In fact, not many people talk about Lucy’s head injury at all. It’s been reported that she suffered a “moderate traumatic brain injury,” which is actually a very serious injury. I spoke to a doctor who preferred to stay off the record since he never treated Lucy Chase, but he confirmed that yes, amnesia is a real thing that happens with brain injuries. In fact, it’s not that people who have suffered a brain injury forget what happens, it’s that their brain stopped making memories at all. The memory doesn’t exist.
So, to answer the question that a lot of you have been asking—yes. The amnesia defense is a real thing. Given the extent of Lucy’s injuries, it’s possible that she really doesn’t remember what happened that night.
But is that the truth? And why is everyone in Plumpton so convinced she’s lying?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LUCY
I think we should break up.
I see Nathan’s text as soon as I wake up. It was sent at two in the morning Texas time. Midnight in California. I wonder whether he was drunk.
Why???? I laugh as I push send.
I wonder what finally pushed him over the edge. Maybe he made it to the episode about my cheating with Kyle. He could excuse murder, but he drew the line at my cheating on my husband.
It’s only six in the morning in Los Angeles, so I don’t expect a response right away. Or ever, maybe.
Mom’s gym agreed to let me use her pass while I’m in town, and I get on the treadmill, until run run run is the only thought going round and round in my brain.
Nathan hasn’t texted back by the time I get home and shower, but Matt has.
Every part of my body tenses when I see his name on my screen.
Hey. Meet me for lunch. Please?
I want to ignore it, like I ignored every single other text he sent me over the years.
But I think of Ben’s request. Of Grandma’s request. Of Savvy.
I was never good at convincing Matt to do anything, but maybe things are different now. Maybe I’m different now.
Maybe I’m just an even bigger idiot.
Sure, I reply.
* * *
Matt’s waiting in the booth of the Mexican restaurant when I arrive, scrolling through his phone. He looks up and smiles when he spots me walking toward him.
A waitress passes me, holding a tray of sizzling fajitas. Oh damn. Those hot plates could do so much damage if pounded into a human skull. I’d have to be careful not to burn myself in the process, though.
“Let’s kill—”
Nope. No. I do not have the energy for the voice right now. Let’s focus, brain.
Matt stands as I approach, and he’s hugging me before I can react. He smells familiar—a hint of cedar in his aftershave, mint from his Tic Tac habit.
I avoid looking at him as we pull away, because I’m repeatedly bashing a fajita plate into his face.
I slide onto the red plastic, noting that Matt has a margarita in front of him and has ordered one for me as well. I’m not a huge fan of day drinking, or of salt on the rim of my glass, and he knew both of these things at one point. I’m not sure he cared back then either.
My phone buzzes, and I nudge it out of my purse to see that Nathan has replied to my last text.
We’re just going in different directions.
I guess that’s fair. I’m possibly headed to prison, and he is headed back to the dating apps to find a new girlfriend.
Another text pops up.
I’m sorry. I’ll pack up your stuff. Tell me when you want to come get it.
I drop my phone back in my purse and look up at Matt. Ex-husband in front of me, ex-boyfriend texting me to pick up my shit. I am positively on fire.
“Thanks for coming.” Matt intertwines his fingers, sliding them across to the middle of the table. He clearly remembers that I like his hands.
“Sure.” I take a tiny sip of my margarita because I actually would like to take the edge off this day, and because he’ll comment on it if I don’t drink it. I’m good at avoiding pissing off Matt.
Mostly.
I carefully put my drink back down. It’s a colorful Mexican tile table, the type that might topple your drink if you put it down on the edge of one of the tiles. Matt hates it when I spill things.
“How are you doing?” His brow is furrowed in concern. “It must be hard, being back.”
“It’s all right.”
“Are you listening to the podcast?” he asks.
“Yeah. I’m in touch with him, actually. Ben.”
He stops with his margarita almost to his lips. “What?”
“I ran into him at the diner. He asked for my help.”