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

my neck, murmuring, “I never knew dirty socks turned you on. I’ll leave a trail of them leading to the bed...” He pressed his lips to mine, making a delicious shiver of excitement, the one I always felt when he kissed me that way, travel to my belly where it set me on fire.

“I don’t need any help,” I whispered. “And I don’t need a bed.” He’d groaned as I’d unbuckled his belt, proving my point on the kitchen table, and we’d eaten overcooked pasta and burned Bolognese sauce for dinner.

Another surge of anger bubbled up inside me as I tried to cling to the memories of Jack, of his lips, his hands, his voice. I wanted to keep them vivid and alive—because he was alive—and I couldn’t let them ebb away, have them replaced by the agonizing uncertainty of what had happened to him, or of who he truly was. I grabbed the stack of papers and threw them into the recycling bin, before changing my mind and fishing them back out, spreading everything over the table. There was nothing of interest in the restaurant flyers and take-out menus, offers for better cable TV or pool supplies, but as I went through the mail again, what wasn’t there settled on my chest with the weight of the entire United States Postal Service.

None of the letters were personalized. Every single one, without exception, was addressed to Resident. Jack preferred to pay cash for everything, had said it kept him on budget, something I’d admired him for, but flicking through the mail, there wasn’t a single bill from an insurance company, or an official letter, and no bank or credit card statements, either. Not even a check or pay stub from his ex-boss.

Another uncomfortable sensation grew in my stomach as I wondered if the reason Jack didn’t have a truck of his own but had talked Sam into letting him borrow his was because the arrangement suited them both, or because Jack was unable to get insurance. Did he not have a credit card because of his self-imposed financial constraints, or because he hadn’t been able to provide proper identification to apply for one? If so, why? The answers I played in my head ranged from Jack being a serial killer to an international spy, or in witness protection, and everything in between. The insatiable desire to know the truth about the Jack Smith I’d fallen in love with grabbed me by the throat, the knowledge of his lies combined with the mystery of what they meant, and what we’d meant, transforming into a raging war inside me. I had to know his secrets. I needed information. Details. Something.

My pursuit of the truth began in the bedroom, where I riffled through his clothes, trying to quash the memories they represented so they didn’t distract me from my purpose. The blue shirt Jack had worn the day we’d met, the black one he’d loaned me when I’d splattered pancake mix all over mine—almost every item held some significance. I pushed them away as I emptied his closet, searching the pockets of every damn pair of shorts and pants, shaking out shirts and underwear before unfolding his balled-up socks and examining them, too.

The bedside table was next. Two books, a box of condoms, the lip balm I’d left here because he never had any, something else I’d teased him about as his mouth was always so soft. “All the better to kiss you with,” he’d whispered, and the memory of his voice made me gasp.

“Figure this out,” I urged, abandoning the bedroom, and heading for the bathroom to continue my mission. It didn’t take long to inspect the open shelves, or the medicine cabinet above the sink. When I examined the toilet, I told myself I was being stupid, but couldn’t stop the relief from coming when I didn’t find a gun, or a stack of drugs and fake passports duct-taped to the tank.

Only the living room, kitchen and hallway closet were left. I plowed through the first with an equal amount of fervor, my rage billowing when my rampage yielded nothing, not until I grabbed a chair to reach the top kitchen cupboard, where I found a dented Christmas cookie tin I’d never seen before, stowed away at the back, hidden behind a set of mugs we never used.

I opened the tin, my heart thumping, pulse tap-tapping in my temples. The cookies had been replaced by packs of batteries, books of matches and appliance warranties. I dug deeper, inhaling sharply when I found a wad of cash, a stack of folded twenties, fifties and hundreds sandwiched inside a brochure and secured with a blue elastic band. At least a couple grand. I lowered myself onto the chair in case my legs gave way, clutching the tin in my hands as I examined it from every angle, taking in the scene of a jolly Santa and his rosy-cheeked elves. I tried hard to justify the discovery. Yes, Jack preferred using cash, but why leave this much lying around, especially with a broken window he hadn’t repaired? Why hadn’t he put it in his bank account? I shuddered. What if he didn’t have one? And, once again, why wouldn’t he have one? I looked more closely at the brochure. It was from a jewelry store, and one of the pages had been dog-eared. Not only that, but an item had been clearly circled three times with red pen. A white-gold and sapphire engagement ring. Sapphire. My birthstone.

With a lump in my throat I shoved the flyers to one side and turned the cookie tin upside down, frowning when I noticed a box the shape and size of a deck of cards among the debris. It was wrapped in shiny red paper with golden swirls, rattled when I shook it, and as I turned it over, I spotted a tiny folded note attached to the top with tape. I took it off, and opened it,