I tried not to think about the fact that there was no good reason I would have needed to check into a motel if I'd been with my husband. I'm pretty young, but I live in a really small town where just about everyone gets married before they're twenty, like I did. It's just what people do around here. I looked at the mess around me. I'd been dating Shawn since I was in high school, plenty long enough to know that he definitely didn't drink wine. Not even whiskey, really.

And yet despite my fear about whatever it was I'd done the night before, and despite my apparent blackout, and the pervasive smell of stale cigarettes—and some other smell too, I noticed now, something faintly rancid—I felt, well . . . great.

It was as if I'd been sleeping for days and had woken up completely refreshed. I didn't have the slightest headache. I didn't feel a hint of nausea. When I stood, I practically leapt out of bed. I pulled on my pants and felt like I had the energy to race up a cliff.

But I still couldn't remember anything.

Other than the bottles everywhere, there was no evidence of whoever else had been with me in the room. The only clothes I'd found on the floor had been mine, and the bathroom was empty. The only thing in the mini-bar fridge, weirdly, was an empty gallon milk container.

I looked under the bed and checked my pockets, but I couldn't find my phone. So I couldn't even look at my recent calls. Had I lost it, or had someone stolen it? I had no idea. . .

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