The shop sits on a busy street in the cool downtown neighborhood of Portland, Maine. Larsen and Sons Tattoo Parlor is written on the window in elegant script. Inside, music plays, two guys lounge on a green velvet chaise flicking through books. It’s all very clean and neat and awesome looking. And there’s a sound like an

electric drill in the air.

The girl behind the counter stops, mouth gaping when she sees me. She’s pretty and petite with a shaved head.

“Hi,” I say, attempting a smile. “Can I speak to—” “Are you fucking kidding me,” a deep voice booms.

I meet the eyes of a tall man covered in tattoos. Shortish, light brown hair, lean but muscular. He wears jeans and designer sneakers, a T—shirt advertising some band. For sure, he’d be handsome if he wasn’t scowling at me. Actually, strike that. He’s handsome period, irrespec—

tive of his glare. His angular jaw is covered in stubble and it frames perfect lips. Straight nose, high cheekbones. Un— like me, this man is a work of art.

“No, not happening,” he says, striding over. His large hand wraps around my upper arm, grip firm though not cruel. “You don’t get to come back.”

“Don’t touch me.” My words are ignored as he marches me back toward the door. Panic bubbles up in— side and I slap his chest hard. “Hey, buddy. Do. Not. Touch. Me.”

At that, he blinks, a little startled. “Buddy?”

I don’t know what he was expecting, but he lets go. It takes me a full minute to get my breathing back under control. Dammit. Meanwhile, everyone is watching. The girl behind the counter and the two guys waiting on the chaise. The woman with brown skin and big beautiful hair holding a tattoo gun and the older woman she’s working on. We have quite the audience assembled. The man screaming about being back in black over the sound sys— tem is the only noise.

“You need to leave,” he says, voice quieter this time, though no less harsh.

“I have a few questions I need to ask you first.” “No.”

“Did you do this?” I ask, pulling up the sleeve on my T—shirt to display my shoulder. It’s a beautiful piece. A cluster of violets with olive—green stems and leaves. It’s almost like a scientific drawing, but missing the root structure.

His gaze narrows. “Of course I did it.”

“I was your client. Okay.” That’s now a definite. Good. Definites give my world structure and help things make sense. Unknowns just piss me off. “Did I not pay you or something?”

“’the hell are you talking about?” “You’re angry.”

And it’s obvious the moment he sees my brow. The hostility and confusion in his eyes changes to surprise.

I immediately smooth down my bangs, trying to hide.

Stupid to get self—conscious, but I can’t help it.

He gently brushes my hand aside, parting my hair to see. An intimate gesture that sets me on edge. As hands— on as tattooing must be, the way he’s touching me and getting in my space is . . . more. I try to step back, but there’s nowhere to go. Besides, he’s not actually hurting me, just making me nervous. And as much as I abhor be— ing crowded, some part of me doesn’t mind him touching me.

Weird. Maybe I need sex or something. Maybe he’s my type. I don’t know.

Deep lines are embedded in his forehead as he stud— ies me. This is exactly the reason I cut my hair in the first place. The scar starts an inch into my hairline, ending be— low my right eyebrow. It’s wide and jagged, dark pink.

That’s enough. I put a hand to his chest, pushing him back. Happily, he goes. A small step, at least.

“So you know me?” I ask, trying to clarify things. “Like, as more than a customer.”

The man just stares. I don’t know what his expression means. A mix of unhappy and perplexed, maybe? He real—

ly is quite handsome. A new song starts, this time it’s a woman singing.

“Well?”

Finally, he speaks. “What the fuck happened to you?”

A week earlier . . .

“Are you ready?”

I stop kicking my feet and hop down off the hospital bed. “Yeah.”

“Good. The car’s waiting in the drop—off zone and we’ll go straight home. Everything’s organized,” says my sister, a confident smile on her face. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not worried,” I lie.

“Did you want to see the photos of my house again?” “No. It’s fine.”

My sister’s name is Frances

not Fran or Frannie

, and she’s a police officer who lives in North Deering. She blames herself for what happened. It probably comes with the job.

At thirty, Frances is five years older than me. We have the same strawberry—blond hair and blue eyes, small breasts and child—birthing hips. Her words, not mine, and I told her it was a shitty descriptor. But given my current condition, there’s something to be said for relying on oth— ers’ descriptions.

Anyway, my sister and I look alike. I’ve seen this in

various photos and in the mirror, so it’s a definite.

“Hey, Clem.” Nurse Mike sticks his head around the doorway. “Everything’s sorted; you’re good to go. Any last— minute questions or anything?”

I shake my head.

“Call Doctor Patel’s office if you have any problems, okay?”

“Yes.”

“Keep in touch, kid. Let me know how things go.” “Okay.”

Mike disappears.

“Did you want to bring the flowers?” asks my sister.

I shake my head. This is it. Time to go. Frances just stands by the door, waiting.

My first memory is of waking up in this hospital, but really, I was born late at night on an inner—city street. A couple found me unconscious and bleeding on the side— walk. No identification. Handbag and wallet missing. And the weapon, a blood—splattered empty bottle of scotch, lay abandoned nearby. Walter, half of the pair who found me, gets teary every time he describes that night. But Jack, his partner, did two tours in ’Nam and has seen far worse. They’re the first ones who brought me flowers. Not that I got many. My friends are few.

Previous me had, apparently, gone out to dinner alone. Her last meal consisted of cheese and spinach ravi— oli in a pumpkin sauce with a bottle of Peroni.

Detective Chen said it’s a yeasty Italian beer that goes well with pas— ta. It sounds nice. I might try it sometime.

From there, security cameras have her withdrawing a hundred and

fifty dollars before walking off into the night. There were no cameras on the quiet side street where she’d parked the car. No one around apart from the attacker.

That’s how Clementine Johns died.

Out in the hallway, there’s a mix of patients, visitors, and medical staff. Same as always for midmorning. I wipe my sweaty palms on the sides of my pants. It’s nice to be wearing actual clothes. Black sandals, blue jeans, and a white T—shirt. Nothing too exciting; nothing that would make me stand out. I want to blend in, watch and learn. Because if we’re the sum of our experiences, then I’m nothing and no one.

Frances watches me out of the corner of her eye, but doesn’t say anything. Something she does a lot. I’d say her silence makes me paranoid, but I’m already paranoid.

“Sure you’re all right?” she asks while we wait for the elevator.

“Yes.”

The elevator arrives and we step inside. When it starts to move, my nervous stomach swoops and drops. Through the crowded lobby we go, then out into the sun— shine. Blue summer sky, a couple of green trees, and lots of gray concrete. Nearby traffic, people, and lots of movement. A light breeze ruffles my hair.

The lights on a nearby white sedan flash once and Frances opens the trunk for me to deposit my small suit— case. Anxiety turns into excitement, and I can’t keep the smile off my face. I’ve seen them on TV, but I’ve never ac— tually been in a car since that night.

Now . . .

“Amnesia,” he mutters for about the hundredth time. Usually, ‘fuck’, ‘shit’, or some blasphemy follows that statement. This time, however, there’s nothing. Maybe he’s finally getting used to the idea.

I sit on the opposite side of the booth, inspecting the cocktail menu. It’s as gross and sticky as the table.

“Can I get you guys something else?” asks the waiter with a practiced smile.

“I’ll have a piña colada.”

“You hate coconut,” Ed Larsen informs me, slumped back in his seat.

“Oh.”

“Try a margarita.”

“What he said,” I tell the waiter, who presumably thinks we have some kinky dom—sub thing going on.

Ed orders another lite beer, watching me the entire time. I don’t know if his blatant examination is better or worse than my sister’s furtive looks. He’d suggested going back to his place to talk. I declined. I don’t know the guy, and it didn’t feel safe. So instead we came here. The bar is dark and mostly empty, given it’s the middle of the after— noon, but at least it’s public.

“How old are you?” I ask.

In response, he pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and passes me his driver’s license.

“Thank you.” Information is good. More definites. “You’re seven years older than me.”

“Yeah.”

“How serious were we? Did we stay together for long?”

He licks his lips, turns away. “Don’t you have some— one else you can ask about all this? Your sister?”

I just look at him.

He frowns, but then sighs. “We saw each other for about half a year before moving in together. That lasted eight months.”

“Pretty serious.”

“If you say so.” His face isn’t happy. But I need to know.

“Did I cheat on you?”

Now the frown comes with a glare.

Despite his don’t—fuck—with—me vibes, it’s hard not to smile. The man is blessed in the DNA department. He’s so pretty. Masculine pretty. I’m not used to being attracted to people, and he’s giving me a heart—beating—harder, tin— gles—in—the—pants kind of sensation, which is a lot new and a little overwhelming. Makes me want to giggle and flip my hair at him like some vapid idiot.

But I don’t. “It’s just that I’m getting some distinct vibes that somehow I’m the bad guy in all this.”

“No, you didn’t cheat on me,” he growls. “And I didn’t cheat on you either, no matter what you might have thought.”

My brows jump. “Huh. So that’s why we broke up?” “This is fucked. Actually, it was fucked the first time.”

He turns away and finishes the last of his beer. “Jesus.” I just keep quiet, waiting.

“You have no memories, no feelings about me what— soever?”

“No, nothing.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw, his hands sitting fisted on the table.

“It’s called traumatic retrograde amnesia,” I say, try— ing to explain. “What they call my ‘episodic memory’ is gone—all my memories of events and people and history. Personal facts. But I can still make a cup of coffee, read a book, or drive a car. Stuff like that. Things that were done repetitively, you know? Not that I’m allowed to drive at the moment. My car’s sitting outside my sister’s house gathering dust. They said to give it some time before I got behind the wheel again, make sure I’m okay. Also, appar— ently the part of my brain in charge of inhibitions and so— cial restrictors, et cetera, is a bit messed up, so I don’t al— ways react right, or at least not necessarily how you’d ex— pect me to behave based on previous me.”

“Previous you?”

I shrug. “It’s as good a label for her as any.” “She’s you. You’re her.”

“Maybe. But she’s still a complete stranger to me.” “Christ,” he mutters.

This is awkward. “I’m upsetting you. I’m sorry. But there are things I need to know, and I’m hoping you can help me out with some of them.”

Our drinks arrive, the glass of the margarita lined with salt and smelling of lemon. I take a sip and smile. “I

like it.”

He reaches grimly for his beer, the ink on his forearm shifting with the muscle beneath. His tattoos cover a vari— ety of topics. A bottle marked “poison” with skull and crossbones set amongst roses. An anatomical heart. A tat— too gun

very meta

. A lighthouse with waves crashing below. I wonder if it’s the Portland Headlight, the famous one at Cape Elizabeth. There was something on TV about it the other day. His tattoos are hypnotic in a way. As if, combined, they tell a story, if only you could understand.

Ed pushes his beer aside. “So, because you don’t re— member, I should just forget all the shit you pulled and help you? Because that was all the ‘previous you’ and not the girl sitting in front of me?”

“That’s your decision to make, of course.”

“Thanks, Clem.” His voice is bitter, full of a kind of controlled rage. “That’s real fucking big of you.”

I flinch, unused to people swearing at me. Not that he hasn’t been swearing in my general vicinity since the mo— ment we met, but for some reason, this time it has an ef— fect on me. Can’t help but wonder how angry does he get, exactly? The man is taller than me, his shoulders broader than mine. And I’ve already had a small taste of the strength he holds in his hands.

“Shit.” He sighs at my reaction. “Clem, don’t . . . don’t do that. I would never hurt you.”

Unsure of what to say, I down more of my drink.

“You don’t know me; I get it,” he says, voice softer, gentler. “Look at me, Clementine.”

When I do, his eyes are full of remorse and he’s sad

now. Not angry.

“I would never hurt you, I swear it. You’re safe with me.”

“Okay.” Slowly, I nod. “It’s a stupid name, don’t you think?”

“Yours? I don’t know. I always liked it.” I almost smile.

“You’re staying with your sister?” “Yes.”

“How’s that going?” “It’s all right.”

The side of his mouth lifts briefly. “You and Frances were always fighting about something.”

“Actually, that makes sense.” I laugh. “Did she ap— prove of you?”

“You’d have to ask her that.”

“Oh, I have lots of questions for her.”

This time, when he looks at me, it’s more of a thoughtful kind of thing. Like he’s processing. I’ve given him a lot of information, and I know it takes a while to sort things out in your head. So I drink my margarita and watch the woman behind the bar, the two men sitting on stools, chatting. Even though their hygiene standards are lacking, I like the place. It’s relaxed.

Maybe it’s my kind of place.

“I don’t seem to have many friends,” I say, a question popping into my head. “Was I always like that, a bit of a loner?”

He shakes his head. “You had friends. But apparently you cut them all off when you left me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” he says, shoulders dropping slightly. “Maybe you wanted a fresh start. Maybe you just didn’t want to talk about the breakup and shit. Maybe you just wanted to be left alone.”

Huh.

“Give me your phone; I’ll put my details in.” He holds out a hand. “You would have deleted me from your con— tacts.”

“Oh, I don’t have one. My bag and everything was taken in the attack.”

His brows rise. “You’re walking around without a cell? Clem, that’s not safe.”

“Pretty sure having a phone didn’t make much of a difference last time.”

“Finish up your drink.” He tips his chin at the glass. “I’ll give you a lift back to Frances’s place. We’ll stop by a shop on the way and get you some things.”

It’s an interesting idea. And he seems like a nice man, one who used to care about me. But from what little he said about the breakup, it sounds as if it was a special lev— el of hell. Despite his assurances, he might very well have cheated on me. Crushed my heart. Torn apart my life. Shit like that.

After all, what would a cheater say?

“You should have a can of mace on you too, given they haven’t caught the bastard who did this to you. One of those keyring ones.” He pulls some money out of his wallet, setting it on the table. Then he stops. “What?”

“Just thinking.”

“Yeah?” He cocks his head, a lock of brown hair fall— ing over one of his eyes. “What about?”

“Lots of things,” I say. “You’re being very helpful all of a sudden. It makes me suspicious. I mean, why would you even want to be friends with me, given our past?”

“I have no interest in being your friend.” “Oh?”

“Trust me, that’s definitely not going to happen.” He settles back, watching me with a faint smile. Holy crap, his smile . . . it’s just a bit mean yet still wholly affecting.

I squirm in my seat. “I see.”

“No, you don’t,” he says. “Clem, you fucked me up. You fucked us up. And I’m not going to forgive you for that whether you remember doing it or not. But nobody deserves to be assaulted and have their mind messed with. So I’ll answer your questions, make sure you’ve got a cell and something to protect yourself with. Then you’re on your own.”

“You’re only helping me today?”

“No, that’s why I’m giving you my number. Like I said, you think of a question you need answered, you can text me and I’ll answer it for you if I can.”

“I can text you with any questions.” If he wants to de— fine any future interactions, I can work with that. “But that’s all.”

“That’s right.”

“Okay. That makes sense.” I nod. “Ah, thanks. Thank you.”

“One or the other is fine. You don’t need to say both.” I smile, nervous again for some reason. “Yeah, I just

. . . never mind.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” he says, sliding out of the booth. Which means he wants to go now. I don’t know why people don’t just say what they mean.

I finish off the margarita, then wipe the salt off my lips. When I catch Ed watching, he turns away with a sharp sort of motion. Odd. For a big man, his movements have been mostly fluid, almost graceful. Guess he really wants to get rid of me. Can’t say I blame him.

“Hey, how was your day?” Frances flops down onto the other end of the couch with a bottle of water in her hand. “You got a phone?”

“Yeah. I was careful when I went out,” I say, heading off the next inevitable question before it can be asked.

“Good.”

My sister would probably be happiest if I’d hide at home for the rest of my life, staying safe and sound. Bub— ble—wrapping me isn’t out of the question. But it’s never going to happen. I need my freedom, the space to figure out my life for myself.

She picks up the TV remote and starts flicking through the channels. Some drama about people on a spaceship, the evening news, a woman singing about a dude named Heathcliff, and a tennis match. Finally, she settles on a wildlife documentary.

“Poor gazelle,” she mumbles, taking a sip of water.

“What did you want to do for dinner?” “Pizza.”

“Again?” she asks with a smile.

I’m working my way through the local pizza place’s menu, figuring out my favorite. It’s taken a week, but I’ve got it narrowed down to either the pumpkin, spinach, and feta, or the tomato, basil, and mozzarella. For some rea— son, the vegetarian options appeal to me more. Some— times I get a bit fixated on things. Happily, pizza has been one of those things.

“I met Ed today,” I say.

Her whole body tenses. “You did?” “Why didn’t you tell me about him?”

“Because he broke your heart.” She sets down the wa— ter bottle, turning sideways to face me. “Clem, you were a mess, absolutely miserable, crying all the time. It was al— most worse than right after Mom died. With everything that’s happened, the last thing you need is him back in your life. The one silver lining of this whole disaster has been that you’ve been able to stop tearing yourself up about it.”

“He says he didn’t cheat on me.”

She sighs. “I honestly have no idea about that. In the month leading up to the attack, you refused to talk about him or what went down between you two. So basically, I was just following your wishes.”

“Hmm.”

“You were crazy about the man. Can’t imagine you’d have left him without a damn good reason.”

Was Ed the type to cheat? Thing is, he didn’t appear

to be lying, and watching people is kind of my thing these days. The things they try to hide. The things they’re not saying. What comes out of people’s mouths versus what they do is often way off. With Ed though, I hadn’t gotten that feeling. In fact, I’m not even sure he cares enough about what I think of him these days to lie. Not like the man would have too much trouble finding someone to take previous me’s place, if that’s what he’s after.

“How did you find out about him?” she asks, voice

low.

“What? Oh. I went down the street for coffee and

someone in line there recognized his work. Apparently his style is quite distinctive.” I nod in the direction of my tat— too. “So I went to his shop. He was not happy to see me. But we talked, and he answered some questions. Doubt I’ll see him ever again.”

“I actually used to like the guy,” she says. “Always seemed like a straight shooter, but I guess I read him wrong. Still, I would have taken you to see him if I knew you wanted to go.”

“I’m a big girl, Frances. I can get a cab.”

She rests her head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “He wasn’t involved in what happened to you. I checked him out. Photos of him at a tattoo convention in Chicago were all over social media.”

“Why would you even think he was involved?” “Just being careful.”

“Another woman was attacked and robbed in the same area as me the week before. The police officer who interviewed me at the hospital said there’s a good chance

the attacks are linked.” The words come faster and faster, until they start to run into each other. “It was random. Not directed at me personally.”

“Don’t get worked up. Like I said, just being careful.” She shrugs. “It’s part of the job description. As a cop. As your sister. No harm in that.”

“Was he ever . . .” I swallow. “Was he violent with me? Or anyone?”

“Tattoo parlors are not the most peaceful places in the world, in my experience.” She frowns. “But no, vio— lence was not one of Ed’s faults.”

“From what I’ve seen on daytime TV, people screw around on each other all the time. It’s not that uncom— mon and it rarely leads to trying to kill the other person.”

Frances squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. “I real— ize your knowledge is limited, but trust me when I tell you that life is not accurately reflected by daytime TV. And I’ve seen enough victims of domestic violence to be wary of situations involving a recent breakup. Though, as I said, he never gave me those kind of vibes.”

She has a point. Two, actually.

The pained look on her face is familiar. Same goes for her favorite wide—eyed and mouth slightly open expres— sion. That one is used for shock or surprise. My sister is a pretty dominant—personality type. And I’m guessing pre— vious me was quieter, less prone to speaking her thoughts regardless of consequences. Doctor Patel warned me it could be a problem.

On the screen, a crocodile drags a zebra into the wa— ter. Lots of thrashing and blood. At least it’s not pointless

violence, since the crocodile needs to eat. I like to think whoever assaulted me was desperate, starving, and alone. Out of their mind on drugs, maybe. It’s still no excuse for the ferocity of the attack, but it helps a little. I can’t spend the rest of my life in hiding, afraid of everything, and hat— ing on civilization.

“He bought me a small can of mace,” I say.

“How romantic.” My sister grabs a pillow, stuffing it behind her head. “Actually, that’s a pretty good idea, now that you’re going out again. Same with getting you a phone. Things have just been so hectic, I hadn’t gotten around to it yet.”

“You’ve done enough already. I need to figure out how to look after myself.”

She doesn’t speak for a moment. “Did he pay for the cell too?”

“No, I did.”

“Hmm.” She sighs. “You would have had to find out about him eventually. Your name is still on the mortgage for the condo you two shared. He owes you half the down payment back.”

“Really? He didn’t mention anything about that to me.”

“It can be hard for people to remember that you don’t remember.”

“True.”

She says nothing for a moment. “So far as I know, he was in the process of getting the paperwork sorted to take your name off the deed, and I think you were giving him time to pay you back the money. But you’d have to ask

him what the actual agreement was. It’s what you sank your half of Mom’s life insurance into.”

“So, I’m a homeowner . . . sort of. Not that I’d be wel— come there.” I stare at the TV, letting all of the new in— formation settle inside my head. “I’ve never had anyone look at me with such animosity before. He really doesn’t like me.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

It always makes me smile when she tries to play ther— apist. Like I haven’t spent a good chunk of my second life around the real thing. “I feel very little regarding him, Frances. Why would I? The guy’s a stranger. And before you ask, no, nothing looked familiar.”

She just nods.

“You should have told me about him.”

“I would have gotten around to it eventually.”

No apology is offered for her lie of omission. For not telling me about Ed. This is why I need new sources of information. My sister can’t be allowed to pick and choose what I know. To try to dictate who I was, or the person I might become.

Whatever her reasons for keeping things from me, it can’t be allowed. We’re family, but sometimes I’m not ex— actly sure we’re friends.