In the Dark We Forget

  Dedication

  For Kevin, my always

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part I

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Part II

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Part III

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Praise

  Also by SG Wong

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  I

  One

  I awake with a shiver. Full on, from toes to the tingling roots in my scalp.

  Sharp corners dig into my shoulders, down the length of my spine, underneath one set of ribs. My feet twitch. I feel the backs of my shoes slip on something wet.

  Shoes. Why am I wearing shoes while I sleep?

  I push up on my elbows, can’t hold myself up, fall back with a thump onto those sharp corners again. I blink up at a murky sky. My head aches, like I’ve taken a chill. I hear a soft rustling of leaves, a lone chirping bird. My ears are cold. A slight breeze blows grit into my cheek. My eyes widen. Why am I outside?

  This time, I roll to hands and knees first, then push up to kneeling. Those sharp rocks now dig into my palms. My knees hurt, like they’re bruised, deep. I catalogue stiffness and aching all over—my body like a muscle stretched too far, now snapped back. I rest my hands on my thighs, stare down at them while I catch my breath. Too dark. I lift them up, close to my eyes. I don’t know what I’m looking for. A few more chirping birds join the first. I scan the dimness around me. The sky seems lighter to my left.

  The skin at the nape of my neck tightens into gooseflesh. I turn, slowly, feeling a weight on my back. A black silhouette rises impossibly high. A mountain. Scratch that. A mountain range. Peaks and long angular lines run as far as my incredulous eyes want to look. A thick forest of tall trees skirts its base, dark and impenetrable. The shiver returns as I stare into the depths of the darkness. How silently it would swallow me whole.

  I pull my gaze back to the ground around me. No tent. No campfire ring. No sleeping bag. So . . . I’m not camping. A slope in front of me, heading upward. It looks green . . . ish. I check the sky to my left again. Is this dawn? I push to my feet, wincing at the sharp pain in my shins, brushing off dew from the slippery fabric of my pants. My seat doesn’t feel damp. Just cold. I rub my arms, encased in a similar slippery, lightweight fabric. I unzip just enough to feel the two layers of (cotton?) shirts beneath. At least I dressed for a night out of doors . . . I guess. I don’t understand this. How am I here? Where is here? What—

  I scramble up the slope, slipping a few times on the damp grass, desperate to do something. My head is suddenly pounding, my mouth foul and gummy. The grass beneath my feet gives way to gravel and asphalt. Two paved lanes on either side of a faded yellow line stretch away from me, left and right. East and west, then, judging by the rising light of the sky. I hold my face, willing the cold of my hands to seep down into my chest, slow my racing heart. Should I recognize this place? I should. I must. I got here somehow . . . right?

  I stare down the dark road, first one way then the other. The sun may be rising, but it’s mostly behind the enormous mountains that seem to cut off the left end of the long ribbon of highway. I strain my ears. Birdsong, louder and more insistent now. More leaves rustling in a light breeze. A pressing silence in between.

  A shudder runs through me, uncontrollable. My toes curl painfully inside my shoes. My mouth fills with saliva. I swallow several times. My guts twist a second before I bend over abruptly and heave. Nothing but a thin stream of bile and spit. I stand, knees apart, propping myself up with my hands, panting like a sick dog, and stare at the slick patch of vomit on the asphalt in front of my battered running shoes.

  Walking. I should be walking. Somewhere. I need to move. I need to find help. Need to get away. My skin pebbles with goosebumps, the hairs standing on end. I swivel my head every which way, trying to pinpoint where this sudden foreboding is coming from.

  There’s nothing. Nothing and no one.

  Clumsily, I wipe my mouth, my chin, my cheeks, then scrub my sleeve on the dewy grass. I scrub my fingers along my scalp, trying to get rid of the sensation of ants, feel the pull of a ponytail, gone loose now, the elastic pulled almost to the end. I undo the tail fully, tearing out strands in my haste. Hair past my shoulders, heavy, sweeping along the synthetic shell I’m wearing. I pull it all back into a tight bundle, secure it with the elastic, put in a few twists, tuck in the ends. I feel something like familiarity as I tap the bun riding high at the back of my head. It loosens suddenly, slipping through my fingertips. I redo it all into a loose bun at the nape of my neck instead, grasping at the small bit of comfort from how normal it feels.

  I stare again down the still-empty highway, fighting the distress just behind the insistent thud of a worsening headache. A wave of fatigue hits me. I blink against the rush of pressure behind my eyes. My brain fills again, this time with questions. Where am I? How did I end up here? Why is this happening?

  I scour my memory for any hint of a clue, find nothing but a thick blankness, shot through with threads of unease. Chest tight, I pat at my pockets, fumble stiff hands inside, come up empty. No phone, no wallet. How do I get home with no money? Oh God, I don’t even know where home is. I close my eyes, prodding at the blackness in my head for an address . . . an image of a house . . . anything, a bill, or a . . . or a driver’s licence—

  Sweet Jesus. I don’t know what I look like. I don’t know my name. Frantic, I spin on my heel, my gaze everywhere, hummingbird-like, as though a name might be darting just past my field of view, if only I could snatch it, quickly, before it disappears.

  I’m panting again. My stomach flutters. I press a hand against my abdomen, take slow, deep breaths, grimace at the smell of my breath in the morning air.

  Who the hell am I?

  No, stop it. I need . . . I need to be in motion. I know precious little right now, but—damned if I’m going to stand here, waiting for someone else to save me.

  Ignoring the trembling of my limbs, I turn myself away from the bright sky. I put one foot in front of the other, toward the still-grey west.

  Two

  Hi, um, can I speak to someone please? I need help.”

  My eyes can’t seem to stay on any one thing, jumping from the plastic-framed glasses perched on the receptionist’s nose to her grey-blond hair to the round, gem-encrusted brooch winking from her sweater. I feel the strain of shoulders hunched too long, try to straighten myself up, but it’s hard to overcome the sense of foreboding.

  The white woman behind the counter blinks, then looks past my shoulder before returning her gaze to me.

  “What’s the nature of your problem? Once I have that, I can get t
he appropriate help.” Her voice is pleasant and soothing, a contrast to her pursed lips and cool, pale gaze.

  I hesitate, pushing aside my wobbly fatigue. What choice do I really have here? I need the police to help me. I think I may need them to . . . protect me. From who, I don’t know, but I get the sense it doesn’t matter if I know. That feeling of being unsafe . . . it’s not going away. That sends a shiver through me, though I try to hide it with a grimace. I just . . . I hate the thought of displaying weakness to this woman. Anyone can tell from looking she’s not inclined to help. She has a judgment about me, I can feel it, like cobwebs against my face. I just don’t know if I can afford to care. I grit my teeth for a second, then dive in.

  “I woke up at the side of the highway and I have no idea how I got there.” She raises one light-brown eyebrow. I take a deep breath, finish the rest. “Also, I don’t remember who I am.”

  Even seated, she manages to give the impression of looking down her nose at me. I resist the urge to straighten up. I don’t need to impress her, for chrissake. As if to remind me it’d be a long shot anyway, all the aches in my body throb in unison. Another full-body shudder. The pain reminds me what I have to lose if she throws me out on my sorry ass. I wrap my hands around myself, trying to warm up from the chill of being on my own against—

  From behind me, my good Samaritan steps up. She places a long-fingered hand, tipped with immaculate bedazzled purple nails, on the desk’s edge. “I saw her just outside of Field, walking on the Number 1. We all know that’s not a safe place for a woman alone.” A short pause. “She looked safe enough, so I stopped. Then she told me her story.” Another pause. “What there is of it, I mean. So I brought her straight here.”

  “And you are?” The receptionist’s expression remains coolly judgmental as she tips her head up, looking through the bottom half of her glasses.

  “Thea Halford. I live here. In Golden, I mean. I was coming back from Lake Louise. Worked a bachelor party.” She rattles off an address, tossing her sleek dark ponytail. “Do you need my ID or something?”

  The receptionist puts up a hand. “Let me start a file and capture all this. Then I’ll call a constable, okay?”

  Thea pats my shoulder. “It’s gonna be all right.”

  “Thanks.” The skin around my eyes feels tight. I manage a shaky whisper. “I hope so.”

  Despite her aloofness, or maybe because of it, the receptionist is fast and efficient. I tell her everything I can, which accounts for the fast part. Thea is patient and articulate, breezily forthcoming with her personal info, and the fact that she’s a stripper. My gaze flicks between Thea and the older woman. I note the way the receptionist speaks to Thea in clipped tones, her mouth downturned. But Thea only appears amused, her expression just this side of a smirk.

  My chest constricts suddenly, goosing my heart rate, pumping blood in a roaring wave that buzzes in my ears. I survey the waiting area again with a jerky gaze, see the same empty hard-plastic seats as I did minutes ago. Dread creeps up my spine as I stare at the sliding entry doors, replacing the roar in my head with the static of growing panic. Oh God. Will it be . . . now? Or . . . now? The doors, Jesus, the doors. Anyone can stroll right in. Any stranger. Or worse—someone who knows me, someone who did this to—

  I force several deep breaths, gripping the counter with clumsy fingers. I focus on my gratitude for Thea’s kindness this morning, on her refusal to let the receptionist’s attitude needle her. I focus on the fact that I’m inside, at a police station. I’m not alone. I repeat that to myself as many times as it takes while the receptionist types rapid-fire into her computer. She then dismisses Thea with curt instructions that a constable will likely be in contact.

  Thea sweetly requests a blank piece of paper. She writes out her phone number and address, finishing her name with a flourish. I find myself surprised at Thea’s beautiful penmanship. I turn my face away, hiding my flush of shame. I’m no better than the receptionist, with her blatant disdain.

  Thea folds the paper into a perfect square, hands it over with a genuine smile. “Promise you’ll contact me as soon as you figure it all out. Write, call, text, I don’t care. Just let me know, okay?” She holds onto the paper, her dark eyes intent, until I give my word. We part with a hug. Thea squeezes my hand and wishes me luck.

  I watch her leave the RCMP detachment building, then turn back to the woman at reception. She’s not wearing a uniform and there’s no nameplate for reference. Her chilly demeanour doesn’t invite questions. And there’s no one else in the waiting area to talk to. Not that I would.

  Shoulders hunched again, I move to sit far from the door, next to a fern of some kind in a bright blue ceramic floor planter. I rotate the square of paper in my hands over and over and over again, handling it by the corners. The receptionist stands, ignoring me, to move to a printer farther back behind the desk. Pocketing the paper square, I grip the sides of my seat, swing my feet back and forth, trying to burn off my jumpiness. The tips of my shoes barely scrape the heavy-duty linoleum floor. I stop when my knees twinge sharply all of a sudden, leaving me breathless from the pain.

  A door opens to the right of the reception area. A Japanese Canadian woman steps out. There’s no mistaking her position. Thick-soled boots, trousers with the stripe up the sides, green-grey shirt, full duty belt. She holds out her hand. I take a breath and stand, stumbling a bit as my toe catches. I have to crane my neck back a bit to look at her face properly.

  “I’m Constable Naomi Aoki. Lenore’s started a file on your situation, and I’m here to help you fill in some of the gaps if I can.” Her handshake is firm, dry.

  I stare at her gun in its holster.

  “Right now, I’m going to take you to the hospital and get some tests run. You need to be examined for injuries and sexual assault.” Aoki’s voice is low and no-nonsense. “Do you feel any bruising? As though you’ve been assaulted?”

  I feel the blood drain from my face. “No.” I swallow. “I . . . No.”

  Aoki nods. “All right. A nurse and maybe a doctor will examine you, gently. But if they believe something’s happened and they advise the full sexual assault exam, it’s best if you agree.” She pauses. “I also advise a drug screen in addition to the physical exam, miss. Your amnesia could be drug-related.”

  Frowning, I say, “I know I might not be the best judge right now, but I don’t think I’m a drug addict.”

  Aoki nods, once. “What I mean is, let’s get the drug screen done and see if it can help us determine why you’ve lost your memory. They’ll draw a little blood and analyze it at the hospital. They’ll have a form for you to sign—consent to have your exam and test results shared with us.”

  I open my mouth. Aoki nods, gestures with a hand, stalling my question.

  “We’ll have the hospital people witness, since you’ll have to be a Jane Doe for now.” She ducks her head slightly, maybe to put her eyes level with mine. “And I’ll be at your side at the hospital, wherever you want me. You won’t have to do this alone. All right?”

  I notice my hands are aching. I look down. My fists press tightly against my thighs. I force them to relax, open up. I watch the crescent marks on my palms going from white to an angry pink, darkening to red indentations in my dry skin. I suppose I should be grateful for short nails.

  I breathe out slowly, meet her determined grey gaze with what I hope is a show of confidence. “Let’s go.”

  The hospital is a short drive in a buffed, shiny RCMP truck. Aoki takes me through Emergency, and it’s all a blur from there. Forms and questions. Signatures and witnesses. Needles and vials and cool, searching hands encased in latex. Drawn curtains and the illusion of privacy. I answer as truthfully as I’m able. The nurse leaves a lot of blanks on the forms. Through it all, Aoki keeps her promise, her tall shadow against the curtains a steadying presence.

  In the end, the full sexual assault test isn’t necessary, just some awkward minutes on my back, atop an exam table with my heels in gre
y plastic stirrups while the Filipina nurse makes a visual assessment. But serious bruising on both knees and my left shin. Deep black-purple swells, speckled red. Like I banged them against something really hard. Added to the soreness in my arms, shoulders, and back, the nurse wonders in a murmur if I got in a fight. The doctor, a slender brown man, finds a tender spot behind my left temple, too. He jokes they won’t have to shave my head, at least. I feel stupid for laughing as soon as it’s out of my mouth. I take the offered pain meds, averting my gaze.

  Sobering, the doctor warns me I might also be in for some nightmares as my brain works to put me back together. Once he leaves, the nurse touches me gently on the shoulder, asks if I’d like to clean up a bit. Handing me a rough towel and an individually wrapped toothbrush, she leads me to a nearby restroom. I can’t change clothes, but I do scrub all my grimiest bits, using the coldest water I can stand. I discover the toothbrush comes prepped with a harsh mint toothpaste. It burns a little in my mouth, making my eyes water.

  When I exit, the same nurse tells me she hopes I get what I need to heal. I thank her and clumsily hand over the damp, dirt-streaked towel. Far from a fair trade for her unexpected kindness, but it’s all I have.

  Aoki grabs us coffee as we wait for the blood-work results. I take a sip, swallow with difficulty. It’s burned and overly sweetened. I force myself to finish, if only to distract from the unpredictable, frightening bustle of so many strangers surrounding me. I pull my legs up onto my chair, settling my feet flat on the seat. When a nurse arrives to hand over a single sheet of paper, he immediately shuffles me off to a staff therapist, an Indigenous woman with a sharp gaze. It’s a quick consult, no-nonsense questions, some discussion of the test results, and an off-hand caution. I find Aoki finishing a phone call in the hallway as I exit the therapist’s small office. I thrust the sheet of test results at her.

  “Rohypnol.” Aoki’s expression turns grim. “Drug of choice for rapists. Causes short-term memory loss.” She looks at me sidelong as I drop into a chair along the wall.

  I grimace at the bitter taste in my mouth, fight the urge to vomit, silently curse the burned coffee from earlier. “I’m sure I wasn’t raped.” It comes out a rough whisper.