Hope shrugged. “Not a lie so much as an omission. And she never would have known, and it wouldn’t have mattered as long as he didn’t screw around on her, too. That saying, ‘Ignorance is bliss’? It exists for a reason.”

How many times had Hope steeled herself to tell Lindsay the truth? But she always found a reason to wait until another day. And after weeks and months and then years passed, she convinced herself that leaving Lindsay in the dark was the only way to spare her from having to protect Hope’s secret.

“I hear a slight edge in your voice when you talk about Lindsay and Scott. To suggest someone might be ‘blissfully ignorant’ is not exactly a compliment.”

Melissa might be too insightful a therapist for her intended role, as it turned out. After all, Hope wasn’t here for true introspection. Maybe a man would have been a better pick—someone who would have hung on every word, eager to help the beautiful amnesiac with the tragic past regain her memory.

“Look, I don’t fault Lindsay. It’s just that she treats me like I’m so naive and in need of protection, but she’s actually the one who’s too trusting. If anything, I’m kind of envious. I was never given that luxury. I believe her when she says losing her mother scarred her, but she had Jimmy. And Miriam. And an entire town who thinks she walks on water. I had . . . well, Tara King’s life.” A screwed-up childhood, a screwed-up mother, and a sorta screwed-up boyfriend who accidentally killed a man and then let Hope think she did it. No ignorance, no bliss.

“Well, and that was the biggest breakthrough on Monday. You said you’re starting to remember things from Tara’s past. Your past. Has that continued?”

Hope put on her most enthusiastic smile. “Yes, it’s the strangest feeling. I can’t describe it, but it’s like there’s a dam or a wall of some kind in my mind, and these little cracks are starting to form. Does that make sense? I was chopping an onion last night and had this sudden image of my mother getting so mad, she threw a knife down on the counter and it ricocheted and sliced open my ankle. That one flash of a moment opened up all these other details. I remember her pressing the wound with this filthy dish towel—it was yellow with little pink elephants on it—cradling me on the ground, rocking me like a baby, saying she didn’t mean to do it. And all I could think was, But you do it all the time. You hurt me  . . . all . . . of . . . the time.”

“That’s a very specific recollection.”