I didn’t belong here.
This man had done something. He’d lied. Stolen my journal.
I fluttered my fingers across my wrist tattoo.
What should I do? Go to the last known address in Wimberley? Or Big Harry’s Diner?
Anywhere but here.
I opened the door a crack and peered out. I could see the living room, empty.
A sound in the kitchen meant he was in there.
Men can’t be trusted.
I tugged the card with the address out of the book and clutched my keychain. Beneath the words “Big Harry’s Diner” was another address on First Street.
How far away was that? Could I find another woman with a car to drive me there like the one we rode here? The car had driven up to the door of the hospital to bring me home.
Would one be waiting outside here to take me to Big Harry’s?
I slid against the wall toward the living room.
We’d come in through the brown door. That was how I would have to leave.
I drew in a breath. This was my chance.
And I ran.
CHAPTER 38
Tucker
When a door slammed, I didn’t know what it meant at first. The walls of Ava’s apartment were paper thin, and it could have been a neighbor.
I left the kitchen where I was planning to make popcorn, a happy smell with good associations that might calm her. It was something Ava and I had brainstormed as we prepared for this day. She’d figured out memories weren’t just stored in her head, but in her senses and her muscles, and the ways things made her feel.
The bedroom door was open. I peeked in and saw the box on the bed.
No no no no. We’d purposefully hidden it away. We didn’t want Ava starting her journey with fear. That entire scrapbook was full of warnings.
She might run from them.
A quick search of the apartment proved fruitless. I raced for the door, angry I’d waited so long to look. I ran out into the parking lot and called hername.
Nothing.
I raced from one end of the building to the other. She was nowhere.
Where would she go? She didn’t know anything yet.
I returned to the apartment and snatched up my phone. I dialed her number.
A buzz sounded in the kitchen.
Her phone was where she’d left it before the seizure, sitting amongst the portraits.
I returned to the notebook for clues. It lay on its front cover, like she’d flipped through the whole thing before closing it. There was no telling what parts she might have read. It ended too soon, before we were a couple again. We’d planned to rely on the videos we recorded and the story we’d written to establish our relationship.
