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

reluctantly agreed to Sam driving me back to his place to pick up my car. I declined his offer of going inside his house and him making something to eat. I wasn’t hungry and needed to be alone. I made it half a mile before having to pull over by the side of the road so I could let out the cries of frustration, anger and fear, which had all mixed together into a ball of raw emotion I could no longer contain.

An hour later I’d paced my apartment a thousand times, and there was still no news. I’d lost count of how many times I’d checked my cell, how often I’d willed, ordered and begged it to ring, or for the screen to light up with a text message, but it remained silent and dark, useless. If it hadn’t represented a lifeline to Jack, I’d have snapped it in half and stamped on the broken remains until they were dust beneath my feet.

As I reached for my phone again to make sure I hadn’t missed anything since the last time I’d looked, a sharp knock made me jump. I raced across the room, almost upending the coffee table in my haste, and yanked the front door open. It was Stevens and Heron, the bags under their eyes making them seem as tired, drawn and washed-out as I felt.

“Have you found him?” I said, my heart thumping hard. “Have you found Jack?”

“Can we come in?” Heron said gently.

No, I wanted to shout. No, you can’t come in because I don’t want to hear what you have to say. I’m terrified. Please don’t tell me. Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say it.

I stepped aside. Once I’d closed the door behind them and, ever so politely, offered them a seat (which they accepted) and a glass of water (which they declined), I couldn’t help asking again, my voice resembling a frightened child’s who’d woken up from a nightmare. “Have you found him?”

They looked at each other, jaws clenched. No doubt Heron had already decided who’d do the talking: her as the seasoned detective, or rookie Stevens. Either way, whoever was set to deliver the bad news, I wanted them to hesitate or have a long, drawn-out argument about something with each other, anything to delay the message I knew was coming. I took a step back, trying to put more distance between us as I pulled at the neck of my shirt, which seemed to be strangling me.

“No, we haven’t found him,” Heron said.

Air rushed into my lungs, filling me with hope, making my head spin with the possibility of finding Jack alive. I resumed my pacing, fiddled with the heart-shaped charm on the bracelet he’d given me on our first Valentine’s Day. He’d tucked it into a box of candy, and I hadn’t seen it at first, felt a tinge of disappointment as I thanked him for the chocolates. Despite our shared and somewhat negative opinions of the kitschy, commercial pseudo-forced romantic day, I’d hoped for...more. It wasn’t only the fact this was our first Valentine’s Day as a couple, but also the first time I’d seen the point of celebrating it with someone. Consequently, and embarrassingly, when he’d turned the lid of the box upside down to reveal the hidden jewelry, the fact he felt the same had made me cry.

“He’s still out there,” I whispered, looking up. “Are they searching—”

“The coast guard is doing its job,” Stevens said, holding up a bony hand, and his nonchalance made me want to grab his fingers and twist them backward until they snapped.

“The search isn’t why we’re here,” Heron added.

I stopped pacing, and my eyes darted from her to Stevens and back again as I tried to fathom what other reason might have brought them to my door. What could be more important right now than being out there, looking for Jack?

“We came because we want some information about, uh, Jack,” Stevens said.

“Okay.” I reached for my phone. “If you need another photo, I can—”

“Perhaps you should sit.” Heron gestured to the sofa, and something in her gentle tone told me to follow her command. I obediently walked over and sat down, perched on the edge of the seat, probably looking like I might make a run for it. Depending on what she told me, maybe I would.

“What’s this about?” I touched my bracelet again, wishing it were a portal to the past so I could tell Jack not to go swimming, or that it would transform itself into a magic lamp containing a genie who’d grant me three wishes. Or just one. One wish would be plenty.

“How well do you know Jack?” Heron said, and my forehead crinkled as I tried to focus enough to understand her question. “You mentioned you’ve been together for about a year and a half, is that correct?”

“Yes.” The air around me had become thick again, making it hard to breathe.

“And in that time,” Stevens took over, “have you met any of his family? Any old friends or acquaintances from before he arrived in Brookmount?”

“No. His parents are dead, and he has no siblings. Why?”

Heron rested her elbows on her knees. “The driver’s license in his wallet is a fake.”

“Huh?”

“A forgery,” Stevens said. “A good one, but not perfect. They rarely are.”

I tried to make sense of his words. The suggestion was ridiculous. Jack was in his thirties; he didn’t need bogus identification to buy booze. If they were right, which they weren’t, what would Jack be doing with a fake ID? I tried to imagine other possibilities. Had he got into trouble, been caught speeding, or running a red light? Had his license been revoked and he’d continued driving with a forged one? Had he never taken his driver’s test in the first place? I’d read about a similar case once. A man had driven for almost ten years before being found out at a random traffic stop.

“Why?” I said. It was the only