“Same as always. How’s the new place treating you two?”
I froze.
“You two?”
His smile vanished.
“You and the guy you lived with.”
A cold feeling crept through my stomach.
“What guy?”
He stared at me.
“Claire, are you okay?”
“I had an accident. I don’t remember living here.”
His expression softened.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“How long did I live here?”
“Almost three years.”
“With someone?”
“Yeah. I mostly dealt with you, though.”
“Do you remember his name?”
He frowned.
“Rick. Ryan. Something like that.”
My pulse raced.
“Who lives there now?”
“Nobody.”
Then he added,
“But the rent is still being paid.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Someone sends it every month.”
“Who?”
“No idea. As long as the payment cleared, I never checked.”
Someone had been paying for two years to keep my old apartment exactly as I had left it.
“Do you still have a spare key?”
Minutes later, the door to apartment 3B opened.
The place looked as though someone had rushed out.
Dust covered the furniture.
But several boxes remained.
I began searching.
The first thing I discovered was a stack of photographs.
One showed me standing on a beach in a white sundress.
My hair was longer.
My leg was uninjured.
I stared at myself.
Nothing came back.
Then I found another photograph.
And another.
Until finally, I flipped over the third one.
My breath stopped.
Richard was kneeling in front of me.
I had both hands covering my mouth.
And an engagement ring was gleaming on my left hand.
The same ring Richard had supposedly chosen eighteen months ago.
On the back was a date.
Two years before my accident.
In my own handwriting.
Richard hadn’t met me after the crash.
