What to believe. Who to betray. When to run.
Plastic surgeon Dr. Maria Martinez has Asperger's. Convicted of killing a priest, she is alone in prison and has no memory of the murder. DNA evidence places Maria at the scene of the crime, yet she claim...
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CHAPTER 1
The man sitting opposite me does not move. He keeps his head straight and stifles a cough. The sun bakes the room, but even when I pull at my blouse, the heat still sticks. I watch him. I don't like it: him, me, here, this room, this ... this cage. I feel like pulling out my hair, screaming at him, at them, at the whole world. And yet I do nothing but sit. The clock on the wall ticks. The man places his Dictaphone on the table, and, without warning, delivers me a wide smile.
"Remember," he says, "I am here to help you."
I open my mouth to speak, but there is a sudden spark in me, a voice in my head that whispers, "Go!" I try to ignore it, instead focus on something, anything, to steady the rising surge inside me. His height. He is too tall for the chair. His back arcs, his stomach dips, and his legs cross. At a height of 187.9 centimeters and a weight of 74.3 kilograms, he could sprint one kilometer without running out of breath. The man clears his throat, his eyes on mine. I swallow hard.
"Maria," he starts. "Can I ..." He falters, then, leaning in a little: "Can I call you Maria?"
I answer instinctively in Spanish.
"In English, please."
I cough. "Yes. My name is Maria." There is a tremor in my voice. Did he hear it? I need to slow down. Think: facts. His fingernails. They are clean, scrubbed. The shirt he wears is white, open at the collar. His suit is black. Expensive fabric. Wool? Beyond that, he wears silk socks and leather loafers. There are no scuffs. As if he stepped fresh out of a magazine.
He picks up a pen and I risk reaching forward to take a sip of water. I grip the glass tight, but still tiny droplets betray me, sloshing over the edges. I stop. My hands are shaking.
"Are you okay?" the man asks, but I do not reply. Something is not right.
I blink. My sight-it has become milky, a white film over my eyes, a cloak, a mask. My eyelids start to flutter, heart pounds, adrenaline courses through me. Maybe it is being here with him, maybe it is the thought of speaking to a stranger about my feelings, but it ignites something, something deep inside, something frightening.
Something that has happened to me many times before. A memory. It sways at first, takes its time. Then, in seconds, it rushes, picking up speed until it is fully formed: the image. It is there in front of me like a stage play. The curtains rise and I am in a medical room. White walls, steel, starched bed linen. Strip lights line the ceiling, glaring, exposing me. And then, ahead, like a magician through smoke, the doctor with black eyes enters by the far door. He is wearing a mask, holding a needle.
"Hello, Maria."
Panic thrusts up within me, lavalike, volcanic, so fast that I fear I could explode. He steps closer and I begin to shake, try to escape, but there are straps, leather on my limbs. Black Eyes' lips are upturned, he is in the room now, bearing down on me, his breath-tobacco, garlic, mint-it is in my face, my nostrils, and I begin to hear myself scream when there is something else. A whisper: "He is not real. He is not real." The whisper, it hovers in my brain, flaps, lingers, then, like a breeze, it passes, leaving a trace of goosebumps on my skin. Was it right? I glance around: medicine vials, needles, charts. I look at my hands: young, no lines. I touch my face: teenage spots. It is not me, not me now. Which means none of this exists.
