“Esme, don’t—” Noah wails as he forces himself to his feet, stumbling a few times before he gains his balance. His hand clutches his side, and I don’t like the way his white T-shirt is growing dark as liquid drips from the area.
“Noah!” I howl his name, which causes our attacker to turn on his heel. Noah dodges his attack and runs to me, fear and determination warring in his eyes.
“Go inside, Esme,” he spurts as the assailant approaches from behind, putting a gleaming silver dagger to Noah’s neck. My world tilts on its axis, breath catching in my throat. No. No. No!
“Give me the girl,” the man demands in a low, growling voice. “And I’ll let you go.”
My response is immediate. “I’ll go!” I screech the battle cry, my heart racing against my chest as I reach for Noah. “Let him go and I’ll go with you!”
A feral grin crosses the man’s face as Noah shakes his head, causing the knife to nip into his neck. Blood trickles down from the wound, and I beg him to stop. “Stay still, Noah! I’m saving you!”Let me save you,I cry.It’s my turn to save you.
Tears saturate my vision, but I walk with unbridled determination toward the man as I beg God to send down lightning or thunder or anything.Anything! God, save him! “Let him go!”
Noah mouths three words, “I love you,” before he rails backward into the attacker, sending the two of them stumbling down to the ground.
I run, knowing Noah’s too wounded. He needs my help.
But when I get to the brawling men, Noah’s broken scream cuts through the silent air.
“Get out of here, Esme! Call the police!”
Right. I can do that.
Just as I dig my phone out of my dress pocket, the attacker breaks free from Noah and lunges for me. White hot pain blooms in my chest as I’m shoved to the ground, the assailant landing on top of me. Every ragged cough and breath is laced with pain as a wheezing, rattling sound escapes my lips. Wet, thick liquid runs down my chin.
The attacker grabs me by the hair and slams my head against the boardwalk before Noah pulls him off me.
Splitting pain pierces my skull, sending waves of nausea over my body as I tense and freeze. My vision begins to blur as I will myself to keep my eyes open.
But it’s no use.
And as my eyes flutter close, and I fight against the piercing pain in my chest, I watch as Noah delivers a groaning punch tothe man, violent curses and monstrous screams echoing in my head. Then, there’s a knife at Noah’s throat.
I scream, but no sound escapes.
As the darkness closes around me, I claw at it, begging it to let me give a message to Noah. To let Noah know he’s going to win. He has to. Then I’m going to be okay. We will be okay. We will survive and get married like we planned.
I have faith in you, Noah.
Help him, God. Don’t take him away from me.
Chapter Six
You'll Remember Me ~ early July
My foot creates a chaotic rhythm as it taps, taps, taps on the wooden floor, my anxiety rising with every fleeting second.
It’s eight minutes until ten, and Ashton will walk through that door at any moment, carrying with him the loaded truth of the night I lost my memory back in Bora Bora. My bones ache, knowing he is somehow involved, and while I’m desperately seeking the truth, I’m terrified of what I will learn. Afraid of what it means for my future.
For my book.
The fish house is dead as I figured it would be this time of day. There are a few older couples gathered together at one of the round tables, but I have a tiny square table in the back room. The smell of fried catfish is concentrated, and it stirs the nausea that’s been settled in my stomach since I woke up this morning. I usually love the smell, but I’m too on edge to enjoy it. Maybe I should have chosen a different location like an outdoor park or something. Then again, anything outdoors in the city of Jackson stinks to high heaven with construction fumes andmarijuana. Not like the fresh air of Whitney. But there wasn’t a sliver of a chance that I’d have this conversation with Ashton with snooping eyes and ears. Even when you think you’re alone in Whitney, you’re not.
Ashton appears from behind the stretch of wall separating the two dining rooms. He’s wearing casual but preppy clothes—orange shorts that hit just above his knees with a white collared shirt. He immediately spots me, his expression a twist of pain and pity. It reminds me of a recurring dream I’ve had, one where that look on that same face mingles with unadulterated horror. I’ve always wondered what caused my character Noah to wear that face, and now I’m scared I might find out.
I’m going to be sick.
Ashton must be Noah. He has to be. From the way he looks to his mannerisms, he is like the man in my novel. It’s not merely coincidental that I used the names Ashton and Prewitt.Or Ashley, for that matter, if this man is more than a literary agent.He has to be the guy I woke up from a coma dreaming about and decided he was just that—a dream. Because nowhere in my family’s history did they mention a Noah or show me pictures of a man who looked like him. It was all just a vivid dream.
