Page 65 of Savage Lies
“Good. Maybe she can help you feel more comfortable about having our new visitor around.”
“Or maybe she just likes billing your insurance.”
Dmitri laughs. “You don’t trust her.”
“I don’t trust anyone whose job involves getting inside my head.”
“Not even me?”
I look at him, noting the way he’s positioned himself between me and the kitchen entrance again. Always ready, always watching. “You’re different.”
“How?”
“You don’t pretend to know what’s best for me. You just try to keep me safe.”
His arms tighten possessively around me. I should step away, maintain some distance to protect whatever’s left of my independence. But his arms around me feel like the only solid thing in a world full of questions I can’t answer.
“And Dr. Sokolova?” The roughness in his voice makes something in my belly clench with want.
“Dr. Sokolova acts like she already knows who I’m supposed to be, and she’s just waiting for me to remember.”
“Maybe shedoesknow. Maybe that’s how therapy works.”
“Maybe. Or maybe she knows things about my past that she’s not sharing.”
Dmitri takes hold of my shoulders and swivels my body to face him. “Katya, do you want to remember? Your past, I mean. Who you were before the accident.”
The question makes my chest tighten with something dangerously close to panic. What if remembering means losing this? What if the woman I was before wouldn’t want the things I want now?
I tilt my head, considering the question. “I don’t know. Some days, I think it would be easier to just start fresh. Build a new identity from scratch.”
“And other days?”
“Other days, I think pieces are missing that I need to understand. Like whatever I was before, it’s still part of who I am now.”
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Dr. Sokolova.2 p.m. appointment confirmed. Please bring your recent dream journal.
“Dream journal?” Dmitri reads over my shoulder.
“She wants me to write down what I remember from nightmares. Says it might help identify suppressed memories.”
“And do you? Write them down?”
“Sometimes. When they seem particularly vivid or specific.”
Dmitri just nods, as if he’s afraid to dig into the subject much more.
“The men who took me,” I begin, changing the subject, “mentioned government operatives. Said I might have training that would help me resist interrogation.”
“Did they?”
“They also called me Alexandra.”
Every muscle in Dmitri’s face goes still, as if he’s trying to hold the expression in place. “Alexandra.”
“The name felt familiar when they said it. Not like a mistake, more like something I should recognize.”
“But you don’t remember being called that?”
