STELLA
I’ve been wandering along the tree-lined Promenade du Thiou for about an hour now. It’s an unassuming riverfront walk along the even less showy brook called Le Thiou that zigzags across this part of the city center, running from Lake Annecy into the river Le Fier. It’s almost seven in the evening. Philippe, whose office is nearby, will meet me in thirty minutes. He’s stuck in a meeting and can’t leave earlier.
The air is filled with the sweet scents of spring. A gentle breeze brushes against my face, carrying the peaceful sound of the brook from just a few meters away.
I pause to watch a family of ducks gliding on the water. Their serene, happy-go-lucky presence is enough to calm my racing thoughts.Almost. But the knot of unease in the pit of my stomach is too tangled, too hard. Even a brood of adorable ducklings can’t soften it.
The suppressed memory that I recovered yesterday in Dr. Biel’s office has such far-reaching implications that I’ve been unable to focus on anything else all day today. Last night, I couldn’t focus on anything at all. I collapsed on my bed and slept from the moment Darrel left me off in front of Gaby’s until dawn.
When I woke up, my mind was abuzz, and the world around me was no longer the same. In this new world, there was a possibility I hadn’t killed a man on a trail. It was also possible that he’d been killed in our house.
By whom?Me? Someone else? Why would my parents cover up for someone else? Had they been covering up for themselves? Had they killed that man?
I tried to access the missing person’s register online. Unlike the UK, France doesn’t make it public unfortunately. Then I spent some time researching memory implanting, suppression, and recovery. Then it occurred to me, what if my memory of the hike wasn’t false, after all?
What if I did kill that man, and then my parents brought the body to our house before transporting it to another location? What if the night I saw them carrying what looked like a dead body to the car, my DID had kicked in again, and I’d forgotten all about the murder I’d committed? That would explain my shock and incomprehension.
This version of events, though far-fetched, reconciles both memories. I’m still the killer. And my parents aren’t psychopaths who planted a fake memory into their child’s mind to make her think she’s a nutcase and a murderer.
I glance at my watch.
It’s time for Philippe to arrive at our meeting place. As much as I’d like to stay in this picturesque setting and avoid the conversation ahead, I need to talk to him before I confront my parents. With determination in my step, I head to the crossing of Avenue de Chambéry and Avenue du Rhône.
When I get there less than five minutes later, Philippe has already arrived. He hurries toward me, his expression nervous.
“I appreciate your agreeing to meet after our last conversation,” I say.
He nods, his face taut.
We remain silent as time seems to stretch out painfully. I had prepared a little introductory speech, but I find myself at a loss for words. Philippe seems just as hesitant, his gaze fixed on the ground.
Finally, he breaks the stalemate. “You know, I still care about you. I want us to remain friends.”
“Me, too,” I say.
Another awkward silence settles between us.
I decide that I’m not going to bother with introductory speeches, smooth transitions, or anything like that. I’m just going to tell him about my visit to Dr. Biel, and the things I was able to recall under her guidance.
As I speak, Philippe listens without interrupting me.
“Will you go back to the doctor?” he asks.
“Yes. And I hope I’ll remember more.”
His eyes reflect an inner turmoil he tries to conceal behind a bright smile. “I hope you’ll feel better.”
“You can do more than hope.”
He startles.
I set an unblinking gaze on him. “You can help me piece together the fragments of that story.”
His eyes dart to his office building, as if he considered bolting to seek refuge within its walls.
“Do you know who that man was?” I ask him. “Who killed him, me or my parents?”
He says nothing.
