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

my parents lived there now, too, he’d declared it a sign and given me a bear hug. His fatherly affection was welcome, and more than I’d received from my mom and dad in years, ever since they’d banished me out of their lives and onto their pretentious look-at-our-perfect-family-just-don’t-ask-about-Lily Christmas card list.

Sam ushered me inside. I wasn’t sure how he did it, but although his house was large enough to fit an entire family, complete with kids, pets and a few sets of football gear, it was always cozy and inviting. Somehow the air smelled of freshly baked muffins despite Sam’s self-described inability to boil an egg. He grabbed a towel from the powder room and draped it over my shoulders, making me notice for the first time how cold and shaky I felt.

“Did I wake you?” I said, my teeth clattering an indecipherable symphony as I clutched the towel, bringing it closer to my chin.

Sam waved a hand and grunted. “Freaking storm kept me up half the night, so I slept in. I had no idea how late it was and...” He looked at me, rubbed the stubble on his fleshy cheeks with an equally meaty hand, as a puzzled expression crossed his face. “What’s going on?”

“Have you seen Jack?”

“I assumed he was at your place.”

“No, and he’s not answering his phone.”

The look on Sam’s face changed from half-asleep to fully alert in a split second. “That’s not like him. That’s not like him at all.”

His confirmation made the panic billow and mushroom inside me. Fear traveled up my throat, thick as molasses, threatening to suffocate me in the hallway, turning my next words into a strained whisper. “I can’t get ahold of him. We haven’t spoken since last night when—”

“I’m sure he’s fine—”

“He went swimming, Sam. At the beach.”

“We’ll take my car.”

I didn’t argue, didn’t think I’d be able to get my hands and legs to cooperate well enough to drive. Sam grabbed his sneakers, threw on a jacket, and we were on our way to Gondola Point, the secluded beach where Jack preferred to swim any day the weather would allow. It was a ten-minute drive. Sam made it in seven.

“There!” I yelled as we turned the last corner, pointing to the truck at the far end, but the relief was swiftly replaced by more rising anxiety when we got closer and I saw the vehicle was empty. Before Sam came to a full stop, I jumped out, ran over and tried the handle, but the truck was locked. Undeterred, I searched underneath the front bumper, found the set of keys that Jack often hid there, something I made fun of him for because it was the most obvious place a thief would look. Except now I didn’t think it was funny. It wasn’t funny at all. I unlocked the truck, reached under the driver’s seat and, when my fingers closed over Jack’s wallet and phone, let out a whimper. Sam stood next to me now, and when I turned around and he saw me clasping Jack’s things, the fear I knew he’d worked hard to hide was splashed all across his face.

“Where’s Jack?” I shouted, my voice carried away by the wind. “Where is he?”

Sam put his hands on my shoulders. One look and I knew what he was going to say. I wanted to press both of my hands over his mouth, forcing his words to stay inside. Once he said them, they’d be out there. They’d make this nightmare real.

“No,” I said, trying to back away so I wouldn’t hear, but Sam held firm.

“Lily, honey,” he said, his voice gentle. “We have to call the cops.”

3

THE MAN FROM THE BEACH

I woke up with a start, needed a moment to figure out where I was before allowing myself to sink back onto the mattress, my mind retracing the events that had led me here. After I’d staggered away from the beach, I’d come across a dusty, four-foot-wide track. Trying yet continually failing to regain focus, I attempted to force my brain to decide which direction to take. I stood by the side of the path forever, my mind spinning. Unanswered questions piled on top of each other, layer after stifling layer of uncertainty. When I couldn’t bear it any longer, and for no discernible reason other than gut instinct, I turned right.

As I’d limped along, forcing one foot in front of the other, the sky had clouded over, taking away most of the moonlight and visibility, making everything around me more ominous. I picked up the pace, ignoring the pain in my temple, which ordered me to slow down, to sit down, and kept walking. About a quarter of a mile later, a fat water droplet bounced off the top of my skull. A flash of lightning followed, and not long after I heard the sound of rolling thunder in the not-too-far-away distance. Shivering, I upped my speed some more, hoping to find refuge before the heavens opened and dumped the brunt of the approaching storm on top of my aching head.

The track had been deserted. Not a single pedestrian, cyclist or anyone in a car I could ask for help. As I walked, my feet thudding in a steady rhythm on the path, I’d asked myself the same question over and over, saying it out loud, as if making a demand would suddenly provide the answer. “What’s my name? What’s my name? What. Is. My. Name?”

Fear came and went like waves on the beach. One minute my mind screamed at me to find shelter and get warm, but the next, the question returned, running through my head at a maniacal speed. What’s my name? What’s my name? What’s my name? What’s my name?

I’m not sure how long I walked. An hour? More? Bombarded by the frigid rain, barefoot and wearing nothing but shorts, my head still pounding and no recollection of...anything, I needed to find help. I ordered myself to keep going. Keep going.