I sag back onto the bed, feeling far more weary than the action merits. I still can’t remember how I have wound up here and, coupled with my thin, ragged breathing, I wonder suddenly if I have been drugged.

Or assaulted.

There is still the smell of the blood, on my right hand particularly, though when I rub my fingers together, they feel dry and grainy, not slick. I smell them again, recoil at the scent, and begin feeling for injuries. The back of my head is throbbing and tender, but there’s no wetness:

a bump, not a cut.

My fingers go to my face. Then my arms. Then my legs and, with a little sob that forces its way out, up my thighs. I am wearing a dress, knee length, lowish at the neck and short sleeved. It is light and simple—cotton, I think. It feels familiar.

Mine. I know it. I can almost remember putting it on. In Crete. In a hotel? No. A house or . . . a place we had rented. A place Simon had rented.

I have a bra on underneath, also soft and comfortable, and panties, all of which feel intact. I feel no bruising, no tenderness anywhere except on the back of my head and a little ways above my right eye. A fall? Or a blow? Maybe both.

But no cuts and no sign of sexual violence.

The words come to me from a TV crime show. Sexual violence. It is one of those phrases whose bald factualness dodges a million horrors.

I have not been raped, or at least not in ways I can detect, though that is an uncomfortable proviso and points at the hole where my memory should be. I shy away from it again, the dark pit of unguessable depth, and cling instead to what I can deduce. Someone has put me here. I do not know why. If they wanted me dead, I would be. But I am not.

Which means they will come back.

I shift uneasily. My left arm already feels tired from the awkward angle I am holding it, and the wrist is chafed from the metal of the manacle. I tug at it till my hand protests but feel no give in the chain or the ring in the wall. Someone is coming back, and I am stuck here. Powerless.

And then there’s the blood, I remind myself.

Yes. I have blood on my hands, and my dress around the waist feels stiff with it too. I can’t be sure, not without light, but in my heart it makes sense, as if there is something I will eventually remember that will make sense of the gore on my hands and clothes. The dried clumps of it I feel in my hair.

I can’t remember how it got there.

I feel my body over again, rolling and adjusting to probe every inch of flesh. My head has been battered, and I must have a nasty black eye, but it is no ragged wound, no slash or puncture that would have bled like that.

Which can mean only one thing.

The blood I am caked in belongs to someone else.

The thought stops my breath for a moment. I was thinking that I have been . . . what? Trapped by a psychopath? Something like that.

But what if it isn’t that at all?

What if I have been walled up in here because of something else? Something I have done?

Chapter Four

It was a long drive. Over an hour to Rethymno, where we stayed last time, along the coast road that was sometimes labeled E75 and sometimes just 90, and then as much again as we cut in from the shore and up into the mountains, where the previously straight road became narrow and circuitous.

“Where are we going?” I asked, trying not to sound exhausted and apprehensive. It was good of Simon to have picked me up on top of covering the costs of the lodging. I had asked if I could give him anything for gas, but he waved the offer away with a smile, as if we were talking about sums so small, he could cover them with what he found in between his couch cushions. Maybe he could.

“You’re gonna love it,” said Simon. “It’s fantastic. Kind of in the middle of nowhere, but yeah. Fantastic. Perfect for us.”

I shifted in my leather seat.

“Us?” I said.

“All of us,” he qualified, giving me a look I couldn’t read because of the sunglasses. “The reunion.”

“Right,” I said. “Great.”

I was sitting with my carry-on in my lap, which felt ridiculous and uncomfortable. The car was huge, and I could have easily tossed it into the back seat or the trunk, but now I was belted in and had been there for so long that turning around and trying to get rid of it felt stupid for reasons I couldn’t explain. So I sat with the bag in my lap and my arms around it, like it was one of those under-seat float cushions the flight attendants had told us about “in case of a water landing.” The phrase had amused me in a bleak kind of way, like it was something the pilot might choose.

You know, copilot Bob, I think we’ll skip the runway and just put down in the ocean today, whaddya say?

Or maybe the bag in my lap was a shield.

Of course there was no reason to protect myself—even psychologically—from Simon. He was great. Gorgeous, friendly, generous. Flattering, even.

Apollo, god of the sun, the golden charioteer with his bow . . .

I took another of Chad’s long, steadying breaths and stared out the window at the craggy slopes with their clusters of dust-colored olive trees, ramshackle farm buildings, and bleached, crumbling churches. It was beautiful. I needed to get over my stupid, halting inadequacies and enjoy what I’d come here for.

“You heading straight back to Charlotte after our little get-together?” asked Simon, idly watching as an ancient man in worn and faded clothes, which might once have looked quite formal and must have been insanely hot, shooed his goats to the side of the road.

“I think so,” I said. “I had wondered about going to Turkey, but I have to fly again for work soon, so we’ll see.”

I wasn’t sure why I said it. It just came out. His suave composure, the luxurious car . . . I couldn’t help myself.

“Where to?”

“What?” I asked, already back pedaling.

“Where will you be flying for work?”

“Vegas,” I said. “One of our head offices is there. Not really my kind of place but . . .”

“You have got to be able to have fun in Vegas!” Simon exclaimed. “Something for everyone there, right?”

“Right,” I said. “Gets kind of old after a while, though.”

“I guess it could,” he said. “Where do you usually stay?”

“Oh, various places,” I said airily. “Work takes care of the arrangements.”

“Close to one of the casinos?”

“Always,” I said with a theatrical eye roll, as if nothing could be more tiresome.

“Which one?”

“What? Oh, what’s it called . . . the one with the pyramid.”

“Luxor,” said Simon.

“Right. Of course. Forget my head if it wasn’t attached.”

“The sky beam is something, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said, anxious now. “Really is.”

“They say you can see it hundreds of miles away.”

“I bet that’s true,” I said. “So tell me about the place we’re staying here. You made it sound quite mysterious.”

He turned and gave me a look, as if he knew I was changing the subject, but I couldn’t read his face to be sure, so the half smile that hinted at something private might have been about what we were just discussing or what he knew was coming.

“Oh, I don’t want to steal Melissa’s thunder,” he said. “Wait and see.” For a long, taut moment we rode in silence, and then he started fumbling with the radio controls, scrolling through station after station of tinny Europop and sighing. Last time we were here, there had been a beachside DJ at the hotel, a buff local guy in shades and a do-rag who spent his breaks windsurfing and looking cool for the girls. He had thought Melissa was the greatest thing since . . . well, whatever the Greek equivalent of sliced bread was. It was as if she were an icon, a walking, talking model of everything his American surf-suave pose was supposed to be. She was the thing itself. Simon had rolled with it all, used to his wife getting this kind of attention, befriending the guy with a nod and a knowing grin that showed he didn’t feel threatened. From that point on the DJ had been sure to play whatever she asked for, even hunting down the tracks he didn’t have just so he could blare them for her. She had been on an alternative eighties kick, so my memories of Crete had a soundtrack by Depeche Mode, Tears for Fears, and the B-52s.

“No ‘Rock Lobster’?” I asked, grinning.

“What?”

“The B-52s song,” I said. “‘Rock Lobster.’ Melissa was always singing it, and . . .”

He was still smiling, but his face looked blank. Then his brow furrowed and the smile widened.

“Right!” he exclaimed. “‘Rock Lobster.’ Yeah. I’d totally forgotten that.”

I grinned, pleased by his remembering, feeling once again that shared glow, and wondering how anyone could forget the way she had been. The way we had been.

Well, I thought. We would rebuild it all, down to the last bass riff and ridiculous vocal trill . . .