Sara K. Parker - Dying To Remember

“My room is at the end of the hall near the garage. It’s possible.”

Maybe. He remembered the layout of the house, though, and it wouldn’t have taken her sister more than a minute to unlock the door and run down the hall to Ella’s room.

“Who would want to kill you, Ella?”

“I have no idea,” she responded.

“What you’re thinking happened, though...it’s not a random act. There’d have to be motive. Personal motive.”

He thought for a moment. After his sister Brooklyn’s death, Ella had gone into a deep depression. It was no secret, as her mother had reached out to friends and the church for prayers and help.

“Could it be someone from the past? Someone who knew you had struggled with depression?” he asked.

“I really don’t know, Roman,” she said, frustration deepening the lines along her forehead.

“Okay.” Roman softened his tone. “But if you don’t remember the incident, how do you know someone else did this?”

“Because I know I didn’t,” she said simply.

Roman saw conviction in her eyes. Knew she believed what she was saying. But he didn’t know what to make of it all.

“You don’t believe me.” Her words were as cold as the air outside, but she couldn’t hide the hurt that flashed in her eyes.

“I do believe you.” At least, he believed she was in trouble. If someone was after Ella, then Roman needed to help her. If not...if she was suffering some kind of mental illness, he still needed to help her. “Tell me more about who’s following you.”

She stood abruptly and Roman did, too. Her nose had pinkened, her eyes shining with unshed tears again. “Sorry. Just... I need to use the restroom.” She glanced around in question.

“It’s down the hall from the elevator, back the way we came.”

She nodded. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Roman sat, drummed his fingers on his desk. Uneasy. That’s how he felt. Ella was acting all wrong. He watched the clock as a full minute ticked by. Then he heard the distinct ding of the elevator.

He jumped up and ran out of his office to the reception area beyond, checking the surveillance monitors. He caught a glimpse of Ella’s coat as the elevator doors slid shut behind her.

Planting his palms on the desk, he watched the downstairs lobby on the monitor. The elevator opened and Ella ran for the exit as if she was being chased. Roman frowned as he watched her hurry along slippery stairs to the sidewalk and the waiting cab at the curb. He didn’t know what Ella was running from, but he wasn’t about to let her run alone. He’d done that years ago and he’d never forgiven himself.

* * *

Ella’s hands trembled in her lap. It had happened again. The sudden bout of confusion. One moment she was sitting across from Roman having a conversation and the next she was overcome by confusion, her mind racing with questions. Why was she with Roman? What were they even talking about?

Like she’d done at Graceway each day, she’d excused herself to the bathroom. There, she would calm the rising panic, try to ascertain reality, and then get back to whatever she’d been doing.

But on the way to the restroom tonight, panic had risen like a pot boiling over. She knew it was happening but couldn’t head it off. She wasn’t thinking about Roman or the silver car or why exactly she was running. She just ran.

Ella peered through the back window. It was too dark to differentiate car colors. If she was being followed, she’d never know it. Her mind raced in time with her heart, her head throbbing from exertion.

She pulled Roman’s business card from her purse, texting him a lame excuse and promising to call in the morning. Then she shut down the phone. He’d try to call her, and she couldn’t handle that just yet.

What if she was going crazy?

She’d read about things like this. One day you’re perfectly normal and the next you’re caught up in some sort of mysterious psychosis.

But, no. The confusion had been getting better, just like the doctors said it would. As soon as the taxi had pulled away from Shield, Ella had been struck with total clarity on what she’d just run from: Roman and her plea for him to help her. In the past weeks, it had often taken her a couple of hours to regain clarity over what she’d been doing before the lapse.

The taxi slowed around the corner and pulled up in front of her mom’s tired 1940s home. She’d had the Cape-Cod-style house repainted in recent years, a deep grayish blue she’d said was peaceful. Tonight, it looked dull and foreboding. Even the gentle glow of the streetlamps and porch light didn’t brighten up the home. Guilt reared up as Ella paid the driver and stepped out into the frigid night. Mom’s garden beds along the porch were untidy and the big maple needed a trim before a storm came and knocked it onto the house.

She fished out her keys and unlocked the front door, casting a quick glance behind her as the taxi pulled away. The street was dark and empty, no lurking silver Camry anywhere in sight. Still, fear clawed at the edge of her mind. Paranoia, she reminded herself. She stepped inside quickly, shut the door and locked up.

She set her purse on the console table near the front door, then unzipped her boots and hung her coat and hat in the tidy foyer closet. Turning on lights as she walked toward the living room, she leaned over the couch and patted Isaac’s soft head.

“Hey, bud,” she said to her mom’s dog, sidling past the couch to grab the television remote. Isaac looked up from the living room couch, but didn’t actually move a single limb in greeting. His peaceful quiet put Ella at ease, warmth rushing over her as the comforting sounds from the television filled the room. She hated the silence in the house, but as long as Isaac was content on the couch, she could be sure she was alone. He was a funny old guy, about the size of a basketball and almost as round. He was also perpetually silent, unless he met a stranger. She flipped on the news and set the remote on the coffee table. Her gaze passed over the book an acquaintance at church had brought her and she rolled her eyes.

The Prodigal Son Returns wasn’t Ella’s choice reading material. She figured there was a hint somewhere in the gift—a quiet reminder that Ella had been gone too long when her mom had needed her most. Shoving the guilt aside, she moved into the kitchen.

She plunked her keys down on the gray-blue Corian countertop and opened the small cabinet next to the fridge. It was packed with a hodgepodge of cooking spices, along with a stockpile of her mom’s medications. Ella grabbed a bottle of aspirin, her gaze catching on the sleep meds she’d quit cold turkey as soon as she’d been released from the hospital. She’d been taking the pills regularly for years, and she was convinced their effectiveness was one of the reasons she hadn’t woken to the intruder the night she’d been shot. She pressed the cabinet shut, frustrated. She wouldn’t get much sleep tonight. Again. But she’d rather be sleep-deprived than dead. She opened the fridge and peered inside.

She was down to the last bottle of iced tea. She’d have to hit the store tomorrow. Her hand closed around the bottle just as a swish of movement whispered behind her.

Ella gasped as an arm snaked around her middle, dragging her back from the fridge, her feet falling out from under her. She screamed, the iced tea crashing to the floor, her hands prying at the strong arm subduing her.

A sharp sting lanced her upper arm and this time her scream was soundless as she desperately tried to twist away. She registered everything in slow motion, it seemed. A syringe in her periphery, held by a black-gloved hand. Isaac whining at her feet, his tiny claws clicking on the tiled floor as he followed the scene. Futilely, she tugged at the arm dragging her across the kitchen. But her limbs felt loose, her strength ebbing.