You Will Remember Me by Hannah McKinnon (best sales books of all time txt) 📕

been disconnected, and the last one went to a voice mail belonging to someone whose name didn’t elicit the smallest flicker of recognition.

I hung up. And gave up. This was stupid. The possibilities were endless, and soon not only would my patience run out, but my money, too. I forced myself to keep going, added a six and a seven, both unsuccessful, but when I punched in an eight, a woman picked up.

“Hello?” she said, and my lips froze together, making me incapable of saying anything, even when she repeated herself twice over. “All right, dipshit.” There was more than a little irritation in her voice now. “I’m sick of these stupid-ass robocalls. Get lost.”

The tone. The voice. The combination stirred something inside me, faint and wispy like morning mist you could no longer see, but which had been there moments ago. “Hello?” I whispered. “I know this’ll sound strange, but—”

“Ash?”

My heart sank to my stolen shoes. “No. My name is—”

“Where are you?” Her voice went up three notches, making her sound on the verge of panic and almost as desperate as I felt. “Ash? Ash! Talk to me.”

My head buzzed with so much noise I could barely hear. Why was she calling me that? My name was Brad. It said so on my watch.

“Ash,” she said, her voice a little quieter this time, and I could have sworn she was fighting to hold back tears. “Please, tell me where you are.”

This was hopeless. The woman was confused. She’d mistaken me for someone else. My name was Brad. Brad. When she spoke again, demanding to know for a third time where I was, I decided if I couldn’t handle my own problems, there was no way I could deal with hers, too. Hand shaking, I let the receiver dangle before making up my mind and thrusting it into the cradle.

I paused for a second. The woman had sounded so certain about my name, but it couldn’t be. It said Brad on my watch, and for the past day, this had been my one anchor in a world full of crazy. I wouldn’t let her mistake unmoor me; if I did, I’d have nothing left. Coming to Maine hadn’t yet produced the epiphany I’d hoped for. If anything, it had made me more confused.

As I walked away from the service station and up the road, trying to find some clarity and a way forward, I spotted a derelict house with boarded-up windows. Its heavy wooden door was padlocked, and the place appeared empty, so I decided it would be my refuge for the night. It was getting late, the air had cooled, and I was too exhausted to formulate a better plan. Come morning I’d figure out what to do next. Maybe find a hospital—no, they might call the cops—a shelter of some sort then, somewhere they wouldn’t ask too many questions.

After glancing over my shoulder to make sure nobody was watching, I sneaked around the side of the house, pushed open a creaky, rusted iron gate and found myself in an overgrown backyard that long hadn’t been on anybody’s to-do list. I got to work on the board covering a window on the left, and part of the rotting wood crumbled under my fingers as I wiggled the nails loose. Not long after, the broken board lay on the ground. I took off my jacket, wrapped it over my hand and gave the brittle pane a good punch. It shattered with a crunch, and after removing the rest of the shards, I hoisted myself up and over the windowsill, cursing when a piece of glass I’d missed cut into my thumb.

Once inside I stood still, listening for the noise of other unwanted guests, human or otherwise, but the musty air, which smelled of damp, rot and mold, remained silent. The light from the broken window behind me barely made it past my feet, and I put my hands out in front of me to feel my way, taking small, uncertain steps, hoping I wouldn’t crash through the floorboards.

A couple of plywood panels had fallen away from the windows in the front room, letting in enough light for me to make out it was empty. There was no furniture, not even a crate or an abandoned cardboard box. A giant stone fireplace covered almost half of the left wall, but when I examined it, hoping to find wood and matches or a lighter to warm the place up a bit, I found nothing.

I stretched out on the floor, the scent of dirt and dust creeping up my nostrils, earthy and familiar. A flash of something went through my mind. A faint giggle, a girl calling out, “...nineteen, twenty. Ready or not, here I come!” Footsteps thudding, a trapdoor opening above me, someone peering down, their face obscured by the shadows.

I scrunched my eyes shut, willing the images to stay, to mean something, but they faded, and I was left in the old house, lying on the floor alone in the darkness, no closer to my truth.

6

LILY

When Sam came to my apartment to check on me Saturday evening, he brought a veggie sub with extra cheese and lettuce because it was my favorite—and because he didn’t know what else to do. Nobody did, least of all me, and I pushed the food away, saying I wasn’t hungry, but when I let slip I hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning, Sam insisted and cajoled. I gave in only because I half expected him to wave the sandwich in front of my face and make airplane noises if I didn’t. After I was done, I reclaimed what had become my permanent spot on the sofa. I pulled the moose-pattern blanket to my chest—a relic from my days in upstate New York—making sure my phone was fully charged and close by, with the volume turned up all the way, the screen facing me.

Meanwhile, Sam rubbed his face and tapped his foot on the floor,