Page 85 of Thin Lives

But at that moment, he had to work on fixing other things first.

Fixing—killing.

What difference did it make?

It was the only option he had, considering what had just happened to him. If Affonso felt comfortable in coming after Calisto, would Emma be next?

His breaths came out a little more painful at the thought alone.

Calisto wasn’t sure why his uncle had chosen not to punish his wife for her affair, or why he let Calisto live for as long as he had, but it was Affonso’s only mistakes.

He had his memories back now.

He wasn’t about to forget again.

At that very moment, Affonso probably thought he was dead.

But for how long?

Calisto didn’t know where to go first, or even who to go to, so he did what felt right. He grabbed a cab, and headed back to the one place he knew was safe, for the most part. His apartment.

The very moment after he closed the door, he rested his head against the cool metal, and took a few minutes to gather his wits again. The cab driver had taken notice of his odd state, and asked if he wanted to go to the hospital several times.

Over and over, Calisto refused.

A hospital wouldn’t help him right now.

He didn’t need his name going on a damned record.

Pushing away from the door, Calisto shrugged off his bloody jacket, and the dress shirt underneath. He tossed the ruined articles aside, going straight to his bedroom for clean clothes. He was just reaching into his closet for a hanging dress shirt, when his hand froze mid-air, and his heart clenched painfully.

All these months …

He looked around his place, staring blankly at the stuff he’d just overlooked because he couldn’t draw memories to them.

But it was more than the stuff.

It was more than his place.

Calisto yanked the shirt off the hanger, and made a beeline out of his room, toward his office. Once he was behind his desk, his knees hit the floor, and he was reaching for the fucking safe.

The safe he couldn’t remember the passcode for.

The safe that held everything.

His memories. His mother. Her letters. His documents. The faked birth certificate Affonso had forged after Calisto was born.

All of it was inside there.

He didn’t even have to struggle with the code like he had been for months on end. He knew what the digits were now.

The month of his mother’s death.

The month Emma had miscarried.

The month little Affonso had been born and died.

Poignant moments in his life that he had tattooed on his goddamn body. Dates that wouldn’t mean much to an outside person, but reminded Calisto of what it felt like to be alive, and how it felt to lose something important.