Page 92 of Wicked Truths
I look up at her, at the hopeful expression on her face. She’s trying so hard to make things normal, to help me feel like myself again. I shrug. “Okay.”
The mattress shifts as Milly bounces slightly with excitement. “Great! I’m going to treat you to your favorite take-out tonight.”
My heart sinks a little. Another test. Another thing I should know but don’t. “What’s that?” I ask, hating how small my voice sounds.
“Chinese sweet and sour,” she says without missing a beat, no judgment in her tone. “Do you want noodles or rice?”
I shrugagain, feeling the weight of not knowing what I like pressing down on me. The chocolate has melted completely now, sticky between my fingers. I resist the urge to lick it off, suddenly self-conscious.
Milly’s smile widens, gentle and understanding. “I’ll surprise you. Don’t eat dinner. We’ll eat in bed and watch a movie together.”
The thought of curling up with food and a movie—something simple, normal—makes something loosen in my chest.
“Thanks, Milly.” I grab a tissue from my nightstand and wipe the melted chocolate from my fingers. The paper feels soft against my skin. “I don’t remember liking any food in particular, but if my memory doesn’t come back, at least I’ll be making new ones.”
Milly slides off the bed, then hands me the remaining chocolate, our fingers brushing, her skin warm against mine.
“Enjoy it. My hips won’t thank me if I eat anymore,” she says with a dramatic sigh.
I laugh, the sound surprising me with its genuineness. “Your figure is perfect.”
Milly walks to the door, her footsteps light on the carpet. She turns back to me, and sunlight from the window catches in her hair, illuminating the pink tone like a halo. “You’re still sweet, Amara. That never went away.”
Something warm blooms in my chest—recognition, perhaps, or just the comfort of connection. “You are too.”
As soon as Milly leaves, I jump off the bed.
A diary. I had a diary. Something inside me jolts at the thought—a flash of recognition that feels right. If I was keeping secrets, they’d definitely be in there.
“Where would I put it?” I mutter, scanning my room with fresh eyes.
I drop to my knees and peer under the bed, stretching my arm into the darkness. My fingers brush against something soft. I pull it out, but it’s just a sock, not a book.
I look at my dresser. “Not there. Too obvious.”
I stand, turning in a slow circle. My gaze lands on my closet. I yank the door open and run my hands through the pockets of my robes and jackets, finding nothing but tissues, lip balm, and loose change.
“Come on, Amara,” I whisper to myself. “Where would you hide something important?”
I check my nightstand, rifling through the drawer, pushing aside earbuds, hair ties, and a novel with a bookmark stuck halfway through.
But still no diary.
“Think, think, think.” I tap my temple with my fingertips. “If I was hiding something from everyone, where would I put it?”
My dresser drawers yield nothing but neatly folded clothes. I even check inside my pillowcases and between the mattress and box spring.
“This is ridiculous,” I groan, standing in the center of my room. “If I was hiding something important, where would it be? Not somewhere obvious.”
My eyes dart around the room again, landing on the bathroom door. Something tugs at my memory.
I rush into the bathroom, yanking open the medicine cabinet. Pills, Band-Aids, face wash. I check under the sink, behind the toilet tank, even feeling along the edges of the mirror for any hidden compartments.
As I’m about to give up, my gaze falls on a decorative box of toiletries sitting on a top shelf. Something about it feels off—too perfectly placed.
Standing on tiptoe, I pull it down and open it. No diary, but something else catches my eye—a flash of hard, black fabric tucked behind some bottles. I reach in and pull it out.
A blonde wig and a mask. Pink lace face with hard black bunny ears.
