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FIFTY-FOUR
AMETHYST
Squeals pierce the air. I turn around to find Myra emerging from around the corner, her eyes rounding with surprise. Her red hair is piled atop her head in a messy bun with tendrils framing her heart-shaped face.
“Amy,” she says, her voice catching. She’s wearing a black tank top and a matching pair of capri pants with a leather jacket slung over her shoulder.
Shock barrels through my system. My heart pounds so hard that every molecule in my body thrums. The only tie to my normal life is standing in this surreal environment.
I glance over my shoulder to where Xero withdraws to the house through a set of patio doors, and my throat tightens for the few heartbeats it takes for me to realize that I’ve become addicted to his presence. Him, not just the hallucination that kept me company at the asylum.
Myra rushes forward with her arms outstretched, her features mirroring my disbelief. I rise off the bench, still wobbly from being bedridden. Just as I’m about to collapse, she scoops me up in her arms and hugs me tight.
“Amy,” she sobs. “Your mom was on the news. And your uncle. I’m so sorry. Shit. What happened to you? They said you were taken. I was so scared.”
I stare straight ahead, watching Camila approach. She offers me an apologetic smile and winces. This is the first time I’ve seen her since the episode by the gate, and I suspect she knows what I’ve suffered. Everyone in the house has given me space. They all treat me well—kindly, with respect. But when someone throws their arms around me, oblivious or indifferent to my wounded state, my eyes well with tears.
Myra continues to pepper me with questions until I’m swaying on my feet. She draws back, her eyes widening.
“Are you okay? You look like you’re about to drop.”
I offer her a wan smile. “Just a bit weak.”
Features softening, she lowers me to the bench, holding me snug around the waist. Myra has seen me through most of my life’s struggles—she was there before and after I killed Mr. Lawson and kept in contact after I got expelled.
When Mom pulled me out of college after the incident with the Reed brothers—which I still can’t remember—Myra was one of the first people to visit me at Parisii Drive. I was sleepwalking through a cocktail of powerful prescription drugs, but she was enthusiastic enough about my new home for both of us.
“What happened?” she asks. “All I know is what I picked up from TV and social media. There’s all kinds of theories flying around, but Camila and Jynxson said they were all bullshit.”
“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me,” I say, my voice flat.
She grimaces. “Ugh… When I think back about how many times I tried to talk sense into you?—”
“Don’t.” I squeeze her hand. “You didn’t know what was happening. All those other times I was paranoid or hallucinating, it was you who kept me grounded.”
Tears stream down her cheeks, and she pulls me into another hug. “I’m so sorry.”
I lean into her embrace, my eyes fluttering shut. Somewhere on the edge of my consciousness, Camila’s footsteps retreat into the house.
Myra is being too hard on herself. Everything that happened since the day of Xero’s execution has been so surreal that even I questioned myself. She’s been nothing but supportive.
“Don’t apologize,” I murmur. “You’re here for me, which is all that counts.”
She draws back, her eyes red-rimmed. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I didn’t kill my mom,” I blurt.
“Of course you didn’t,” she replies, her brow creasing. In a much lower voice, she asks, “Was it him?”
I shake my head. “You remember how I don’t have any memories from before the age of ten?”
Nodding, her breath deepens, her gaze fixed on mine. I swallow hard, trying to muster up the right words to explain truths I’m still struggling to believe.
“I have a twin sister.” Pausing, I wait for her to protest, but she continues to stare, her eyes widening. “I don’t remember anything yet, but she remembers me. At some point before I went to Tourgis Academy, I was in a car crash and ended up in an asylum. They subjected me to a bunch of treatments that wiped my memories.”
She claps a hand over her mouth. “That polaroid was you?”
I nod, my throat thickening.
