That, too, must be a false memory.
Niall gives my hand a lasting squeeze.
“Despite our problems at the time, I was still—am still—madly in love with you.” He takes his eyes off the road for a second, turning to me.
“You signed the divorce papers,” I say, remembering the day I stumbled upon them in his room.
“I signed them early on,” he says. “I suppose I thought if I could show you that I was taking you seriously, it might make you think twice. It was a juvenile, desperate move, and for that I’m sorry. But it worked. You asked for more time as long as I promised not to hound you about it. So I didn’t. I didn’t bring it up once. I let you go at your own pace.”
The more he talks about when I was Kate, the more I find my curiosity being piqued.
“My parents,” I say. “Do they know about this?”
His mouth forms a flat line, and he pushes a breath through flared nostrils. “I’m so sorry, Kate.”
My stomach sinks before he says another word.
“Your father passed shortly after our wedding. And you and your mother haven’t been on speaking terms for well over a year.” He pats my knee. “But I’ll make a call to her first chance I get. Fill her in on everything.”
“Why aren’t we on speaking terms?” I ask.
“Your mother . . . how do I say this? She’s a textbook narcissist.” He turns to me, watching for my reaction. “Forgive the bluntness.”
I try to picture her, wondering if we have the same eyes, the same nose. If our laughs are the same.
“She’s a very self-centered person, and she has a tendency to go on these power trips,” he explains. “The woman thrives on drama, and you made the decision to distance yourself from that. Just be prepared: once she knows about this, the rest of your family will know, and somehow she’ll find a way to make it all about her.”
“Do I have any friends?” I ask. “Of my own?”
His lips purse. “You had a few good friends. There was a falling-out. You never went into detail, and it was right about the time we separated.”
“Did they reach out?” I ask. “After the attack?”
He’s quiet for a beat. “Not that I’m aware of. But again, that was such a hectic and difficult time. There’s always a chance . . .”
“You don’t have to sugarcoat any of this,” I say. “If they stopped talking to me, I’m sure they had a good reason. Sounds like maybe I was on a bit of a warpath last year . . .”
“Kate, stop. Don’t blame yourself. People end friendships over trivial things every single day. In the end, it’s not worth dwelling on if you can’t do anything about it.”
I am curious, though.
“Do you have any theories?” I’m not sure why it matters so much at this point, but it does. We’ve got two hours of highway to go, and I’ve got nothing but missing mental pages to fill.
“Honestly, I haven’t the slightest clue.”
“Was I friends with Brienne? Outside of work?” I ask.
Niall swallows. “You hired her on at your insurance agency originally. The two of you hit it off. Became friends outside the office—against my advice, I might add. Mixing business and pleasure is almost always a recipe for disaster. Anyway, you were introduced to her friends, and she was always around after that. Until, you know . . .”
“How long did she work for me?”
“Not long. Less than a year. Things kind of went south between the two of you when you started acting strangely.”
“I became her? Just like that?”
“As strange as it sounds: yes.” He switches lanes, adjusts his mirror. “Everything about you, Kate . . . was her. You became Brienne in every way possible. You started cutting your hair like hers, buying the same clothes and shoes as her. You started wearing the same perfume. Even your mannerisms, your drinks, your music tastes. At first I thought it was a phase, that you were assimilating yourself into your new group of friends, but after a while, I realized you’d taken it further than that.”
I peel my cheek from the window and roll it down.
I need air.
“You doing okay?” He looks toward me, and I don’t have to see the pained expression on his face to know it’s there.
“No,” I say. “I’m not doing okay.”
And it just might be the truest thing I’ve said in a long time.
CHAPTER 22
“We don’t have to go in yet,” Niall tells me, letting the engine idle when we arrive. “I mean, if you want to sit here for a while, we can. I know this must be difficult for you.”
The Crestview Psychiatric Center isn’t at all what I expected. It’s a hundred-year-old Gothic Revival manor in the middle of a half-gentrified residential neighborhood. A weatherworn wooden sign hangs from a post in the front yard, and there’s a small parking lot in the back; otherwise, there would be nothing differentiating it from the other homes on the block, something I assume is intentional given the fact that it’s a private facility.
I study the exterior, noting the fresh-cut grass and its diagonal pattern, the century oaks that line the street and shade the sidewalks, the potted plants and planted perennials that offer a splash of color to an otherwise foreboding brick-and-black frontage.
Sitting in the car, I watch staff enter and exit from a side door. I watch an older woman and her husband disappear inside. I watch a man lead a small mutt across the street, stopping to chat with a neighbor. And then I watch Niall—watching me.
“I hate this,” he says, breaking his silence. “Almost feels like I’m abandoning you.” Niall’s generous hands splay across his thighs, and I’m beginning to wonder if he’s just as nerve-ridden as I am. “Didn’t think I’d be doing this again.” He turns to me. “But everything’s going to be fine. Just like last time. And we’ll be together again before you know it. You’re resilient, Kate. You’ve been through more than anyone else I know, and you always come out on top. We’re going to beat this. We’re going to get our life back.”
Taking his hand, I thread my fingers through his.
“I’m ready,” I say, even if it isn’t true.
I think about the other Brienne—the real Brienne. And how awful it must be for her to have experienced the horror of someone taking her identity.
I can’t do that to her again.
And I can’t do that to Niall.
He’s clearly still in love with Kate—with me.
And he deserves to have her back.
PART 2
NIALL
CHAPTER 23
“Here we are,” the center administrator says, inserting a set of keys into the lock on the door. Her name is Cynthia Braddish, and she walks like a woman on a power trip, but she drives a dented Kia—I saw her climbing out of it when we first arrived. Still, I don’t hold it against her. In fact, I find those kinds of contradictions fascinating. Everything you need to know about people can be found in the things they don’t talk about. “We’ve assigned you to room seventeen.”
The room is small, ten by ten if that. She’s got a decent-sized window, fixed of course, with room-darkening curtains, and there’s a bathroom in the hall that she’ll share with three other rooms, much like a college dorm setting.