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

at me as if I were a complete stranger. A tightness wrapped itself around my heart and squeezed hard.

Sitting in my car I put my head back and closed my eyes, trying to untangle my emotions, but every way I turned, a new, stronger and more confusing one jumped out. I was overjoyed Jack was alive. Pissed he’d come to Maine (how ridiculous, he’d lost his memory, for God’s sake). Frustrated he hadn’t recognized me. Frightened of the answers I’d come here for. Terrified that I might lose him all over again, but...he’d lied to me. Perhaps cutting him loose was the best thing for both of us. I took a deep breath. I hadn’t thought it possible for me to have so much going on inside my head without it exploding.

“Imagine how he’s feeling,” I whispered. “Imagine what it’s like for him.”

I needed to share the news about Jack being alive with someone, and reached for my phone, about to call Sam, deciding to alert Heron afterward. Before pressing Sam’s number, I played out the calls in my mind. Any relief and elation would soon switch to bewilderment and doubt as soon as I explained Jack Smith was really Asher Bennett, and he was suffering from retrograde amnesia. How could I tell them anything when I didn’t know the full story? Besides, what if Heron arranged for someone from the local police department to interview him? He’d been so confused when I found him, I didn’t have the right to put him through more.

I dropped my phone into my bag. I’d wait until after I’d spoken to him, and no doubt Maya could help with more information.

Maya. Why hadn’t he told me about her? Shared the fact he had a sister—stepsister—with me? He’d led me to believe he was an only child, that his mother had committed suicide and he and his father had moved to the US shortly after because they needed a fresh start. He’d never mentioned Brad remarrying, never talked about having a stepsister, not even after I’d told him about Quentin and my childhood. Why had he left out such a significant part of his life?

As I pictured Maya standing on the sidewalk, observing me, unease slithered around my feet, crawled up my legs and settled along with all the other emotions in my stomach. Had I made a mistake with the Facebook photo after all? It was possible. I’d been so desperate to find clues. Maybe I’d seen what I wanted to see. The guy in the picture had worn sunglasses. Perhaps Gordon was Ash’s doppelgänger or something, and somehow Ash had ended up with Maya’s library book when she thought it was Gordon. It would mean my coming here was a lucky coincidence, and sometimes things worked out for a reason...or fate.

I grabbed my duffel from the trunk and headed inside. While the outside of the motel seemed lackluster and windswept, somebody had taken great care and obvious joy while decorating the reception area. A wood-paneled desk with a sparkling, white quartz counter, and soft recessed lighting gave it an inviting cozy feel. Black-and-white photographs of the ocean and awe-inspiring cliffs adorned the pale walls. A mobile, the kind I’d seen on Drift’s website, with shiny pieces of polished wood cut into stars and hearts, and engraved with inspirational words such as Peace, Trust and Happiness hung in a corner, turning gently midair.

Kitchen noises and the smell of gravy wafted through the saloon doors on the right, but as nobody was behind the desk, I put my duffel down, letting my eyes wander. They settled on the rows of flyers to the left of the counter, all arranged by color, advertising an array of attractions in the area. Before I could learn more about zip-lining, local breweries or whale-watching tours, a young woman in ripped jeans and a sailor-style shirt strolled in through the saloon doors, her face bursting into a smile when she saw me. She’d pinned her curly red hair into an elaborate swirl on top of her head, turning it into a ginormous cinnamon bun, and her green eyes had the longest natural lashes I’d ever seen. Her name tag said Fiona.

“Hello and welcome.” Her smile broadened further. “How can I help you?”

“Do you have any rooms available?”

“We sure do,” Fiona said. “How many nights are you looking to stay?”

“I’m not exactly sure...two or three, maybe more?”

“No problem. Why don’t I put you down for four and I’ll ask you the day after tomorrow if you want to extend. That way you’ll be sure to have a room. What do you think?”

I sighed. “Sounds great.”

“Perfect. It’s seventy-nine a night, which includes breakfast, served from six thirty until ten in the dining room through there.” She pointed to the doors. “I’m Fiona. Ask for me if you need anything.” She took my information and credit card, and handed me a key, which was attached to another piece of polished wood like the ones on the mobile, except instead of an inspiring word engraved in it, it was the number 12. I thanked Fiona, and once she’d given me directions, parked my car around the left side of the L-shaped building.

My room was small, but fresh and clean, with soft gray walls and a queen-size bed, which had two thick pillows on either side. More black-and-white photographs hung on the walls, as dramatic as those at reception, and a large flat-screen TV covered most of the opposite side.

While I was exhausted from getting up early, traveling and the day’s events, there was no way I could rest. I grabbed my phone, and after trying to talk myself out of it for fear of what I might find, ran a search for Asher Bennett, Newdale.

It quickly became clear he didn’t have a social media profile I could work my way through, and I reframed the parameters. There was a small article about an Asher Bennett winning a high-school wrestling championship, but it was