“Mr. Bennett?” The receptionist who’d greeted me when I’d arrived stood in front of me, his arm outstretched, a phone clutched between his fingers. “I have a call for you.”

“Hello?” I said after he’d gone back behind his desk.

“It’s me,” Maya said. “How much longer will you be?”

“Not long, I think they’re almost done. Why?”

“Just wondering. I want to get going.”

After reassuring her I’d be there as soon as possible, I hung up and returned the phone to the receptionist. I tried to concentrate on the magazine again but felt a growing sense of unease as I thought about traveling to Brookmount. Would I recognize any of my things in the storage locker? Would a particular item help me remember anything? More importantly, what would the cops say when I walked into the station, very much alive? And what would I do if I saw Lily?

She was right; her lying about her name wasn’t the issue, I couldn’t be angry about that, or about her hiding a prior conviction. But stealing? Drugging me? I still couldn’t get my head around that last one. Why the hell had she wanted to keep my mind fuzzy? It didn’t make sense. Maybe she’d taken the pills herself, it was entirely possible, but then why not say so? Whatever her reasons, our relationship, both past and future, was over.

Lily and the trip to Brookmount weren’t the only things on my mind. Maya’s revelations about my fake alibi sat heavily in my stomach and I’d meant what I’d said—I couldn’t stay in Newdale with this knowledge. The place was slowly squeezing me dry, I had no future here. I’d broach the subject about selling the house with Maya again. It would make things easier for her, too. The place was heavy on old memories and upkeep, and her living there alone made little sense. She’d take some convincing to get rid of the house, and it wasn’t a conversation I relished, but I needed to get away. Find a job somewhere, move on with my life somehow, and not live with my sister. I needed to put some distance between me and her, too.

Something made me tune into the conversation the receptionist was having with a woman who’d just walked in. She was nodding furiously, leaning forward on the counter, her voice breathless. “It’s true,” she said, sounding as if she was proud to be the first one sharing some gossip. “They think it happened yesterday. He’d had a few drinks, and was working under his car when the scissor jack gave way...”

“Keenan’s dead?” the receptionist said, and the woman nodded. “That’s nuts. I saw him, what, three days ago? Came in for some parts to fix his car.”