“I didn’t help, though.” She grimaces. “You’ve really only got a first name?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I ask what you’ve already tried?”
“A bunch of things ...” He’s got a record of them in his notebook. Thinking about it makes him tired. “But I don’t know, maybe I’m chasing my tail on this.”
Nomi tilts her head. “This isn’t a hypothetical, is it?”
“No.”
“Who are you trying to find?”
And this is really the moment when he has to choose. He’s been carrying this mission for months—more like years—on his own. Maybe it’s time to stop being completely self-reliant. But how much does he tell her?
Simon thinks of a discreet blue card stuck to a wooden door in a grungy building in a dingy neighborhood: This woman might be an investigator, but she’s not top of the line. Not someone likely to rat him out, considering his vulnerabilities. He has a lot of vulnerabilities.
He makes a call and hopes it’s the right one.
“Me,” he says. “I’m trying to find me.”
“Pardon?”
“I was pulled out of the Usumacinta River in Guatemala in 1982, with a gunshot wound to the head. They patched me up, but I lost my memory, and I had no ID. I don’t know who I am.”
Nomi’s tote hangs down by one strap. “You lost your memory. Like, what, amnesia?”
“Yes.”
“Amnesia.” She tests the word.
“Yes.”
“Okay. Wow. That’s ...” She steps back, steps forward again. When she’s not frowning and trying to seem gruff, her face is quite expressive. Her hard, mink-dark eyes are focused on him and have taken on a new inquisitiveness. “So what do you already know?”
“I know ...” He hesitates, but they’ve got to start somewhere. “I know I’m American—or at least, I have American dental work. I have a name, Simon, that was on a label sewn into my clothes.”
“So you have new paperwork.” She picked that up quickly. She’s no fool.
“Yes.” It was always going to come out. He continues the litany. “The rest is ... random. I’m right handed. I’m not color-blind. My first language is English, but I seem to be good at languages. At least, I didn’t have much problem picking up Spanish and Maaya t’aan—”
“And Italian,” Nomi says.
Simon looks at her. “What?”
“You ...” Nomi wets her lips. “You just spoke Italian with the deli owner.”
“Italian.” He can feel how his mouth has fallen open. He doesn’t know how to react.
“Yes.” Nomi keeps her eyes fixed on his. “You didn’t realize? Oh wow.”
Simon blinks at Nomi, blinks at the store. Raises a hand to rub at the groove in his skull. His headache is making a numb spot at his temple.
Is it always going to be like this? Living this strange double life, his shadow self always one step ahead, driven by impulses and instincts and appetites he’s barely conscious of ...
There is a deep part of you, something inside, that you do not yet understand.Flores spoke the truth. It’s not right. He can’t go on like this. He needs to know who he is.
Simon draws his shaking hand over his face, turns back to Nomi, the same hand open toward her. “Now do you see why I need your help?”
