She laughs. It’s a throaty sound, like the laugh of a sixty-year-old lounge singer, and it makes me like her better. “I’ve worked for some horrible people. You—you’re not so bad.”
“Wow, thanks.” But I’m smiling now as well.
The bread pops out of the toaster. Before I can tell her how I like it, Camila is already spreading butter and honey on top of the bread. That’s how my mother used to make me toast. She used to let me do most of it though. Ever since I was about three years old, she would step back and let me press down the lever for the toaster. Then I would take a pat of butter and let it melt onto the warm bread. Then a little smear of honey.Not too much, Tess!
Camila is making me toast the way I like it. She’s using the exact right amount of butter and honey. But instead ofthat uneasy feeling I’ve had most of the morning, it’s comforting. I don’t have to explain every little thing to Camila. She already seems to know me. It makes me feel taken care of, like when I was a little girl.
She deposits the toast in front of me with a glass of water. She flashes me a warm smile. “I’m going to clean up the bedrooms. Unless by any chance you made the bed?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever made a bed in my life.” I vaguely remember my mother asking me to do it when I was young, but after she got cancer, it was the least of her concerns. And Harry never cared—if I ever made the bed, he would think I had lost my mind. “Do I usually make the bed?”
She laughs again, that same engagingly throaty sound. “Not even once the whole year. But Graham likes them made up.”
“Can I help?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sure you’ve had a difficult enough morning. You just stay here and enjoy your breakfast. Later we’ll go shopping and take Ziggy for a walk.”
Camila takes care of feeding Ziggy, then she leaves the kitchen to go upstairs. It’s only after she’s gone that my shoulders relax. Shopping and taking my dog for a walk. It doesn’t seem like a terrible day. His belly now full of food, Ziggy returns to me and rests his head on my lap, panting happily as I run my fingers over his fur.
This is going to be okay. Yes, my memory is patchy. But I feel taken care of. I can still enjoy the simple pleasures. Yes, I liked my life before. I miss Harry and I miss running my company. But this is okay too. AndCamila did a good job with the toast. I’m going to take the advice in that letter I wrote to myself and just try to enjoy the day.
And then my phone buzzes on the table.
It’s the same sound my old phone used to make when I had a text message. Did somebody send me a message? Maybe it’s Lucy or my father. Or maybe it’s Graham. Maybe he’s the sort of doting husband who likes to check in on me at regular intervals. He seems like that sort of a sweet guy.
I pick up my phone—there’s a text message on the screen. But it isn’t from Graham or Lucy or my father. It’s from an unknown number. And as I read the message, my mouth falls open.
Don’t trust the man who calls himself your husband.
Chapter 7
Don’t trust the man who calls himself your husband.
I stare at the text message on the screen, as I grip the phone in my right hand. I read it and reread it, hoping maybe it will say something different the second time. I do have a brain injury, after all.
But no. It still says the same thing.
My fingers are shaking as I type a reply:
Who is this?
Three little bubbles appear on the screen, flashing over and over. I sit there, frozen, waiting for the response.
Meet me.
I should say no to this stranger. Thelogical part of me is screaming out that this is extremely fishy. Somebody is texting me, trying to scare me, taking advantage of the fact that I have memory problems. Maybe they want to weasel some money out of me. Who knows what they want. I should block the number, ignore these text messages, and get on with my day.
Then I think of the message I saw scribbled on my thigh this morning before the shower washed it away. I wrote it in a place that I knew Graham wouldn’t see. It was a message to myself. Something more personal than that letter I wrote.
Find…
Find what?
I have no idea what I had been trying to communicate to myself. But I have a gut feeling this text message might be the answer.
Meet you where?
The reply comes after several seconds:
