Page 102 of Savage Lies

Every answer comes too smoothly, like she’s rehearsed responses for these questions. The question is why she’s deflecting. She should be thrilled that my memories are returning. Why is she acting like she wants me to stay in the dark?

“Dr. Sokolova, in your experience, have you worked with other patients with similar gaps between their supposed background and their physical capabilities?”

“Every case is unique, but certain patterns emerge.”

“What kind of patterns?”

“Patients whose trauma involves professional activities often retain skills while losing personal memories. It’s the mind’s way of preserving functional abilities while protecting against emotional pain.”

“Professional activities like what?”

“Medical professionals who retain diagnostic skills, teachers who remember educational techniques, athletes who maintain physical conditioning.”

“What about military or security personnel?”

“Those cases can be more complex because the training is so comprehensive and deeply embedded.”

Anya’s acknowledging specialized training without quite admitting she knows about my FSB background. She’s dancing around the truth while providing enough information to test my reactions.

“Have you ever worked with security personnel?”

“I’ve consulted on cases involving law enforcement, military contractors, and corporate security specialists.”

“What about intelligence operatives?”

“Patient confidentiality prevents me from discussing specific cases, but psychological trauma affects people in similar ways regardless of their professional background.”

“Even when their professional background involves activities they’re not supposed to remember?”

“Memory suppression can be protective when experiences are too traumatic to process normally.”

“Or when remembering those experiences would compromise ongoing operations.”

Anya sets down her pen and looks at me. “Katya, why are you asking these questions? Have you remembered something specific about your past?”

The question feels like a test. She’s probing to see if I’ve recovered enough memory to be useful or dangerous.

“I keep wondering if there are people who knew me before the accident. People who might be looking for me or wondering what happened.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Abandoned. Like maybe I wasn’t important enough for anyone to keep searching.”

She swallows hard and drops her eyes back to the book as a look of guilt overtakes her face. Good. She should feel guilty. She’s the one who abandoned me.

“That’s also common in amnesia cases,” she claims. “The feeling that you should remember people who remember you.”

“But what if those people do know where I am? What if they’re choosing not to make contact for reasons I don’t understand?”

“Such as?”

“Maybe my previous life involved activities that would be dangerous to reconnect with. Maybe staying hidden is protecting me from something worse than memory loss.”

Anya picks up her pen again. “Do you feel like you’re in danger from your past?”

“I feel like I’m in danger from not knowing my past,” I admit. “Like there are things about myself I need to understand before I can make real decisions about my future.”

“What kind of decisions?”