Aunt Abbie sits in the driver's seat and grips the wheel tightly. I notice the way she glances in my direction, her eyebrows knot into a worried frown. Ever since I told her that my memories are slowly returning, she's stuck between excitement and concern. She's afraid that I might not handle the influx of memories, especially of what had occurred during the accident.

"You sure you're ready for this, Riley?"

I nod in determination. "I want to do this."

Her gaze glides back to the front, her lips pressed firmly together. The red traffic light switches to green and her foot pushes the pedal to get the car moving. "Alright, but promise me you'll let me know if it becomes too overwhelming for you?"

"Of course."

She takes us through Central Plaza and we go all the way to the other side of the town where I used to live once. Glancing out of the window, trees whizz by us and the low hum of the running engine lulls me deep into a world of my own. What does my old house look like now? Will I find more memories there? Will there be more clues to the reason behind us leaving Lakeshore?

My phone buzzes in my jeans pocket, and I pull it out to read the text. It's from Kyle.

😭

❓

👀

I laugh to myself quietly. Poor him. Today, he's helping his mother. There's a free flower arrangement class every Saturday afternoon for the elderly at the nearby nursing home. I can imagine him being forced to be a good boy by helping the folks out. And with that face of his, he'll no doubt be popular among the grandmothers.

I type back a quick Good luck and add an emoticon with its tongue sticking out playfully before keeping my phone away. Aunt Abbie has just driven the car into the driveway of the house.

At first glance, I'm surprised by the vast changes that are done to the house. First off, the colors on the walls are different. What used to be a warm shade of yellow has been repainted to a dark blue color. The front porch looks different now because Mom's favorite flower bed is gone and replaced with a small garden fountain and rows of flowerpots. Overall, they remodeled the entire house to one of those modern, sleek designs you see in IKEA's magazines.

The owners—a young, friend-looking couple in their early thirties—come out of the house and my aunt goes up to them to exchange a few words. Before this, she has already contacted them since we're dropping by for a short while. They offer her a warm smile before their eyes sweep past her to meet mine with a look of understanding. I return a polite smile and linger on the lawn, casually walking from one end to the other to observe the place.

Something twists in my heart. Sadness. Disappointment. The decor is so new that it hurts that I can't see traces of my old home. I've lost it. There's no sense of belonging here anymore. It's all in the past.

However, when the thought of my current family and Kyle crosses my mind, I think that maybe it's okay. A house doesn't make a home, it's the people that make it.

I'll be fine.

We stick around the house for a couple more minutes before making our way back to the car. Before I can get in, someone shouts my name from across the street a few times. The figure scuttles down her lawn in white flip-flops and across the empty road.

"Riley! Abbie!"

We pause in our steps. It's an older woman whom I don't recognize, looking in her late fifties. Her raven hair sits on top of her head in a messy bun with few gray strands and she's wearing a long, brown dress. In short, swift steps, she closes the distance between us and her hands grasp my arms.

"Riley! It's good to see you again, dear! And Abbie, how have you both been?"

My wide eyes dart towards my aunt for help and she mouths 'your neighbor' before supplying a name. "Mrs. Morales! We've been doing really well."

"That's great to hear!" My old neighbor stares at me for a long moment, her expression solemn and apologetic. "I'm sorry for your loss. Ava was a wonderful woman. I was extremely sad when we sent her off at the funeral and heard all about your condition."

I still can't get used to the pitiful looks that people usually give me when they know that I've lost my mom. "I appreciate you for being there."

"Oh no, it's not a problem. That's what neighbors are for. Besides, we got along really well. I miss giving you guys my homemade lemon meringue pies. You used to love them so much. In fact, I just baked one earlier. Would you ladies care to join me?"

Aunt Abbie answers on our behalf quickly. "Oh no. We don't wish to intrude you—"

"It's fine, it's fine! Come on into my house! It won't take long."

Since she's showing such warm hospitality, we can't find a reason to turn her down. We step into her beautiful vintage home that smells like herbs. Persian carpets with intricate floral designs cover most of the floorboards and they have decorated the windows with heavy drapes. Three long-haired cats immediately scurry out of our sight the moment they hear us entering, clearly afraid of strangers.

Mrs. Morales brings out the plates and makes some tea while Aunt Abbie excuses herself to answer a work call. When I try to help, she steers me back to my seat. "Sit, darling. My joints might pop here and there, but I can handle this."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Mrs. Morales is fine, my dear."

"Yes, Mrs. Morales."

Beaming, she brings out the freshly baked lemon meringue pie from the oven and I almost drool at the sight. It looks delicious. As she cuts it into slices, she casually starts another conversation.

"How have you really been? I can't imagine how the past year has been like for you. First, someone broke into your house, then you girls moved out of Lakeshore and there was the car crash. Everything must have been horrible for you, and you deserve none of that."

My body freezes immediately. "Someone broke into our house?"

"Yes, dear. It happened after midnight. There was a loud scream coming from your house and it woke the entire street. Edmund—my husband—drew out his shotgun from the storeroom and ran straight to your house. He fired a warning shot and—poof—the man's gone."

"Was he arrested?"

"No, he slipped away from the police. He was a sneaky one, that man. He ran really fast. No one had a good look on his face because he was wearing a mask. And if my memory serves me right, Ava suffered a broken arm. You had a few scratches, but you were fine. Just shaken up."

My face pales at her story retelling and her hand reaches for mine to give a supporting squeeze. "Dear, don't worry so much about it. It happened more than a year ago. Now you are fine. You're living well under Abbie's family's care. You're safe."

I listen to her words, nodding numbly, and yet my mind is like a blank sheet of paper. I write no words on it because there are no answers.

I don't know what's happening anymore.

***

What Mrs. Morales has shared with us doesn't leave my mind. I strongly believe that it's the work of the same person. They assaulted Mom before the car accident, and now this. Knowing that the attacker got this close to us before we left town, I finally see the extent of this whole stalking scenario.

Whoever this person is, he's hunting us and wants us gone. Forever.

But the question is—why?

Aunt Abbie and I don't stay for long. Once we've finished the pies, we take our leave and Mrs. Morales shows us the way out of her house. "The lemon meringue pie was delicious, Mrs. Morales," I say.

A pleased smile forms on her lips. "You'll come to visit us once in a while? I'll make other desserts next time. I used to run a cafe in my early years. How does strawberry shortcake sound?"

I nod my head and offer her a sweet smile. "Perfect. I'm looking forward to it."

Once we reach home after picking Judy from school, Aunt Abbie tells me to grab the mail while she heads inside to make dinner. The metal mailbox is half full and I grab all the letters, sifting through the pile slowly. When I spot one with my name on it, I rip off the back flap of the envelope and pull out a letter.

As I read the typewritten message in red, bold words, my heart leaps to my throat. Fear crawls all across my skin and my blood pounds in my veins hard. All the hairs on the nape of my neck stand up.

REMEMBER NOTHING.

OR I'M COMING FOR YOU.

I flip both the note and the envelope. There's no name by the sender. It's just my name and address.

Realization dawns on me—I'm not safe at the moment. In fact, I never was. Someone has been constantly watching me and there's only one suspect who comes to my mind first—the same man who has given me the plane ticket and demanded that I leave with him.

My father.

❤️

😥 💪🏻