Page 27

“I know you’ve bungee jumped, skydived, parasailed, rock climbed, have earned a number of speeding tickets. How many car accidents?”

“Just the one that landed me here.” I lean forward. “Which was an accident, by the way. My flip-flop got caught under the brake pedal. Criminally stupid, but not suicidal.”

“What about the other accident?”

I frown. “There was no other accident.”

Chastain opens a drawer in his desk and pulls out a thick file. Mine. He flips through it until he finds a single sheet of paper.

“March 3, 2016. You were involved in a twenty-car pileup on the 405 after a semi lost control and jackknifed.”

I shake my head. “Wrong patient, boss. That wasn’t me.”

He reaches into the file and pulls out an eight-by-ten photograph, holding it up for me to see. I stare at it uncomprehendingly—it’s my face, bruised and bandaged. I’m wearing a neck brace and a hospital gown.

I have zero recollection of it. Jerking to my feet, I cross the room and snatch the picture from his hand.

“You don’t remember that photo being taken?”

My stomach clenches and a chill radiates down my spine. “No. No.” I force myself to look up, to focus on his face. “Where did you get this? Are you sure it’s not from my accident last month?”

“It’s time stamped,” he answers softly.

In the bottom corner of the photograph is printed the date. 03.03.16. But it doesn’t make sense. It’s impossible. In March of 2016, I was…

I was…

I sway on my feet. Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out ambient noise. Cold sweat breaks out all over my body.

“I don’t feel so good, Doc,” I whisper.

Chastain jumps from his chair and grabs me just as my knees buckle. He lowers me to the floor, then brushes the hair from my face.

“Amelia? You need to trust me, and if you can’t trust me, trust Jameson. You’re here because of the accident in March two years ago.”

“You’re lying,” I say through harsh breaths. “A trick. I’m dreaming.”

“Breathe. Just breathe.”

With his arm under my knees, he lifts me onto his lap and holds me tightly. Fingers stroke my hair and down my back. I start shaking and can’t stop.

“Did I die?” I ask shrilly. “Is this… after? You’re the devil?”

He exhales sharply. “You didn’t die, though sometimes I do feel like the devil where you’re concerned. We’ll figure this out, Amelia. Together. I promise.”

I tuck my face into his chest, clinging to him like he’s the last rock in the goddamn ocean. “I don’t believe you.”

“Then I’ll have to believe enough for both of us.”

“I’m broken,” I whisper.

His lips graze the top of my head. “Everyone’s broken. Some of us are just better at gluing the pieces back together.”

I laugh, still shaking. Teeth chattering. Unhinged.

“Well, at least I don’t want to fuck you anymore.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”