Bruises

The woods were cold, but the adrenaline burned hot. Claire ran until her lungs seized, the branches whipping her face like angry fingers. She didn't stop until she reached the main road, where the streetlights offered a thin, sickly safety.

She walked the remaining miles back to the Carriage House in the rain, soaked through, her shoes ruined. Every car that passed sent a jolt of terror through her, but none of them slowed down. None of them were black vans.

When she finally reached the property, it was quiet. The van was gone. The lights in the main house were dark.

She slipped into the Carriage House, shivering violently. She didn't turn on the lights. She moved by memory, stripping off her wet clothes in the mudroom and pulling on a dry robe from the laundry basket.

She crept into the bedroom.

David was there.

He was sitting up in bed, the lamp on the nightstand casting long shadows across his face. He looked exhausted, his eyes red-rimmed and wary.

"Where were you?" he asked. His voice was flat, devoid of the anger she had expected. It was something worse. Disappointment.

"I went for a run," Claire said. The lie tasted like copper in her mouth. She stood in the doorway, hugging the robe around herself, trying to hide the tremors that had nothing to do with the cold.

"In the rain?" David asked. "At two in the morning?"

"I couldn't sleep. I needed to clear my head."

She walked toward the bathroom, desperate to wash the attic dust and fear from her skin. But David stood up, blocking her path.

He reached out and touched her arm. Not gently. He turned her toward the light.

"What happened to your arm, Claire?"

She looked down. A massive, purple bruise was blooming on her forearm, the result of her collision with the wine rack. There were scratches on her wrists from the crawlspace, and a smear of soot on her cheek.

"I fell," she said, pulling away. "It's slippery out there."

"You fell," David repeated. He looked at her, really looked at her, as if she were a stranger he had just met. "Just like you fell last week? Just like you lost the car keys? Just like you imagined the death certificate?"

"I didn't imagine it, David!" Claire snapped, her exhaustion fraying her control. "I held it in my hand. I saw the date. November 14, 1992."

"Dad told me about the letter," David said. "The Cease and Desist. He said you've been harassing the staff. Digging through private files."

"I was looking for the truth about your mother!"

"My mother is dead!" David shouted. "We buried her last week! And instead of grieving with me, instead of supporting your husband, you're running around in the middle of the night, inventing conspiracies because you can't handle the stress of the audit."

He walked to the window, staring out at the dark silhouette of the main house.

"Dad says you need help, Claire. Professional help. He's arranged for you to see someone. Dr. Thorne."

Claire went cold. Dr. Elias Thorne. Marcus's brother. The man who had "treated" Lena Kovac. The man who had erased a woman's mind.

"I'm not going to see him," Claire whispered. "He's part of it."

"Part of what?" David spun around. "Part of the imaginary plot to steal my childhood? Part of the secret murder in Ohio? Do you hear yourself?"

He walked back to the bed and sat down, putting his head in his hands.

"I defended you," he said, his voice muffled. "When Dad said you were unstable, I told him he was wrong. I told him you were just tired. But look at you, Claire. You're bleeding. You're lying. You're sneaking out in the middle of the night."

He looked up at her, his eyes wet.

"You're lying to me, Claire. Just like everyone else."