I couldn’t remember being in this office every damn week. “Doc, what the hell happened to me?”

“This is the first time you’ve asked that question.” A faint smile. “So I think you really must be getting better.” Shifting to his right, he picked up a file, but the action seemed to be more out of habit than anything else, because he spoke without looking at it.

“Bare basics—you took a serious blow to the head in the accident. A heavy metal card case—it turned out to be a promotional item you were given that night. Anyway, it flew up from your dashboard during the accident and embedded itself partially in your brain.”

My hand lifted to the scar at my hairline.

“Yes, that’s where.” Dr. Binchy nodded. “A real freak accident that it flew up at exactly the right angle and speed to do so much damage. The young lady with you kept a calm head and stopped you from pulling out either that or the branch embedded in your chest. It was lucky you had a veterinary nurse in the car. You’re not her usual patient, but she did exactly the right thing.”

Of course bubbly giggly Daisy worked with animals. The information would have been catnip to my cold, bastard heart.

“Yeah,” was all I managed to say, my voice a croak. “How long was I in hospital?”

“Five weeks. Some of it in an induced coma. You’ve been home a month.”

That, at least, lined up with my memories. It also told me that my foot must’ve been seriously pulverized. “What are the long-term effects?”

“Hard to predict. I’m continuing to work together with Dr. Varma on your case, and at this stage, we’re seeing signs of minor ongoing cognitive deficiency—but before you panic, it’s early days yet. Your brain’s still repairing itself.”

I had no clue who Dr. Varma was, but that wasn’t my major concern right then. “And you’ve told me that it can affect memories,” I said, because I had to be sure he’d actually said that and I hadn’t just misremembered.

“Yes.” The doctor’s eyes were sharp. “Have you noticed any improvement or deterioration when it comes to your memories?”

Spine locked, I shook my head.

Minor cognitive deficiencies.

“I did have a migraine.”

“Just the one?” At my nod, he said, “That’s an improvement. Have you been writing?”

“Yes. Crap.”

“May I see a page or two?”

“Sure.” Bringing up the latest cloud file on my phone, I handed over the device. “Never going to see the light of day.”

As he read the words on the screen, I had the sudden fear that they were gibberish, that I’d just been typing with no rational thought. Then I wondered whether to confess that the blow to the head had screwed up my childhood memories.

But what would be the point? He couldn’t exactly go in and fix my neural wiring. And a confession might land me with more tests and medical appointments and I didn’t have time for that. I just had to be careful. Do a journal like I had as a teenager. Note down everything.

“This is incredible, Aarav. Your prose is as crisp and subtly sarcastic as in your first novel.”

My muscles trembled so hard I had to fight to stay upright. “You read Blood Sacrifice?”

“Yes. Dr. Varma and I both did. We have a writer for a patient. We needed a baseline.” He handed back the phone. “You might think that’s crap, but to my reader’s eye it’s up to your usual standards.”

My breath suddenly came easier. “Yeah well, pretty words are fine, but what I need is the meat.” I’d much rather talk plot holes than the holes in my memory. “How long will it take?” I pointed to my head.

“Unknown,” he said, “but given your progress to date, I’m cautiously optimistic.” He picked up one of those tiny light-tubes doctors liked to flash into your eyes. “Let’s go through a few basic tests.”

It turned out my reflexes and senses were just fine. It was only my brain that was rattled.

“That’s why I gave you the go-ahead to drive last week,” Dr. Binchy said. “Your cognitive issues have to do with memory—but not memory related to things like driving or how to walk or make a meal.”

“Nice horror story, Doc.” I hadn’t even considered how much worse it could’ve been.

A slight smile. “Rest. Try not to stress despite the circumstances and allow your brain to heal.”

It was only when I was back in the parking lot of the surgery that I really noticed the large sign out front. It said Neurological Associates in block letters, with four names listed beneath. One of those was Dr. Deepa Varma, Neurologist.

Nothing there. No memory at all.

19

I drove straight to a bookshop after the appointment and bought several notebooks thin and small enough to fit into any jacket and even into my back jeans pocket.

Then I sat in a café, drank Cokes, and wrote down the details of my appointment with Dr. Binchy. I also noted what I’d learned from Constable Neri, as well as my strange encounter with Alice yesterday.

I added another note in all caps: ASK GRANDMA ELEI WHAT SHE SAW THAT NIGHT. But I didn’t write anything about my father’s drunken ranting or what I’d read in my journal. I couldn’t risk that information falling into the wrong hands.

But what if I forgot it all?

No, Dr. Binchy had said I was improving. All the lost memories were in the past.

After spotting the time when I finally lifted my head, I called Shanti and told her I’d get Pari on my way home. It wasn’t until I was in the car that I realized I hadn’t actually eaten anything since breakfast. Probably not good for my physical healing; I’d make up for it at dinner tonight.