by Joel Shulkin
“Dead lab tech outside. Shot through his glasses. Figured it was Santos’s work.”
Santos’s carotid thrummed weakly. Cristina ripped open his shirt. Her heart sank. Blood streamed from a wound below his ribcage.
“It hit his liver. I can’t stop the bleeding.”
“It’s . . . as it should be,” Santos said. “My work is done. You . . . are free.”
A whiff of alcohol on his breath reminded her of their last meeting on the bus, when he’d attacked her. Instantly, she understood. “You stopped taking Recognate. You knew you weren’t my father.”
“I tracked down subjects and stole their pills, but . . . it became too difficult. I stopped for eight months.”
“How did you not go crazy?”
“They did not steal my entire memory. I always knew who I was. The only thing they gave me . . . was you.” Santos coughed violently. “My feelings for you . . . were still there. I was driven . . . to release you . . . to help you restore your . . . true self. To become Sabrina Carvalho once again . . . But after we spoke in the Boston Commons . . . when you showed compassion for me . . . even after learning the truth . . . I couldn’t lose you, either. I . . . started taking them again.”
“Why?” Tears blurred her vision. She wiped them away. “You were free. Why would you risk everything for me when I’m not your daughter?”
With great effort, he placed his hand on hers. “You’re the daughter I always dreamed . . .” Santos’s voice faded to a wheeze. His eyes closed.
Cristina laid her head on his chest. Her sobs drowned out his final breath.
Chapter Seventy-Two
two months later
“Do you see her?” Wilson asked as they stood by the baggage claim exit at Boston Logan Airport.
“Not yet.” Passengers shuffled past. Cristina stood on tiptoes to look over their heads. “There she is.”
Maria Carvalho waved from the bottom of the escalator and approached. The automatic door swung open. “Oi! Cheguei! ”
“Bem-vinda! ” Cristina embraced her sister. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Nor can I. Tá frio! ” Maria pantomimed a shiver.
“I brought you a coat.” Cristina indicated Wilson. “I’d like you to meet Gary.”
“Muito prazer.” Wilson blushed at his bad Portuguese. “That was off, wasn’t it?”
“Close enough.” Maria laughed.
“I’ll get your bags.” He headed for the carousel.
“Bonito,” Maria said as they watched him go.
“Yeah, he’s a good catch. So, how was your first international flight?”
“Long, but good. Enough about me. How are you, really?”
“Every day’s another step forward. That’s what I tell my patients.”
“Are you working again?”
“Not yet, but I plan to reopen soon. I’m even bringing Devi back once she finishes her community service.”
In a low voice, Maria said, “Did they arrest you?”
“No. Anyone else who knew about my past is dead. As far as the government is concerned, I’m an innocent victim.”
“Graças a Deus.” Maria squeezed her hand. “Mother would be proud of you.”
“My memory’s still spotty, but I remember her as well as I remember the Silvas.
I wish they were still alive.” Cristina squeezed back and smiled. “At least I have you.”
“Always, but how did you remain sane?”
Once again, Cristina saw Quinn hovering over her, wielding the rifle. She grimaced and forced the memory away. “Sabrina made mistakes, but she wasn’t a bad person. Instead of fighting for dominance, we accepted each other. We’re part of each other. I know who I am now—who I really am. But . . .”
“But what?”
“There are still some things that don’t add up. There are still some things that don’t add up. You said I disappeared three years ago—but I only showed up in Boston as Cristina Silva two years ago. Where was I in that missing year? And what did Quinn use to steal memory? Santos said—”
Wilson approached, dragging a bulging suitcase. “You sure you brought enough clothes?”
“I’m Brazilian.” Maria laughed again. “Most of it is shoes.”
He glanced at Cristina’s face and frowned. “You’re not unloading your life’s questions on her, are you?”
“No.” Cristina held his hand, savoring the warmth. “I’ve got all the answers I need.”
They chatted as they walked to the parking garage. Halfway up the fourth parking row, Wilson handed Cristina a set of car keys. She pressed a button. The taillights on a red Mini Cooper flashed.
“Nice car,” Maria said.
“Thanks. It’s a birthday present to myself.”
“It’s yours?” Maria gaped. “I thought you hated driving.”
Cristina grinned. “After runaway cars, buses and motorcycles, I think I can handle a Mini.” They loaded the car and climbed in. Cristina’s hands trembled as she gripped the steering wheel, but this time it wasn’t due to withdrawal. I’m in control.
“Whose birthday are we celebrating?” Maria buckled up. “Sabrina Carvalho’s or Cristina Silva’s?”
“Neither. We’re celebrating my rebirth.” Cristina wrinkled her nose as she turned the key. “Better hold on tight.”
With a whoop, Cristina hit the accelerator and they raced off to face the world.
Acknowledgments
It all started with a random person sitting behind me on an empty bus.
Over the next fifteen years, that seemingly innocuous chance encounter has evolved into the story of a desperate woman seeking the pieces of her past, no matter the cost. Although I’m not a memory specialist, I drew heavily on my training and experience as a developmental-behavioral pediatrician and interaction with psychiatrist and other mental health professionals to craft this book and, in particular, to breathe life into Dr. Cristina Silva.
Although this book is a work of fiction, and there is no drug of which I’m aware that works like Recognate, scientists are constantly publishing new studies on memory and potential memory enhancers. As I was writing this book, I was taking courses on medical law, global ethics, and human rights at the Harvard School of Public Health, where I learned about the real-life threat of absent Institutional Review Board oversight of pharmaceutical studies in third world countries.
In addition to my numerous instructors in creative writing and medicine, and of course my parents who always supported my love of writing, there are several other specific individuals without whose help this book would have remained incomplete. First, a big thank you to Lynnette Novak, who served as sounding board, editor, and advocate. Also, thanks to Nicole Resciniti and the rest of the Seymour Agency for all of your support.
Thank you to Dana Isaacson, whose feedback as a developmental editor elevated this book to a new level, and to Josh Gross, whose line edits prevented minor discrepancies from derailing the story. Thank you as well to Rick Bleiweiss, Josie Woodbridge, and Josh Stanton at Blackstone for believing in this book.
Huge shouts to my beta readers, Christina Clemetson, Rebecca Fujikawa, and Cheryl Wyatt, and to everyone at FanStory.com and QueryTracker.com who provided feedback when I was first developing the story and preparing my query letters. I’d also like to thank Ann Collette, Barbara Poelle, and Carly Watters who were all extremely helpful and positive.
Thanks to the #writingcommunity for supporting me as an author and connecting me with some amazing writers and readers.
A very special thank you to the late Michael Palmer, who not only inspired me with his writing, but served as a mentor and friend as I first embarked on this journey. His son, Daniel, has carried on in his stead and has also been a great source of support, as have my fellow physician authors Tess Gerritsen, Gary Birken, and Leon
ard Goldberg.
And last, but never least, thank you to my amazing wife, Geiza, for being my muse, first editor, and cheerleader; and to you and our incredible daughters, Valentina and Isabella, for being patient throughout this long process, even when I had to lock myself away to finish this book. I can’t wait for you all to read it.
