8. Sandrine
Sandrine
Everything bends sideways.
“What?” I back up until I trip and my ass hits the poured concrete floor. “No. No, that’s not possible.”
Someone would have told me. Someone would have called him after my accident.
For a moment, I just sit there on the floor, my breath shallow, my mind scrambling to catch up to a reality that makes no sense. God, is this a dream? No, this would be a nightmare.
I open my mouth to argue again, but the man holds out his hand to the guard. “Keys.”
The guard immediately passes them over.
The man turns back toward me, his face unreadable in the dim light of the cell. For one insane second, I think he’s changing his mind. Letting me go. I get to my feet to run after him.
Instead, he catches my wrist. I flinch automatically, but his grip tightens just enough to still me.
“You’re not wearing these in here,” he says.
The key slides into the handcuffs with a sharp click. One side falls away, then the other, the metal dropping heavily against the concrete floor.
Relief rushes through my aching wrists so suddenly it almost hurts. Red marks show up on my skin. His gaze flicks to my hands, but he’s all cold edges and dark control seconds later.
“Get some sleep, dorogaya,” he says with no emotion. “Tomorrow will be easier if you stop fighting me.”
He leaves the cell without another word, his massive form now standing in the shadowy corridor. The cell door, made up of bars, closes with a metallic slam that reverberates through my chest.
The man steps away, his head down. The sound of his footsteps fades into the underground silence. I rub my sore wrists as panic crawls slowly up my spine.
I grip the bars hard enough to rattle them. But nothing happens. There’s no give. There’s no weakness. Glancing down, I see the tremor in my hands is back. I’m surprised everything hasn’t completely shut down. I feel like my disability is challenging me, and I’m winning this time.
I’m holding on.
Turning slowly, I take in the cell. There’s a narrow cot with a pillow and two folded blankets. Even the metal toilet bolted to the cinderblocks next to a tiny sink has a bit of a sparkle.
I wrap my arms around myself and grapple with what he told me.
He’s my husband. I’m his wife. He’s been looking for me for five years.
God, this is nuts.
Footsteps approach again, softer this time. A pleasant scent of perfume cuts through the damp concrete smell of this subterranean hell.
A woman appears beyond the bars. She’s beautiful. Composed. A gracefulness that seems effortless. Her dark hair is pulled back from her face and falls down her back in glossy waves. Her posture is straight and assured. And her eyes…
That same cobalt blue.
“Hello, Sandrine,” she says gently. “It’s me, Ksenia. Welcome home.”
Hearing someone else call me that name again hits me like a blow. I rush forward, gripping the bars.
“Please,” I say, my voice breaking despite my effort to keep it steady. “Please, there’s been a mistake. I’m not Sandrine. My name is Jessica. Jessica Parker.”
“Why are you doing this?” Her brows knit together. “You were happily married. We loved you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I cry out.
She studies me for a long moment, confusion on her face the same as…
“I told that man—”
“That man is your husband. My brother.”
“I told your brother this, and I will tell you the same thing.” I rush my words in a desperate garble. “My sister is married to Ares Zervas. He runs the Greek Mafia in New York. He...he’ll come for me. He’ll pay you for me.”
“We don’t want his or anyone else’s money, Sandrine. We want you,” she says calmly. “Ares knows who you really are.”
The man said the same thing, but I thought he was lying.
“And Ares knows you belong to Kirill.”
Kirill. That name makes my brain twitch and my breathing go offline.
“No.” I shake my head, backing away. “You’re lying.”
Sighing, she looks me over, frowning at my shorts and flip-flops. “Are you hungry?” she asks.
The question throws me completely. “What?”
“I’m going to bring you a tray of food,” she continues, as if we’re done discussing why I’m here in a cell. “When you’re ready to talk, you let us know.”
She turns and walks away, but another flash cracks behind my eyes.
Soft hands in my hair. Careful. Gentle. A tender moment.
And then, it’s gone.
I press my palms to my temples while I pace, fighting the rising tide of panic threatening to pull me under. I will not lose control. I can’t. I sit on the floor again and meditate to calm down. The way therapists taught me to deal with stress.
Other amnesia patients in Lakeshore Neurological had heart attacks after learning truths they didn’t want to hear.
But loved ones told them. Like Lourdes told me stories.
Ares knows who you really are.
Everyone’s got to be lying. I don’t know who these people are!
Ksenia appears in front of the bars a few minutes later, or maybe it’s longer. Holding a tray in her hands, she hisses something to a guard. The man steps forward to open a small slot in the bars and pulls out a narrow shelf.
When she slides the tray forward, the smell hits me immediately. It’s rich and buttery.
My stomach tightens. “What is this?” I ask, warily.
“Your favorite,” she says.
Favorite. The word feels foreign. I don’t have any favorites. Not really. I have no memory of anything being a favorite. After the fall, my life has been delivered in measured and controlled doses of what others thought was best for me.
But I had nineteen years before that. Nineteen years of something.
What if— What if they’re telling the truth? Why else would they go through all this?
I stare down at the tray, my hands trembling as I peel back the foil. Macaroni and cheese. My mouth waters before I can stop it. I pick up the fork, hesitating for only a second before scooping out a bite and bringing it to my lips. The flavor explodes across my tongue. Warm. Creamy.
“Ouch,” I gasp suddenly, nearly dropping the bowl.
Pain sparks along my finger. I stare down at it and see a small scar I never noticed before. It runs along the side. It’s faint but unmistakable.
Another memory hits me. A grater. A block of cheese. Then a cut on my finger. My breath catches, and it’s gone.
What is happening to me?
I look down at the bowl again, suspicion clouding my thoughts. Is this food drugged? Is this some kind of trick? But my body doesn’t care. I keep eating, faster now, chasing the feeling, searching for another memory sitting just out of reach. Until the food is gone. Until the bowl is empty.
I look up.
The guard is still there, watching me. “Yes, Mrs. Volkov?” he asks.
The name tightens my chest. I don’t understand it, but it feels warm to be called that. Or it could be the food?
I set the bowl back on the tray, sliding it forward with hands that still tremble. “Can I have more?”