular moment and then nothing. That nothing point is when the drug or alcohol took over.”

  I tried to understand. “You think whatever was in the ventilation system began the process of our hidden memories?”

  “I don’t. Madeline and I both inhaled the knockout gas and neither of us is missing weeks of our lives.” When I didn’t respond, Laurel went on, “And both you and Araneae are missing time before the kidnapping.”

  “That’s true.”

  “I believe you were given a formula that has the ability to specifically block a defined time period. Unlike the alcohol example, whatever they have created in this formula is capable of going back in time.” She exhaled. “I’m fascinated. I’d love to know what you last remember and if you’ve had any flashes of memory.”

  “I last remember life here, in our tower.” I furrowed my brow. “What do you mean, flashes?”

  “Part of what I do at the institute and what I want to do with my formula someday is to help people live in conjunction with their traumatic memories. I don’t want to wipe the slate clean as was done to Mason. I also don’t want to suggest or plant memories that don’t exist. In order to do that, the participants in my studies must feel comfortable enough to speak freely with me and identify specifically what they want to forget. As they recount that, I record their brain activity. Later, I watch the brain scans for electrical activity as they recount the memory. Unfortunately, recounting is a traumatic process, almost self-defeating to my work.”

  “What if they don’t remember...like it’s blank?”

  “Like you feel now?”

  I nodded. “What do you see on the scans?” I asked.

  “I can identify the areas of the brain that, in the simplest terms, light up while recalling the events. Then I know where I need my formula to work.”

  I stood and began to walk around Laurel’s living room. “But...I don’t think any of that happened.”

  Laurel stood and came toward me. “That’s what’s so fascinating. The specificity of your memory loss is well directed without making you endure the memories.”

  For a moment, I stood at Laurel’s window and looked out into the sky. Large white clouds floated overhead. From our height, I could look down and see the shadows they cast. As if watching the clouds move, the shadows also moved.

  While I appeared calm from the outside, inside, I felt as if I were in a tug of war.

  I turned back to my friend. “What if I’m afraid to remember? Could that mean my memory loss is me and not the chemical?”

  “There’s no way to know whether you’re experiencing natural amnesia due to your traumatic experience or chemically induced memory loss. Or a combination.”

  “Will the chemical go away?”

  “In my study, my goal is that it won’t. I would like to provide one dose and help those living in fear for the rest of their lives.”

  “Don’t people do that every day?”

  “Yes, a vast majority of the population develops their own coping mechanisms. The human brain is truly capable of so much. We see it all the time, especially in children.” She shrugged. “It’s the other people who need our help, the ones who are unable to deal daily with debilitating memories.”

  I gave that some thought.

  Don’t most people have experiences they don’t want to remember?

  Is that what was living in the black hole I fear? Is it filled with memories?

  “What if...” The realization I was about to voice surprised me as much as Laurel. “...I’m afraid now?”

  “Are you able to tell me what scares you?”

  Tears came to my eyes. “Everything and nothing. Noises and quiet. Being alone and having others around—though today’s breakfast was nice. Some things that shouldn’t affect me make my heart beat faster or bring on a cold sweat, but I don’t understand why. It’s like there is this space or maybe the opposite, a void, hiding in my subconscious that I’m afraid to face. It’s right there and as much as I think I should acknowledge it, I want to run far away. My sleep has been shit. I think it’s because I’m not on guard in sleep and weird shit comes to my mind.”

  “What kind of weird shit?”

  I inhaled as I shook my head at last night’s dream. “Don’t tell Mason.”

  Laurel smiled. “I’m very honest with my husband, but if it’s important to you, I can keep whatever it is you tell me confidential until you’re ready to share it with him.”

  “There’s no reason to ever share it with him.” Sometimes omission was best. I sighed. “I told Reid, and I’m going to tell you so you can see what I mean about totally wacky thoughts.” I turned to her, our gazes meeting. “I dreamt I spoke with my mother.”

  Laurel’s expression blanked. It was as if all emotion and thought were gone or masked.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, my pulse increasing at her odd reaction.

  Her smile returned. “Tell me about the conversation you had with her.”

  “It wasn’t her,” I corrected. “It was a dream, and in it, she was old and thin...” I walked back to the sofa and sat with one leg beneath me. I wrapped my arms around the other knee as I drew it close to my chest. “I’m sure there are volumes of psychology textbooks written on all the ways parents screw up their children.” I put my chin on my knee. “They should all end with ‘use birth control and don’t have children.’”

  Laurel followed me to the sofas and sat on the one she’d been on before. “There are many theories on psychosis that stem from childhood experiences. But” —she grinned— “not all human beings exhibit psychosis, so I don’t think reproduction is the issue.”

  I scoffed. “I don’t need to tell you about our mother.” Thoughts that I hadn’t had in years seemed to rear their ugly heads. I pushed them away with generalities. “You knew us back then at the Boys and Girls Club, one of the places where we could find meals and support. I’m sure Mace has filled in the blanks.”

  “I’m more interested in your dream,” Laurel said.

  The memory came back. Nancy Pierce’s gaunt features, paper-thin skin, and fragile appearance. “My mother spoke to me in an odd old voice. She apologized for being a shitty mother.” I forced a grin. “I’m paraphrasing and probably projecting.”

  Laurel nodded. “You’re allowed. Anything else?”

  “I think she died.”

  “In your dream?”

  I swallowed emotions I didn’t understand as I hugged my knee closer. My voice began to quiver. “I shouldn’t care if she’s dead or alive.”

  “She’s your mother—hypothetically, in your dream,” Laurel added.

  “She never cared about us. It was all about her. I shouldn’t care what happened to her.” I rubbed my hands together as if they were suddenly cold. My empty mug caught my attention. “Would you mind if I got another cup of coffee?”

  “Of course not.” Laurel began to stand.

  “No, let me.” I needed to move. Taking my cup, I went toward their dining room and around their breakfast bar into the kitchen. Having similar floor plans and familiarity made navigating easy. It was like being home i
n the upside down, without all the colors.

  Once the coffee maker stopped and my cup was filled, I reached into the refrigerator for the creamer. As I added the liquid, my hands trembled. Wrapping my fingers around the mug, I relished the warmth coming from within. Yet as I walked toward the living room, my trembling turned to shaking, the caramel-colored liquid sloshing near the rim.

  “Lorna, are you all right?”

  “Probably too much caffeine.”

  Laurel stood, took the mug from me, and reached for my hand. “Let me help you.”

  My mind filled with memories, good and bad, of the woman who gave birth to me.

  “Our grandma had to claim me from the hospital when I was born,” I said as Laurel led me back to the sofa. My head shook. “I’m sorry. I have no idea why I said that.” As Laurel put the mug on the table, I resumed the embrace of my knee.

  “It’s true?”

  I nodded.

  “Then that’s why you said it.”

  “This is what I mean. I’m afraid to remember. Not remembering the last few weeks has brought a slew of other memories up from where they were buried.” I sighed. “Are dreams memories, or are they just crazy thoughts brought on by the drugs I was given?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “You won’t or you can’t?” I pushed.

  “I can’t. It’s not easy to discern.”

  My temples began to pound as I closed my eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “Lorna, stop apologizing. You should never be sorry for what you can’t control. Was there something else about the dream or simply the presence of who you believe is your mom?”

  “Other than I think she died?” I asked a bit sarcastically.

  “There’s no wrong answer. You don’t need to say anything you don’t want to say.”

  “Maybe if you could hook up one of those scans,” I suggested, “you could erase everything about my childhood, about my mother, about our sister, and about...” I didn’t want to finish that sentence, fearful it could lead to a place or places I didn’t want to recall.