Yet here it was.
Inside my husband’s tuxedo.
My fingers closed around it.
Richard had never told me he had the necklace.
More importantly, he had never told me he had been anywhere near the accident.
I turned toward the bed.
For the first time since waking from my coma two years earlier, I looked at Richard and felt afraid.
Not because he was a stranger.
Because suddenly I wondered whether I had ever really known him at all.
He stirred.
His eyes opened.
Then he saw what I was holding.
Every trace of sleep vanished from his face.
“Claire.”
I said nothing.
He sat up quickly.
“Please let me explain.”
I held out the necklace.
“You have one chance.”
Richard swallowed.
“I was near the road that night.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“I heard the crash. I reached your car before the ambulance.”
“You told me you first saw me at the hospital.”
“I know.”
“Were you there?”
“Yes.”
The word barely left his mouth.
He continued quickly.
“I helped get you out. The necklace caught on my sleeve. The clasp broke. I found it afterward and kept it.”
“For two years?”
“I wanted to repair it.”
I stared at him.
“And then?”
“I thought I could give it to you someday. Maybe on our wedding day. Make it something meaningful.”
His explanation was almost beautiful.
That was what frightened me.
It was too polished.
Too easy.
Too ready.
“You never once told me you’d been at the crash.”
“You were terrified whenever anyone mentioned that night. The doctors said not to pressure your memory.”
“So you lied.”
“I was protecting you.”
There was that word.
Protecting.
I had trusted that word for two years.
I forced myself to soften my expression.
Then I leaned forward and kissed his cheek.
“You should sleep.”
Richard searched my face.
“You believe me?”
“You’re exhausted.”
Before he could say anything else, his phone rang.
The hospital was short-staffed.
They needed him early.
By the time Richard left the hotel, he seemed convinced the danger had passed.
He was wrong.
The moment his car disappeared from the parking lot, I opened my notebook.
This time, I wasn’t looking for memories.
I was looking for evidence.
Part 4 — Apartment 3B
I kept old documents folded inside the back pocket of my memory journal.
Medical forms.
Insurance papers.
Receipts.
Anything that could tell me something about the life I no longer remembered.
