Page 91 of Molt

I close my eyes. Another memory answers.

Fuck.

“No.” The lie comes automatically.

Lenora sees it. “August.”

“Don’t.”

“You did.”

“I don’t know.”

“You just remembered.”

“I said I don’t know.”

“Look at me.”

I can’t.

“August.”

She steps closer. “Look at me.”

I do.

Her eyes are wet. “So show me.”

“What?”

“The memory.”

“No.”

“You said touching can trigger them.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know what it will do to you.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.”

“Then tell me the truth.”

I can’t.

So Lenora grabs my face and the memory takes us both.

1967.

A bathroom. Bright yellow tile. Lenora is called June. Red hair. Freckles. Twenty-seven years old. She’s sitting inside a bathtub. Fully clothed as blood pinkens the water. Not much but enough.

I kneel beside her.