I was still piecing it together when Dr. Thao arrived, and spent most of the appointment turning events over in my mind. The doctor was thorough, asking me how I’d injured my shoulder, and when I said I’d fallen off a bike, twice, two weeks apart, she arched an eyebrow. I was glad the bruises around my neck had faded.
My shoulder wasn’t broken, thank God, or dislocated, but apparently, I’d pulled a muscle pretty badly, and I was under firm orders to be gentle with it for the next few weeks. No more imaginary bike rides for me.
Holden would be relieved, which meant I was relieved too. I hadn’t wanted him to add yet another item to the list of things he felt guilty about. I didn’t know the contents of most of that list, but I had a feeling they were numerous.
After Dr. Thao left, I thought about going to find Holden, but remembered the way he’d stormed off and decided to give him some more space. Maybe he’d cool off and come find me, even. That felt rather optimistic, but a guy could hope, right?
I tried to read, but couldn’t make myself focus on the words in front of me. All I could do was think about what I’d heard that evening, and what it might mean.
Holden never wanted to talk about himself. I knew that. It had always been clear he had some kind of past he wanted to keep secret. And it was no shock to hear someone else refer to him as a recluse. He’d admitted as much himself.
But everything else…
Holden’s name might not even be Holden, for one thing. What had the guy called him? Eric? I couldn’t think of why Holden would lie about his name, but he’d definitely been upset when the guy had called him Eric.
And fans. The guy kept talking about Holden’s fans. Which meant he had to be famous in some way.
Holden had mentioned living in California. The obvious conclusion was Hollywood. I mean, sure, he could just be a famous golfer or deep-sea fisherman, but somehow I doubted deep-sea fishing inspired the kinds of fans who would concoct an elaborate cover story just to come to your house and try to record a video of you.
No, it only made sense if Holden were some kind of movie star or something. Maybe Holden was his real name, and Eric was just a stage name? I tried to remember the last name he’d given me when I’d asked, my first day at Edgecliffe. Amundsen, wasn’t it? Holden, or Eric, Amundsen?
Well, whatever his name, he’d apparently been hiding in Maine for the past seven years from…something. The guy had mentioned a death. Something about all of this pricked at the back of my consciousness. Like the memory was there, but I was trying to read it upside down and backwards.
The question was, did I pursue it further? The internet was right there, and I was sure I had enough information now to find something when I searched for once.
But Holden had said he didn’t want to talk about it. Which suggested he didn’t want me to know.
I burned with curiosity. If I couldn’t figure out who I was, I could at least learn Holden’s deal. But if Holden had wanted me to know, he would have told me. And I owed Holden—well, everything, at this point.
With a sigh, I stood up and walked to the library windows, staring out at the ocean below. Or rather, staring out at where the ocean would have been, if it were light enough to see. Right now, everything was a uniform, inky black, except for the silhouette of tree branches creeping along the glass.
I turned my back to the window and regarded the books. True to his word, Holden had ordered a set of six bookcases, fully assembled, express delivery, and they’d arrived yesterday. I’d only just begun to fill them, and we’d need way more if I were going to get the whole collection organized. But it was a start.
I was going to miss it here when I had to leave.
Unless you could stay, whispered a small voice. Not even coming from the back of my mind. Coming from my heart, this time. What if you could stay?
I wasn’t kidding when I’d told Holden I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what had happened to me anymore. The nightmares weren’t fun. I made it up to the deck of