Page 50 of Little Stolen Memories

“Yeah, I thought as much. She confirmed it today when she was here, talking about what it’s been like to go through life without me.”

Not knowing how long I had until I woke from the dream, I changed the subject. “I know you said your memories have changed over the years, but I’d like to talk to you about what you still remember about the night you died.”

“I’ll try. What do you want to know?”

“You were the first one who was attacked. I believe it happened when you went out to your car.”

“It did.”

“Tell me about the attack.”

He leaned forward and bent down, looking at the grass. “I was inside the cabin, and I realized I’d left my glasses in the car. I went out to get them, opened the car door, and leaned in to grab them. Next thing I know, I feel something, a pain in the back of my head. Felt like I’d been hit by a piece of wood or a bat or something.”

“What did you do?”

“I backed out of the car and tried turning around so I could see who hit me.”

“And did you? Were you able to get a look at the man who assaulted you?”

“Not a good look, no. My mind was kinda fuzzy after that. I remember thinking the guy was taller than me. Bigger too. Before I could get a better look, he hit me again.”

“So, you never saw his face?”

Owen shook his head. “It all happened so fast. I didn’t have time to shout or to warn the others. There was no time for anything. He whacked me a second time, and I fell to the ground.”

“Were you still conscious?”

“Must have been, for a minute, anyway. I remember him grabbing my feet and then dragging me somewhere. I remember the smell of flowers in the air.”

“The police found you on the side of the cabin in Millie’s flower garden. Did the man say anything to you?”

“He started to, and then he stopped himself. I heard footsteps. It sounded like he was walking away. I kept telling myself to get up, to find a way to get to the cabin before he did. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.”

I turned toward Owen, looking him in the eye as I said, “What’s the last thing you remember before you died?”

“I knew I was dying, taking the last breaths I’d ever take in this life. I knew I’d never go home, never see my family again, my friends. I felt so alone, the most alone I’ve ever felt in my life, and then I heard footsteps walking toward me, and someone bending down … bending down and whispering into my ear.”

“Whispering what?”

Owen took a deep breath in and looked over at me.

“He said … ‘It didn’t have to be this way.’”

CHAPTER 22

I woke the next morning, thinking about the dream. It was the most interactive dream I’d ever had. And it felt different, maybe because it was more direct. There was more communication, less confusion. And yet, much of it was still open to interpretation.

I was leaning up against my headboard, piecing through the dream, when Giovanni walked in with a glass of orange juice and a plate of sourdough toast. He handed me the glass, set the plate down on my nightstand, and slid in next to me.

“You were tossing and turning throughout the night,” he said. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“I had an interesting dream.”

He raised a brow. “Was it one of those dreams—a dream trying to tell you something?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about it.”

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