TWENTY

AMETHYST

Maybe I should have parked somewhere and slept in the car instead of coming back to Mom and Dad’s. Mom acts like I’m a danger to her precious Uncle Clive.

When I kept asking what he might have done to warrant a vigilante mob, she whisper-hissed that Clive was suicidal and dragged me upstairs, as if the mere sight of me would send him into a spiral. Now, I’m sitting in my former room, where everything I once owned has been neatly packed away in a trunk at the foot of the bed.

It’s been redecorated with white walls and a new ceiling beam to match the exterior woodwork. My old bed has been replaced by a mahogany four-poster with drapes, and all the photos she plastered over the wall to remind me of my childhood have been replaced by tasteful landscape paintings.

Mom acts like my entire existence revolves around the accident that shattered my mind. She recoils from my presence and avoids looking me full in the face. I could say she’s freaked out because I killed Mr. Lawson, but she’s cringed away from me since I can remember.

Leaning against the windowsill, I gaze out into manicured gardens, where Uncle Clive sits on a bench by the edge of the trees, staring up into my room. He looks thinner from the distance, almost scarecrow-like in a tweed jacket and brown pants that are too short for his jangly limbs. Perhaps he bought the clothes second-hand or borrowed them from Dad.

Raising a hand, I wave, but he only lifts his chin. He sees me but refuses to engage, much like the rest of the family.

Turning away from Dad’s peculiar younger brother, I head for the trunk at the foot of the four-poster, which is secured by a combination lock. I set it to my birthday, 0916, and it springs open. Inside are the photo albums Mom and Dad made me pour over when I first awoke from my coma. I leaf through the pages, finding pictures of me as a child with younger versions of my parents, along with relatives I don’t recognize, but there isn’t a single one containing Uncle Clive.

I pick up my phone and search for the name Clive Crowley and find nothing helpful. Then I add keywords like prison, arrest, vigilante, and sentencing, but it’s like he doesn’t exist.

A knock on the door has me scrambling to my feet. Mom strides in with a tray.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her gaze dropping to the screen.

“Looking up Uncle Clive online. Why can’t I find any details on his conviction? Shouldn’t there be a public record?”

“Do you expect him to have set up a social media presence from prison?” She sets the tray down on a side table and grips the four-poster bed’s footboard. “Whatever you’re thinking of doing, stop. Your uncle is already fragile and doesn’t need another person breaking his spirit.”

“What did he do?” I ask again.

She folds her arms. “If you can’t stick to my rules, you can leave.”

My throat tightens at the thought of returning to Parisii Drive, where Xero’s ghost can and absolutely will haunt me in my sleep. “Fine. I’ll stop asking about him,” I mutter. “But I need some answers about my memory.”

“What’s happened?” She tilts her head like an owl, her brows pulling together. “Are they returning?”

“I don’t know,” I lie, not wanting to tell her that everything before the age of ten is still hidden behind a blank wall .

She closes the distance between us and places both hands on my shoulders. “What do you remember?”

“Snippets.”

“Of what?” she asks, her voice hardening.

I stare into her green eyes, seeing subtle differences between them and my own. They’re slightly bloodshot and ringed with dark circles that she’s hidden with concealer. Didn’t she say something earlier about having high blood pressure? At the time, I dismissed it as an excuse, but she’s obviously stressed.

“Nothing specific,” I mutter. “Mostly images from around the house.”

Her features relax and she releases my shoulders.

“Can I show you something?” I ask.

“What?” she asks, her voice unnaturally relaxed.

I scroll to the photo app, bring out the polaroid of me as a child, and thrust it in her face. “What’s this?”

Horror flashes across her features, before they’re schooled into a mask of false composure. “Where did you get that?”

My breath quickens. She recognizes exactly what she’s looking at. “My mailbox,” I reply. “Do you recognize it?”

“Let me see.” She makes that strange head tilt again and squints, making a show of studying the image. “The resemblance is uncanny, but I… But that’s not you. You should delete it.”

I expand the image with my fingers and focus on the girl’s stomach. “What do you call this?”

“Photoshop?”

“Who would know my scars intimately enough to superimpose them on a photo of a child who looks uncannily like me?” I ask.

Mom’s jaw works up and down in a peculiar chewing motion, as if she’s tasting different lies to see which one she thinks will be the most palatable. I stare at this rare shift in our dynamic. I’m usually the one scrambling around for explanations.

“Amethyst,” she says with a sigh. “I can’t give you those answers. Perhaps you should look closer to home.”

“What does that mean?”

“You have a podcast dedicated to a known murderer. There are videos of you online…” She lowers her voice. “Tw erking to obscene lyrics and advertising a romance book between you and a deranged killer. It’s like you’re begging to be raped.”

My eyes widen, and angry heat rises to my cheeks. I stare at her for several heartbeats, wondering if that was an auditory hallucination.

Mom has never been one to sugarcoat her words, but this is a new level of bluntness. I know it’s been a while since I last visited or even spoke to her at length on the phone, but I barely recognize this woman.

“What did you say?” I ask.

Her lips purse, and her shoulders tense as though shifting gears from defensive to attacking. “Someone needs to tell you this is a man’s world. Women who flaunt themselves and advertise their fetishes are always going to be prey.”

“If that’s true, then why are you housing a predator?”

She flinches. “What are you talking about?”

“Uncle Clive,” I reply through clenched teeth. “Vigilante mobs don’t track down bank robbers and you’re working so hard to hide the reason he went to jail. What happened to me when I was little? Was it him?”

“Amethyst Magnolia Crowley!” Her hand flies out to slap me across the face, but I grab her wrist before the blow lands.

“Why don’t you tell me the truth, Mom?” I demand. “What happened to me when I was young? And don’t give me that car accident story.”

She pulls at her arm. “Let me go.”

“Not until you give me something.”

“If someone is sending you doctored photos, it’s probably because you put everything out there online. What did you tell your murderer in all those letters?” she hisses. “If you mailed him nudes, then anyone intercepting them who knows about your memory problems is going to take advantage.”

My breath catches, and my fingers loosen around her wrist. Not because I believe her bullshit, but because it strikes a chord. My letters had to go through a prison mailroom and would be read by staff to make sure they’re not subversive. That’s why Xero always insisted on texting the nudes.

“You see,” she says as she backs around the four-poster. “ Some of your videos get millions of views. I read the comments. There are men out there, writing lascivious filth about everything you post, and others calling you a killer’s whore. How many of those send you private death threats?”

More than I can count, but none of them were as persistent as Jake.

“Didn’t you say one of them tracked you down to your home?” she asks from the doorway.

“He did.”

She nods. “There you go. Maybe you should look to one of your online admirers instead of your family.”

“But it wasn’t him.”

“What are you talking about? Did you ask him?”

“I didn’t need to. The man who came to attack me was in his twenties.”

“So, what?”

“And that image was an aged Polaroid. How many people my age have that kind of camera or keep physical photos long enough for the border to turn yellow?”

“I don’t know. Ask him.” Her voice rises several octaves, becoming shrill.

“I can’t, because?—”

“Don’t.” She raises a palm. “Don’t tell me a thing. We went through hell with what you did to that teacher. And… And… We warned you that the next incident will land you in an institution.”

The threat hits like a slap, and it feels like every drop of blood drains from my face and gathers in my chest. My heart pounds against my ribs like a caged animal desperate to break free.

I have no recollection of that threat. My mind was a jumble the moment my parents and Dr. Saint changed my prescription to convince the authorities that I was mentally disturbed from Mr. Lawson’s sexual abuse.

The shock dissipates, replaced by a hot surge of anger that tightens my jaw so hard my teeth grind. I breathe hard, trying to stay calm, so I can form the words without stumbling.

“Why would you say something like that to a thirteen-year-old girl with a brain injury unless something specific happened in the past? ”

Her lips tremble, and she swallows over and over, confirming my suspicions that I didn’t lose my memory from a car accident.

“Uncle Clive did something to me, and I fought back.”

“What?” she asks, her eyes going comically round.

“That’s why you were so desperate to keep us apart. You don’t want him triggering any memories. It’s also why you were more upset that I’d pushed Mr. Lawson off the roof, and you didn’t give a shit that he got me pregnant or forced me into a miscarriage?—”

“Amethyst—”

“And two nights ago, when I called you in tears, saying that a man had attacked me in my home?—”

“Enough!” She claps her hands over her ears. “Stop. I won’t hear it. I won’t!”

I flash my teeth. “If there’s something wrong with me, I need to know, so I can get help.”

“Just stop,” she says, her voice breaking. “Stop or leave. Please.”

“Why don’t you tell me the truth?” I yell.

Her face shutters, and her shoulders rise to her ears. “If you want to know what happened to you, ask Dr. Saint for recordings of your early sessions. In fact, I’ll book an emergency appointment.”

My jaw drops. I kept meaning to call the psychiatrist, but things kept happening to make me forget. I’ve seen that woman for years, and I expect she has mountains of material.

Mom turns on her heel, leaving me staring at her back. “Lunch is on the desk. Don’t come downstairs.”

Why the hell would I want to if my uncle is a predator?