Repeat - Kylie Scott Page 0,1

happened. It probably comes with the job.

At thirty, Frances is five years older than me. We have the same strawberry-blond hair and blue eyes, small breasts and child-birthing hips. Her words, not mine, and I told her it was a shitty descriptor. But given my current condition, there’s something to be said for relying on others’ descriptions.

Anyway, my sister and I look alike. I’ve seen this in various photos and in the mirror, so it’s a definite.

“Hey, Clem.” Nurse Mike sticks his head around the doorway. “Everything’s sorted; you’re good to go. Any last-minute questions or anything?”

I shake my head.

“Call Doctor Patel’s office if you have any problems, okay?”

“Yes.”

“Keep in touch, kid. Let me know how things go.”

“Okay.”

Mike disappears.

“Did you want to bring the flowers?” asks my sister.

I shake my head. This is it. Time to go. Frances just stands by the door, waiting.

My first memory is of waking up in this hospital, but really, I was born late at night on an inner-city street. A couple found me unconscious and bleeding on the sidewalk. No identification. Handbag and wallet missing. And the weapon, a blood-splattered empty bottle of scotch, lay abandoned nearby. Walter, half of the pair who found me, gets teary every time he describes that night. But Jack, his partner, did two tours in ’Nam and has seen far worse. They’re the first ones who brought me flowers. Not that I got many. My friends are few.

Previous me had, apparently, gone out to dinner alone. Her last meal consisted of cheese and spinach ravioli in a pumpkin sauce with a bottle of Peroni. (Detective Chen said it’s a yeasty Italian beer that goes well with pasta. It sounds nice. I might try it sometime.) From there, security cameras have her withdrawing a hundred and fifty dollars before walking off into the night. There were no cameras on the quiet side street where she’d parked the car. No one around apart from the attacker.

That’s how Clementine Johns died.

Out in the hallway, there’s a mix of patients, visitors, and medical staff. Same as always for midmorning. I wipe my sweaty palms on the sides of my pants. It’s nice to be wearing actual clothes. Black sandals, blue jeans, and a white T-shirt. Nothing too exciting; nothing that would make me stand out. I want to blend in, watch and learn. Because if we’re the sum of our experiences, then I’m nothing and no one.

Frances watches me out of the corner of her eye, but doesn’t say anything. Something she does a lot. I’d say her silence makes me paranoid, but I’m already paranoid.

“Sure you’re all right?” she asks while we wait for the elevator.

“Yes.”

The elevator arrives and we step inside. When it starts to move, my nervous stomach swoops and drops. Through the crowded lobby we go, then out into the sunshine. Blue summer sky, a couple of green trees, and lots of gray concrete. Nearby traffic, people, and lots of movement. A light breeze ruffles my hair.

The lights on a nearby white sedan flash once and Frances opens the trunk for me to deposit my small suitcase. Anxiety turns into excitement, and I can’t keep the smile off my face. I’ve seen them on TV, but I’ve never actually been in a car since that night.

Now . . .

“Amnesia,” he mutters for about the hundredth time. Usually, ‘fuck’, ‘shit’, or some blasphemy follows that statement. This time, however, there’s nothing. Maybe he’s finally getting used to the idea.

I sit on the opposite side of the booth, inspecting the cocktail menu. It’s as gross and sticky as the table.

“Can I get you guys something else?” asks the waiter with a practiced smile.

“I’ll have a piña colada.”

“You hate coconut,” Ed Larsen informs me, slumped back in his seat.

“Oh.”

“Try a margarita.”

“What he said,” I tell the waiter, who presumably thinks we have some kinky dom-sub thing going on.

Ed orders another lite beer, watching me the entire time. I don’t know if his blatant examination is better or worse than my sister’s furtive looks. He’d suggested going back to his place to talk. I declined. I don’t know the guy, and it didn’t feel safe. So instead we came here. The bar is dark and mostly empty, given it’s the middle of the afternoon, but at least it’s public.

“How old are you?” I ask.

In response, he pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and passes me his driver’s license.

“Thank you.” Information is good. More definites. “You’re seven years older than me.”

“Yeah.”

“How