“It fits, Is. All the girls, every single one, they were all sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Young, beautiful, and desperate. And what could be more desperate than a girl with not only no parents, but no identity?”
“Why would he need to fake an accident?”
“The accident wasn’t faked, Isabel. It was real. Your parents died.”
“Arranged, then. But how could he be sure I wouldn’t die? Memory loss... is not well understood, Logan. It is impossible for him to have been able to arrange a car accident in such a way that he could be sure I’d lose my memory. That’s crazy, Logan. And just impossible.”
“True. But... there’s something there, Is.Somethinghe’s not telling you, or lying about.”
Crazy. Impossible.
But... the flashes of memory I’ve had... they seem to be hinting that I knew Jakobbeforemy memory loss. But then, he told me I lost my memory suddenly, after surgery.
The lies you’ve told don’t match with the accidental truths you’ve spilled. 2006? 2009? Sixteen? Eighteen? Car accident? Mugging?
Isabel . . .
The whisper on your lips as you come.
Your forehead against mine.
—You were so frail, so slight. So young. Only sixteen, I think. Or thereabouts. Sixteen, seventeen. A girl, still. But so beautiful already. Dying, terrified, lost, and your eyes, when I set you down on the stretcher when we got to the ER, you looked up at me with those great big black eyes of yours and I just... I couldn’t walk away—
“Isabel?” Logan’s voice. Far away. Warm, concerned. Loving.
Far away. Faint.
I’m dizzy.
Something sparks, in my skull. Deep in my chest. A vision. A thought.
Life, relived:
I am alone. I should be in school, but I’m not. It is warm, a beautiful, sunny day. I am in my favorite dress. I’ve curled my hair, stolen Mama’s makeup and a pair of earrings. I feel beautiful. Excited, but scared. Down the stairs to the subway, onto the train. Only a few stops, and then I get off. Ascend to the street, cross the intersection. There, the café. OUR café. He’s here every morning, so I know he’ll be here now.
I hurry, because I am excited.
There, I see him. God, so handsome. So tall, such broad shoulders. He’s sitting at a table, sipping espresso. At ease, powerful, in command of his surroundings. He looks up... he sees me! My heart pitter-patters. I blush, trip a step. He stands as I approach, and I breeze past the hostess, through the doors and out onto the patio. Into his arms.
He grabs my shoulders and touches his chin to the top of my head. I have an instant, a glorious instant, where I’m pressed up to him, engulfed by him. But only briefly, and then he lets go, steps back.
“Caleb!” I breathe his name.
“Hey, gorgeous. How are you?” Oh, his English is so flawless. I am jealous. You can barely hear his accent.
“I am well, Caleb. How are you?” Ugh. I sound so SPANISH. Not American at all.
“You should be in school, shouldn’t you?” He says it with a teasing grin.
“I had to see you.” I say this in Spanish. I can’t help it; if I don’t consciously think about it, Spanish comes out.
“English, Isabel.”
I think it through. Make sure it is correct. “I am very well, Caleb. How are you?”
“That wasn’t the question, Isabel.” Another teasing grin, as we sit down.
“Brute. Don’t be mean to me.” More Spanish.
