I still have about half of my steak left on my plate, but I’m too tired to even contemplate the effort of trying to slice and chew that bloody thing. Graham helps me out of my chair, and he leads me in the direction of the stairwell. I try to lift my leg to climb the stairs, but it feels impossible. My legs feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.
“Come on, Tess,” Graham says. “Up you go…”
I don’t know if I was able to do it last night, but I can’t do it tonight. After a few tries, Graham puts his arm under my legs and hefts me in his strong arms. He carries me up the stairs and down the hall to our bedroom. He deposits me gently on our queen size bed. It’s almost sweet and romantic until he comments:
“So you really think you’re totally independent, huh?”
He’s being a smart ass, but I don’t have the energy to reply. He rummages around in my drawer and pulls out a night shirt. He helps me take off my sweater and put on the night shirt. Then I shimmy out of my jeans. The effort it takes me is almost superhuman. I end up needing Graham to pull them off my feet because I can’t do it on my own.
“Thank you, Graham,” he says.
I try to mumble thanks, but it probably doesn’t even resemble a real word. I lie down in the bed and pull the covers over me. And then I pass out.
Chapter 32
I thought the next time I woke up, my world would be a blank slate. Like it had been this morning.
But when I wake up, the right side of my head is pounding, the clock by my bed reads eleven, and the room is pitch black. And most importantly, my memory is still intact. I remember everything that happened today, from the second I woke up.
I don’t understand how this works. Does my memory get erased at midnight? That doesn’t seem like something that could happen outside of a movie.
My head still feels incredibly foggy, but something must have jolted me awake. That memory that had been tugging at me all day today. A memory of Harry speaking to me.
Graham has a desk upstairs. There’s a drawer that’s always locked, and you said you think that’s where he’s keeping whatever he’s giving you.
I sit up straight in bed. The right side of my head is still throbbing dully, and my bladder feels painfully full. I stumble out of bed to the bathroom to at least take care of one of my two discomforts. But even though I’m tired and my brain is still foggy, my thoughts won’t stop racing.
Graham does have an office upstairs. I passed it when I went up to grab something from my bedroom earlier. Is it possible he’s keeping something from me in there?
I don’t know where Graham is. He wasn’t in bed with me. Maybe he went out. Or maybe he’s in his office right now, working.
I’m never going to be able to sleep until I investigate, so I creep out of the bedroom into the hallway, which is also very dark. I can just barely make out a dim light from downstairs. Graham is downstairs, which means his office is empty.
I keep one hand on the wall, feeling my way down the hallway. I stop when I get to Graham’s office. I try the doorknob and it turns under my hand. I’m about to enter the office when I hear a sound from downstairs. A crash.
And then a woman giggling.
What is that?
I forget all about Graham’s office and the stupid desk drawer. Instead, I turn around and head for the stairwell. It’s still dimly lit, so I hang onto the railing. I don’t want to fall and give myself another head injury. Of course, isn’t there that theory that a second head bonk can be curative? Is that a thing?
As I get to the bottom of the stairs, I hear it more clearly. Giggling. Two people talking softly.
My husband and somebody else.
Oh my God. Is it Camila?
Just like when I was out walking Ziggy earlier, I get that strange sensation in my head—it must be another seizure coming on. My knees tremble as everything fades to white, and suddenly, I’m not in my living room anymore.
I’m outside the front door to my house. I’m getting the key into the lock for the front door and turning the knob to push it open. Except it’s not the living room I have right now, with the fancy entertainment system and the leather sofa. It’s my old living room with the ratty futon and the coffee table with one short leg. But that’s not what my eyes focus on.
Right in the middle of the room, Lucy and Harry are together. And to my horror, my best friend’s lips are pressed against my fiancé’s. As the house keys slip out of my fingers, clattering to the ground, Lucy shoves Harry off of her, hard enough that he stumbles. I can’t believe my own eyes. Worse, I wouldn’t have seen it if I had come home just five minutes later.