Conjured

She hadn’t forgotten a few hours. She’d forgotten days. Maybe weeks. Bouts of short-term memory loss, the doctors had said. Her mind had betrayed her. Again.

She started to shake so hard that her knees caved, and she sank to the floor. Closing her eyes, she tried to summon up any memory of the time between when she’d collapsed at the agency and this moment. Just one conversation. Or one breakfast. Or one sleepless night. She must have done something—the photo of her and Aidan with the pizza proved that. She remembered every detail of the moments before the vision: the white-hot sparks on Topher’s fingers, the lazy smile on Aidan’s lips, the flat stare of Victoria’s snake eyes. Victoria’s eyes had been golden. The billiard balls had been purple, blue, and red. The cafeteria had smelled faintly of pepperoni pizza and coffee, and the air had tasted stale, pumped in through the air-conditioner vents. She could resurrect every moment in her mind, including the vision of the silk ribbon with silver-edged boxes that shook as the wagon was pulled over bumps, cracks, and potholes in the road. After that … there was nothing. A blank, empty swirl in place of her memories.

Eve heard the door to the house open and shut. She listened to heavy footsteps in the hall. Outside her door, Aunt Nicki greeted Malcolm. Eve knew she should stand, but she felt as if the weight of the lost days held her to the floor. How many days? Or was it weeks? Months? Weeks, she guessed. Judging by the clothes and the trees outside, it was still summer. She could stand, open the door, and ask Malcolm … but she couldn’t face the sight of his eyes, of the disappointment she’d see there.

A knock on the door. “Ready, Eve?” Malcolm called.

No, she wanted to say. But then she remembered the door had no lock. He could open it. She peeled herself off the floor and called, “Coming!” She laid the monkey on the pillow and crossed its arms so it looked as if it were defying the world, and then left the room.

Malcolm waited for her in the hall. Eve pasted a smile on her face, but he only glanced at her and then headed out the door. She followed him out of the house.

Outside, it was humid. The sticky air prickled on her skin. Eve sucked in a breath and smelled overripe trash. She heard a dog bark once, but didn’t see anything move in either direction. Even the leaves were motionless on the trees.

The car was red with a gash on the back door. She’d never seen Malcolm in anything but a black car. She thought about teasing him, saying the car was blushing in embarrassment at the gouge in its paint—that seemed like something he’d like her to say. But maybe she’d already made that joke. It wasn’t a very good joke anyway. She climbed into the passenger seat without saying anything.

Malcolm got into the driver’s seat and locked the doors. His muscles were tense. He hadn’t been this tense before. She wondered what had changed in the missing weeks.

Anything could have happened. Or nothing. She didn’t know which would be worse.

Eve tried to think of what she could ask that would give her clues but wouldn’t reveal her memory loss. She rejected every question she thought of. In silence, she watched him as he leaned forward, hands tight on the wheel.

He drove into the library parking lot. She suddenly wanted to be inside, surrounded by objects whose memories were permanent and unchanging, right there in black and white. Better, they wouldn’t care how much of her own story she knew or didn’t know.

But there would also be people inside. She wondered what she’d said to them, what they’d said to her, what she’d done. She thought of the boy Zach and wondered if he’d be there.

Malcolm parked near the entrance. He rubbed his hand over his eyes. He looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept well in days. She wondered where he did sleep. She didn’t know where he lived, if he had a family, what his life was like outside WitSec. He must do more than shepherd her from home to work to the agency and back—if that was indeed what he’d been doing during the missing weeks.

“He won’t stop,” Malcolm said. “He’ll find another way. I know the type. He believes he is justified or invincible, or he simply wants. If we don’t catch him, it will begin again.”

“I …” She searched for words. He must have meant the suspect in her case. Eve hadn’t known the suspect was a he. And what would begin again?

“We can protect those who match the profile, but it’s all guesswork. And he could simply change whom he targets.” Heaving a sigh, he looked at her for the first time today. She saw thin red veins in the whites of his eyes, and the circles underneath were dark, almost bruises. “You are the key, Eve,” he said. “I know it.”