And Bennett will be here in seconds.

An idea occurs, and she is in sudden motion. She climbs halfway into the Beetle, presses the brake, and shifts the engine to drive.

Then she guns the gas as she leaps out of the car, landing in a clumsy heap.

The V W lunges for ward. Momentu m carries it over the cliff.

It slams down the rock face like a dumbbell down stairs, every impact stunningly loud, and then there is a splash, and the sound of waves.

She edges to the cliff, looks over. Her little car is upside down in the surf, and sinking. One tire spins lazily.

From behind, the roar of an engine.

Laney rushes across the PCH and into the low scrub brush on the other side. She flattens herself in the ditch, wriggling beneath the thin cover of dry brush.

The engine is near.

The Xterra brakes, coming to a stop near the mangled barrier. The door opens, and Bennett hops out.

Laney holds her breath. If he looks on this side, he’ll find her.

Bennett hurries to the cliff edge. He leans over. BENNETT

Oh, fuck me.

He rubs his forehead.

Then he turns and hurries back to his truck. The Xterra races away.

Laney waits only seconds before she climbs out and begins limping the other direction, bag slung over her shoulder.

LANEY

Jesus. Jesus.

(beat)

You should be dead.

A steep path winds up the side of the cliff a hundred yards away, and she aims for it. LANEY

You are dead. Laney Thayer is dead. You’re no longer Laney Thayer.

(beat)

You’re . . . Belinda. Belinda Nichols. As she begins to climb the hill, sirens sound in the distance.

5

“At first,” Laney said, “I was only thinking of getting away from Bennett. But then I realized that if he thought I was dead, he might back off. Of course, for that to work, everyone had to think so. Even you.”

“Why—”

“You know how smart Bennett is. He would have been watching the house. Maybe even tapped the phones. He liked to do that, plant microphones and cameras. And if he realized I was alive, he’d come after you.”

“So your plan was, what, lay low forever? That doesn’t make any sense.”

She shrugged. “You’re the writer. You plan things. I was improvising.”

“Improvising.”

“It’s what actresses do, love.”

“So you were just going to let me think—”

“Only until I could find a safe way to get in touch with you. A day or two at the most. I knew it would be terrible for you, I just didn’t see any choice. But then you were gone. And I figured, well, if Bennett thinks I’m dead, maybe that’s useful. Maybe it will give me a chance to get close to him. So I dressed as a cleaning lady, became a woman named Lila Bannister, and went to the house for one of your guns. Then I started looking for him. And for you.”

Daniel stared at the ceiling. His mind screening footage of the car chase, of her limping away. “I see how you’re alive, but why was Bennett chasing you in the first place? Who is he? How do you know him?”

Laney laughed humorlessly. “Yeah, right.”

“I mean it.”

“I don’t want to go through it all again, okay? I don’t want to fight. It was a long time ago.”

Daniel stiffened, stomach going sick. What was a long time ago? Every time he got one answer, two new questions popped up.

Then he realized. He had known all of this. He must have. It’s just that it was gone, along with the rest of his memories.

“Besides, it’s not like you don’t have things in your past,” Laney continued, voice rising. “What was the name of that skank you used to sleep with? The one who got pregnant and told you and four other guys that they were the father, asked for money. What was her name, huh?”

“I don’t know,” Daniel said. He rubbed at his eyes.

“Yeah, I bet. So don’t you—”

“Laney.”

“I never thought he’d come back into our lives. I thought that was behind—”

“I need to tell you something.” He took her hands. How are you going to explain this? It’s one thing to tell Sophie you don’t remember her. But this is your wife. “You know that woman you asked about?”

Laney’s shoulders tightened. “What about—”

“I don’t remember her name. I don’t actually remember her at all. In fact,” he tried to laugh, but the sound was wrong, “I don’t remember most of my life.”

“What? What are you—are you being philosophical again? Because now isn’t the time to go all Sartre on me.”

“No. Literally. I don’t remember. I have some kind of amnesia.”

She stared at him. He met her gaze. After a long moment, she said, “What are you talking about?”

“I’m still figuring it out myself. Things are coming back, a lot of them. But most of my past, it’s . . . I can’t remember it.” Haltingly, he took her through the last week of his life. Waking in panic and pain, half-dead on the wrong side of the country. The pursuit, the endless drive, the loneliness, the dreams. The revelations about their life—okay, yeah, he downplayed the complete shock to discover they were married—and the discovery that she was dead. His grief and anger and attempts at revenge.

Laney listened, her face neutral. She seemed to be consciously withholding judgment, as if someone were telling a joke that might be offensive and she was waiting for the punch line to see which way it landed. Her reserve made him talk faster, wedging words between words, embroidering his statements, spinning the tale as best he knew how, trying to paint for her the state of his life, the edge of madness he’d haunted, the constant uncertainty.

Finally she broke in. “You don’t remember anything.”

“Like I said, it’s coming back. Some of it. And I’m hoping that now that we’re together . . .” He broke off, realizing how lame that sounded.

“You’re not joking.”

“No.”

“This isn’t some weird game.”

“No.”

“Last Christmas, when I roasted a chicken and we lay in the backyard looking at the stars. You don’t remember.”

“No.”

“Our wedding day, on the beach in Maine.”

Slowly, he shook his head.

“The day we met.”

“I’m—I’m sorry. It’s not something I chose, believe me.”

She turned away. “Do you remember me at all?”

“I . . .” He took a deep breath. Guilt and shame had been constant companions for the past week, but now they found new ways to twist within him. “I know that I love you. I have certain things, images, little . . . vignettes, I guess, that come to me. I don’t control them. But I can tell how precious you are to me.”