He wakes up on a deserted beach in Maryland, wearing only
swim trunks and a gash on his head. He can’t remember who he is. Everything—his
identity, his life, his loved ones—has been replaced by a dizzying fog of
uncertainty. But returning to his Maine hometown in search of the truth raises
more questions than answers.
Lily Reid thinks she knows her boyfriend, Jack. Until he
goes missing one night, and her frantic search reveals that he’s been lying to
her since they met, desperate to escape a dark past he’d purposely left behind.
Maya Scott has been trying to find her estranged
stepbrother, Asher, since he disappeared without a trace. Having him back,
missing memory and all, feels like a miracle. But with a mutual history full of
devastating secrets, how far will Maya go to ensure she alone takes them to the
grave?
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Chapter 1—The Man from the Beach
Cold. Cold was the first word that came to mind. The first thing I noticed
when I woke up. Not a slight, uncomfortable chill to give me the shivers, but a
cramp-inducing, iced-to-the-bone kind of frozen. I lay flat on my stomach, my
left ear and cheek pressed into the rough, grainy wet ground beneath me, my
entire body shaking. As my thoughts attempted to assemble themselves into some
form of understandable order, a wave of icy water nipped at my bare toes and
ankles, my instincts pulling my feet out of reach.
I had a sudden urge to get up, a primal
need to take in my surroundings and assess the danger—was I in danger?—but the
throbbing pain deep in my head made the slightest effort to shift anything seem
impossible. Lifting a finger would be too much effort, and I acquiesced,
allowing myself to lie still for another few freezing seconds as the frigid
water crept over the balls of my feet again. When I blinked my eyes open, I was
met by a thick, fuzzy darkness enveloping me like a cloak. Where the hell was
I? And wherever it was, what was I doing here?
When I lifted my head a fraction of an
inch, I could barely make out anything in front of me. There was hardly a noise
either, nothing but a gentle, steady rumble in the background, and the cry of a
bird somewhere in the distance. I made my brain work its way backward—bird,
rumble, sand, water—and the quartet formed the vaguely cohesive image of a
beach.
Searching for confirmation, I inhaled the
salty, humid air deep into my lungs as another slosh of water took aim at my
calves. This time the discomfort was enough to push me to my feet, and I
wrapped my arms around my naked torso, my sopping board shorts clinging to my
goose-bump-covered thighs. An explosion of pain in my head threatened to send
me back to my knees, and I swayed gently, wishing I had something to steady
myself with, willing my body to stay upright. As I pressed a hand to the side
of my skull, I let out a quiet yelp, and felt along a two-inch gash in my
scalp. My eyes had adjusted somewhat to the lack of light, and my fingertips
were covered in something dark that smelled of rust. Blood. How had I…?
Another low rumble made me turn around,
shuffling slowly in a semicircle. The behemoth effort was rewarded by the sight
of a thousand glistening waves dancing under the moonlight like diamonds, the
water stretching out and disappearing into the darkness beyond. As my ears
tuned in to the rhythmic whoosh of the waves, my mind worked hard to process
each scrap of information it took in.
I’m
definitely on a beach. It’s nighttime. I’m alone. What am I doing here?
Before I could answer the single question,
a thousand others crowded my brain, an incessant string of chatter I couldn’t
stop or get away from.
Where
is everyone? Never mind them, where am I? Have I been here long? How did I get
here? Where was I before? Where are my clothes? What day is it?
My legs buckled. Not because of the
unfamiliar surroundings, the cold burrowing its way deeper into my core, or the
pain in my head, which had increased tenfold. No. My knees hit the sand with a
dull crunch when I realized I couldn’t answer any of the questions because I
couldn’t recall anything. Nothing. Not the tiniest of details.
Including my name.
Chapter
2—Lily
A frown settled over my face as I put my phone
on the table, pushed the bowl of unfinished berry oatmeal away and stretched
out my legs. It was Saturday morning, and I’d been up for ages, too eager—too
hopeful—to spend a day at the beach with Jack, but those plans had been a
literal wash-out. The start to the summer felt capricious, with this second
storm in the last week of June poised to be much worse than the first. I’d
convinced myself the weatherwoman had exaggerated or got her forecast
completely wrong, but clouds had rolled in overnight anyway. As a result, I’d
been unceremoniously woken up at two thirty by a trio of bright lightning,
deafening thunderclaps and heavy raindrops pelting against my bedroom window.
At first, I’d pulled my pillow over my head
to deafen the noise, and when that didn’t work, I rolled over and stretched out
an arm. The spot next to me was empty and cold, and I groaned. Jack hadn’t come
over to my place as I’d hoped he would, slipping into bed and pressing his
naked body against mine. I’d buried my face back into my pillow and tried to
ignore the tinge of disappointment. We hadn’t seen much of each other this past
week, both of us too busy with our jobs to spend more than a night together,
and I missed him. Jack had called the day before to tell me he’d be working late,
finishing the stain on the cabinets he’d labored on for weeks before his boss
had to let him go. Apparently expensive custom kitchens weren’t in as high
demand in Brookmount, Maryland as originally thought.
“But you got laid off,” I’d said. “It’s
your last day. Why do you care?”
“Because I made a commitment. Besides,
it’ll help when I need a reference.”
Typical Jack, always keeping his word. He’d
bought a lottery ticket once, and the clerk had jokingly asked if he’d give him
half of any winnings. Jack had laughed and shaken the man’s hand, and when he
won ten bucks on the ticket, had promptly returned to the store, and paid over
the share as promised. His loyalty was one of the many things I loved about
Jack, although part of me wished he weren’t quite as dedicated to his
soon-to-be ex-boss.
“You could come over to my place when
you’re done,” I said, smiling slowly. “I’ll leave the key under the umbrella
stand. I don’t mind you waking me up gently in the middle of the night…or not
so gently.”
Jack laughed softly. The sound was
something I’d fallen in love with eighteen months ago after our eyes had met
across a crowded bar, the mother of all uninspired first-encounter clichés,
except in this case I’d been forced to admit clichés weren’t always a bad thing.
“It’ll be really late, Lily,” he said, his
voice deep. His English accent was something of a rarity in our small coastal
town, and still capable of making my legs wobble in anticipation of his next
words. “I’ll go for a quick swim now, then finish up work. How about I come
over in the morning? Around nine? I’ll bring you breakfast in bed.”
“Blueberry pancakes from Patti’s? With
extra maple syrup?”
“This time I’ll order three stacks to make
sure I get some.”
“Pancakes or sex?” I said, before telling
him how much I loved him, and whispering exactly how I’d thank him for waking
me with sweet weekend treats. I’d hoped it might change his mind and he’d come
over earlier, except it was ten now, and he still hadn’t showed. It was odd.
Jack detested being late as much as he loved being early. He often joked they
set Greenwich Mean Time by his father’s old watch, which Jack had worn since
his dad passed a little over a decade before we’d met, when Jack was only twenty.
I checked my phone again. Jack hadn’t
answered either of my calls, another anomaly, but I tried to talk myself into
believing he’d worked late into the night to make the final good impression he
wanted, and overslept. Maybe there was a line at Patti’s—the restaurant was
slammed every weekend—and perhaps his phone was set to silent.
I picked up my bowl and wandered to the
kitchen. My place was the smallest of six apartments, a tiny but
well-maintained one-bedroom in a building a few miles from the beach, farther
than I’d planned, but the closest I could afford. I’d lived there for almost
five years, had furnished it with an eclectic assortment of third-hand
furniture, my favorite piece a royal blue microfiber sofa I’d bought for fifty
bucks, and which Jack swore was the most comfortable thing he’d ever sat on.
Whenever he sank down into it and pulled me on top of him with a contented
sigh, I’d tease him about what made him happier; the squishy, well-worn
cushions, or me.
The image made my frown deepen. Where was
he?
Excerpted from You Will Remember Me
by Hannah Mary McKinnon, Copyright © 2021 by Hannah McKinnon. Published
by MIRA Books
About the Author
Hannah Mary McKinnon was born in
the UK, grew up in Switzerland and moved to Canada in 2010. After a successful
career in recruitment, she quit the corporate world in favor of writing, and is
now the author of The Neighbors, Her Secret
Son, and Sister Dear. She lives
in Oakville, Ontario, with her husband and three sons, and is delighted by her
twenty-second commute.
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