He Thought I'd Forget novel · Chapter 4 of 32

Chapter 4: The Morning Letter

I woke up with my mouth tasting like pennies.

Sunlight lay across the bed.

Byron's side was empty and smoothed flat.

I knew where I was. I knew it was Wednesday. I knew about the elevator.

Then I reached for last night and found a hole.

A truck. A yellow kitchen. Blue lights.

After that, nothing.

I sat up too fast and the room tipped.

On the pillow beside me was the morning letter, folded in thirds.

I didn't open it yet.

I put my feet down into my slippers, and the left one crinkled.

The note was there, in my own handwriting, soft from being folded and refolded.

READ THE BLUE BOOK. DON'T TELL HIM.

I'd written that six weeks ago and moved it into my slipper every night since.

I went to the nursery first.

Davey was standing in his crib, holding the rail, yelling at the mobile.

He saw me and yelled louder.

I picked him up and held him until my heart slowed down.

Then I lifted the stroller seat in the hall.

The blue book was there.

I didn't remember putting it back.

I sat on the nursery floor with Davey chewing my braid and turned to the last page.

The handwriting started out as mine.

By the bottom of the page it looked like someone writing on a moving bus.

Jeanine is alive. Bellevue. Yellow kitchen. 2 kids.

Clark has the thing. Trust him.

B checked under tongue. Made me swallow.

Told police I want my own lawyer. Policewoman WROTE IT DOWN.

Don't let him see you know.

The last line went off the edge of the paper.

He watched my throat.

I read it four times.

Davey pulled the book toward his mouth, and I let him gum the corner.

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