Page 109 of A Stop in Time
It takes a solid minute for her words to settle in my brain before my eyes go wide in dismay. “Oh! Oh, no. Annalee, that’s not what this”—I gesture to my face where there’s no mistaking the fact I look like I’ve been roughed up—“is.”
Concern lines her features. “It’s okay. I know what it’s like. My dad used to hit me, too.”
Used to. I zero in on her phrasing. “Used to?”
“Yeah.” She shuffles her feet. “It was super weird, because he just stopped hittin’ me after this one night. And I ran to my room like I always do, but the next mornin’, he looked like somebody’d beat him up.”
Her expression sours, and she shrugs. “He still yells at me and calls me stupid, but I don’t care about that. I just ignore him.”
My note worked. I want to fist-pump so hard, but that would make things way too fucking weird.
I clear my throat. “Look, I have this problem with sleepwalking, and I end up tripping and hurting myself, but I never remember anything.” I wave a hand to encompass my face. “This is a prime example of that, unfortunately.”
She studies me so intently, I get the impression she’s determining whether or not to believe me. “That’s pretty weird.”
A huff of a laugh falls from my lips. “Yeah, tell me about it.”
She cocks her head to the side. “You should really smile more. It totally changes everything.” Her cheeks flush. “You’re really pretty when you do.”
“Yeah, I can’t do that. That’s how I stay unapproachable.”
A laugh sneaks up on her, and she snorts a little, slapping a hand over her mouth, her face turning bright red. She’s a cute kid. It’s a miracle she’s not more bitter and jaded after having a shitty-ass dad beat on her.
“Well, I need to get back to this.” I tip my head, gesturing to the car as I grab the screwdriver I’d left sitting on the top of a tool chest.
“Okay.” She spins around, sets her hand on the doorknob, but suddenly turns back. “Hey, Mac?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for this job. I really appreciate it.”
“I really appreciate your help.”
Her smile is shy but infused with pride, and she heads back inside, the door closing with a quiet click behind her.
“You figure it out yet?”
I whirl around at the man’s calmly posed question, screwdriver tightly gripped in my hand.
A tall man stands in one of the open bay doors. White-blond hair gleams in the sunlight, and his pale blue eyes give me the eerie feeling they’re trying to peer deep into my thoughts.
There's no car around, and I didn’t hear or see him walk up the driveway. Where the fuck did he come from?
"Can I help you?" My fingers tense around the screwdriver as a sudden bone-deep wariness settles in.
His penetratinggaze bores into me. “Have you figured out what you're doing?" Casually, as if he's familiar with my place, he ventures inside the garage, tracing a finger along one of my large tool chests. "Because time’s running out."
Eyeing him warily, I can only offer, "Look, dude. I've had a rough day already, so I'm not up for riddles—”
"You're still having episodes. Even with the therapy you're getting through the trial."
My breath lodges in my chest at the certainty in his tone. He's not phrasing it as a question. A gleam enters his eyes. "Yes. I'm aware of what you’ve been undergoing.” He tips his head to the side, eyes narrowing on me. “Have you considered that the therapy’s making it worse?”
I don’t respond because he gives me the impression it’s more of a rhetorical question.
“You’re smart, but have you ever wondered if your therapy is helping to suppress your memories?”
I finally muddle through the trepidation to find my words. “Who are you?”