Chapter 8
The Murder She Forgot
The room was small and white and empty.
I stood in the doorway, my hand still on the brass handle, my eyes adjusting to the fluorescent light that buzzed overhead.
The woman on the other side—the one who'd been smiling—was gone.
Or maybe she'd never been there. Maybe I'd imagined her, the way I'd imagined the blonde in the diner, the way I'd imagined the shadow following me through the streets.
Rue.
Where was Rue?
I turned, and the hallway was empty. The darkness had swallowed her, or she'd never been there at all, or I'd dreamed the whole thing—the bar, the conversation, the walk through the abandoned building.
The chair.
The bolts.
The scratches in the metal.
Had any of it been real?
I couldn't remember.
I couldn't remember anything.
The memory started later.
Or maybe it started now. Or maybe time had stopped working the way it was supposed to, and I was living in fragments, moments that didn't connect, a story with missing pages.
I was standing over a body.
Rue's body.
Or maybe not Rue's. The face was wrong. Too pale. Too still. The eyes were open, but they weren't looking at anything.
Was she dead?
Yes.
I knew she was dead.
I didn't know how I knew.
My hands were around her throat.
Or maybe the knife was in my hand.
Or maybe both.
The weapon kept changing. Kept shifting. Every time I looked down, it was something different. A knife. A rope. My bare hands, fingers pressed into the soft hollow of her throat.
"Rue?"
No answer.
"Rue, can you hear me?"
No answer.
There would never be an answer.
She was dead.
And I had killed her.
I don't remember deciding.
I don't remember my hands finding her throat. I don't remember the knife sliding between her ribs. I don't remember the moment when she stopped being alive and started being a body.
The last thing I remembered was Rue leading me through the hallway. Her voice, soft and sure. Her hand, reaching for mine.
"Come with me. Let me take you somewhere safe."
And then—
Nothing.
A gap.
A wound in the fabric of my memory.
And now she was dead, and I was standing over her, and my hands were covered in blood, and I didn't know how any of it had happened.
The face kept shifting.
One moment, it was Rue—blonde, hollow-eyed, the woman who'd said she knew Gabriel.
The next, it was someone else. The blonde from my dreams. Batch 39. The girl who wasn't there.
The next, it was me.
I was looking down at my own face.
Pale. Still. Eyes open, but not looking at anything.
I blinked, and it was Rue again.
Or maybe it had always been Rue.
Or maybe I'd killed myself, and this was hell, and I would spend eternity standing over my own body, trying to remember how it had ended.
"Rue?"
My voice was small. Broken. The voice of someone who'd stopped hoping for anything.
"Rue, please. Wake up. Please."
She didn't wake up.
She would never wake up.
She was dead.
And I had killed her.
The blood was warm.
I looked down at my hands, and they were red. Red and wet and dripping onto the floor, onto my jeans, onto the white tile that wasn't white anymore.
Whose blood?
Rue's.
Or mine.
Or someone else's entirely.
I couldn't remember.
I couldn't remember anything.
"Please."
The word came out as a sob. I was crying—or maybe I'd been crying for a while, and I'd only just noticed. Tears were streaming down my face, hot and salt and endless, and I couldn't make them stop.
"Please, someone help."
My voice echoed off the walls, bouncing back at me, distorted and strange.
"She's dead—someone killed her—I don't know who—"
I didn't know.
I didn't remember.
The last thing I remembered was Rue leading me into the building. Her voice, soft and sure. Her hand, reaching for mine.
And then—
Nothing.
"Please."
I was screaming now. Or thought I was screaming. The sound was loud in my ears, but I couldn't tell if it was real or if I was imagining it.
"Please, someone help! She's dead! Someone killed her!"
No one came.
There was no one to come.
The building was empty. The hallway was empty. The room was empty except for me and the body and the blood that was already starting to dry on my hands.
"I didn't mean to."
The words came out without permission. Pleading. Begging. The words of someone who needed to believe something so badly that she'd convinced herself it was true.
"I didn't mean to kill her. I don't remember killing her. I wouldn't—I couldn't—"
But I had.
I must have.
My hands were around her throat.
Or the knife was in my hand.
Or both.
I had killed her, and I didn't remember, and not remembering was worse than remembering because it meant I could do it again. I could kill someone else and forget that too. I could wake up tomorrow with blood on my hands and no memory of how it got there, and I would never know who I'd become.
"Please."
I was on my knees now. I didn't remember falling. The floor was cold and hard and stained with blood, and I was kneeling in it, my hands pressed to my face, my sobs echoing off the walls.
"Please, someone help me. I don't know what happened. I don't remember. I don't—"
The words dissolved into crying.
I couldn't stop.
I couldn't breathe.
I couldn't think.
The only thing I knew was that Rue was dead, and I had killed her, and I didn't remember any of it.
The body.
I looked at it again.
Rue's face was peaceful. Almost peaceful. The hollow eyes were closed now—had I closed them? I didn't remember—and her mouth was soft, almost smiling.
She looked like she was sleeping.
She looked like she was dreaming.
She looked like the girl who wasn't there.
Batch 39.
The blonde from my dreams.
The woman who'd said Gabriel was dead.
"He's dead."
Her voice, echoing.
"He died in a fire."
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
Had she been lying?
Or had she been telling the truth?
I would never know.
She was dead, and I had killed her, and the truth had died with her.
I don't know how long I knelt there.
Minutes.
Hours.
Time had stopped meaning anything.
The blood was drying on my hands. The tears were drying on my face. The body was cooling on the floor, and I was kneeling beside it, and I couldn't remember why I'd come here or what I'd been looking for or who I'd been before any of this started.
"Gabriel."
The name came out as a whisper.
"Gabriel, where are you?"
No answer.
There was never an answer.
"I killed someone, Gabriel. I killed her, and I don't remember doing it. I don't remember anything. I don't know who I am anymore."
"I don't know if I'm real."
"I don't know if any of this is real."
"Please."
"Please come back."
"Please tell me what to do."
I was alone.
I had always been alone.
And I had killed someone, and I didn't remember, and I would never know why.
I stood up.
My legs were shaking. My hands were shaking. Everything was shaking, and I couldn't make it stop.
The body.
Rue.
Dead.
I had killed her.
I didn't remember.
But I had killed her.
"I'm sorry."
The words came out as a whisper.
"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. I don't remember. I wouldn't—"
I couldn't finish.
The words wouldn't come.
There were no words for what I'd done.
There were no words for what I was becoming.
I ran.
The hallway stretched before me, dark and endless, and I ran through it without looking back. My boots slapped against the concrete. My breath came in ragged gasps. The blood on my hands was drying, cracking, flaking off in red-brown pieces that scattered behind me like breadcrumbs.
The door.
I pushed through it.
The street.
Dark.
Empty.
The city was asleep, and I was running through it, covered in blood, sobbing, screaming for help that would never come.
"Please!"
My voice echoed off the buildings.
"Someone help me! She's dead! I don't know who killed her!"
No one answered.
No one came.
The streets were empty, and I was alone, and I had killed someone, and I didn't remember, and I would never know why.
I ran.
I didn't know where I was going.
I didn't know where I'd been.
I just knew that I couldn't stop, because if I stopped, I would have to face what I'd done, and I wasn't ready.
I would never be ready.
The blood was drying on my hands.
The tears were drying on my face.
The city stretched ahead, indifferent and eternal, and I ran toward nothing, toward no one, toward the end of a story I'd stopped understanding chapters ago.
"Gabriel."
The name was a prayer.
"Gabriel, please."
"Please come back."
"Please tell me what to do."
No answer.
There was never an answer.
There would never be an answer.
I was alone.
I had always been alone.
And I had killed someone, and I didn't remember, and the only thing I knew for certain was that I would do it again.
Because that was what I'd been made for.
That was what I'd become.
A weapon.
A hunter.
A woman who woke up with blood on her hands and no memory of how it got there.
"Daddy."
The word was barely a breath.
"Daddy, where are you?"
I ran.
The darkness swallowed me.
And behind me, in a room I would never find again, Rue's body cooled on the floor, and the truth died with her.