You Will Remember Me Read online

  Hannah Mary McKinnon was born in the UK, grew up in Switzerland and now lives in Canada with her husband and three sons. Connect with her on Facebook and Instagram @hannahmarymckinnon, and Twitter @hannahmmckinnon.

  HannahMaryMcKinnon.com

  Praise for You Will Remember Me

  “Psychological suspense of the first order…this chiller will keep you mesmerized right through the jaw-dropping ending. Don’t miss it!”

  —LISA UNGER, New York Times bestselling author of Confessions on the 7:45

  “Skillfully plotted and paced…it explodes with an ending that made me gasp.”

  —SAMANTHA DOWNING, USA TODAY bestselling author of My Lovely Wife and He Started It

  “An unexpected, thrilling journey into the deepest, darkest corners of the mind.”

  —HEATHER GUDENKAUF, New York Times bestselling author of The Weight of Silence and This Is How I Lied

  “Diabolical, mesmerizing, riveting and irresistible… Standing ovation.”

  —HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN, USA TODAY bestselling author of The First to Lie

  “A slow-burn, tantalizing plot… An absolute must-read!”

  —SAMANTHA M. BAILEY, #1 bestselling author of Woman on the Edge

  “A gripping, chilling thriller that held me captive until the shocking end.”

  —KIMBERLY BELLE, internationally bestselling author of Stranger in the Lake

  “Clever, chillingly atmospheric…[this story] will stay with you long after you’ve raced to the end.”

  —KAREN HAMILTON, internationally bestselling author of The Last Wife

  “A riveting page-turner with a jaw-dropping twist that will blow your mind!”

  —ROBYN HARDING, internationally bestselling author of The Swap

  “[A] twisty, fast-paced exploration of the intersection of the past and memory.”

  —CATHERINE McKENZIE, USA TODAY bestselling author of You Can’t Catch Me and Six Weeks to Live

  “A breathless roller coaster ride of lies and deceit.”

  —LIV CONSTANTINE, internationally bestselling author

  Also by Hannah Mary McKinnon

  Sister Dear

  Her Secret Son

  The Neighbors

  Hannah Mary McKinnon

  You Will Remember Me

  To Mum—

  who always said being stubborn, ahem, persistent, would pay off

  To Carolyn & Emily—who turn dreams into reality

  Contents

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Know thyself? If I knew myself I’d run away.

  —Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

  1

  THE MAN FROM THE BEACH

  Cold. Cold was the first word that came to mind. The first thing I noticed when I woke up. Not a slight, uncomfortable chill to give me the shivers, but a cramp-inducing, iced-to-the-bone kind of frozen. I lay flat on my stomach, my left ear and cheek pressed into the rough, grainy wet ground beneath me, my entire body shaking. As my thoughts attempted to assemble themselves into some form of understandable order, a wave of icy water nipped at my bare toes and ankles, my instincts pulling my feet out of reach.

  I had a sudden urge to get up, a primal need to take in my surroundings and assess the danger—was I in danger?—but the throbbing pain deep in my head made the slightest effort to shift anything seem impossible. Lifting a finger would be too much effort, and I acquiesced, allowing myself to lie still for another few freezing seconds as the frigid water crept over the balls of my feet again. When I blinked my eyes open, I was met by a thick, fuzzy darkness enveloping me like a cloak. Where the hell was I? And wherever it was, what was I doing here?

  When I lifted my head a fraction of an inch, I could barely make out anything in front of me. There was hardly a noise, either, nothing but a gentle, steady rumble in the background, and the cry of a bird somewhere in the distance. I made my brain work its way backward—bird, rumble, sand, water—and the quartet formed the vaguely cohesive image of a beach.

  Searching for confirmation, I inhaled the salty, humid air deep into my lungs as another slosh of water took aim at my calves. This time the discomfort was enough to push me to my feet, and I wrapped my arms around my naked torso, my sopping board shorts clinging to my goose-bump-covered thighs. An explosion of pain in my head threatened to send me back to my knees, and I swayed gently, wishing I had something to steady myself with, willing my body to stay upright. As I pressed a hand to the side of my skull, I let out a quiet yelp, and felt along a two-inch gash in my scalp. My eyes had adjusted somewhat to the lack of light, and my fingertips were covered in something dark that smelled of rust. Blood. How had I...?

  Another low rumble made me turn around, shuffling slowly in a semicircle. The behemoth effort was rewarded by the sight of a thousand glistening waves dancing under the moonlight like diamonds, the water stretching out and disappearing into the darkness beyond. As my ears tuned in to the rhythmic whoosh of the waves, my mind worked hard to process each scrap of information it took in.

  I’m definitely on a beach. It’s nighttime. I’m alone. What am I doing here?

  Before I could answer the single question, a thousand others crowded my brain, an incessant string of chatter I couldn’t stop or get away from.

  Where is everyone? Never mind them, where am I? Have I been here long? How did I get here? Where was I before? Where are my clothes? What day is it?

  My legs buckled. Not because of the unfamiliar surroundings, the cold burrowing its way deeper into my core, or the pain in my head, which had increased tenfold. No. My knees hit the sand with a dull crunch when I realized I couldn’t answer any of the questions because I couldn’t recall anything. Nothing. Not the tiniest of details.

  Including my name.

  2

  LILY

  A frown settled over my face as I put my phone on the table, pushed the bowl of unfinished berry oatmeal away and stretched out my legs. It was Saturday morning, and I’d been up for ages, too eager—too hopeful—to spend a day at the beach with Jack, but those plans had been a literal wash-out. The start to the summer felt capricious, with this second storm in the last week of June poised to be much worse than the first. I’d convinced myself the weatherwoman had exaggerated or got her forecast completely wrong, but clouds had rolled in overnight anyway. As a result, I’d been unceremoniously woken up at two thirty by a trio of bright lightning, deafening thunderclaps and heavy raindrops pelting against my bedroom window.

  At first, I’d pulled my pillo
w over my head to deafen the noise, and when that didn’t work, I rolled over and stretched out an arm. The spot next to me was empty and cold, and I groaned. Jack hadn’t come over to my place as I’d hoped he would, slipping into bed and pressing his naked body against mine. I’d buried my face back into my pillow and tried to ignore the tinge of disappointment. We hadn’t seen much of each other this past week, both of us too busy with our jobs to spend more than a night together, and I missed him. Jack had called the day before to tell me he’d be working late, finishing the stain on the cabinets he’d labored on for weeks before his boss had to let him go. Apparently expensive custom kitchens weren’t in as high demand in Brookmount, Maryland, as originally thought.

  “But you got laid off,” I’d said. “It’s your last day. Why do you care?”

  “Because I made a commitment. Besides, it’ll help when I need a reference.”

  Typical Jack, always keeping his word. He’d bought a lottery ticket once, and the clerk had jokingly asked if he’d give him half of any winnings. Jack had laughed and shaken the man’s hand, and when he won ten bucks on the ticket, had promptly returned to the store, and paid over the share as promised. His loyalty was one of the many things I loved about Jack, although part of me wished he weren’t quite as dedicated to his soon-to-be ex-boss.

  “You could come over to my place when you’re done,” I said, smiling slowly. “I’ll leave the key under the umbrella stand. I don’t mind you waking me up gently in the middle of the night...or not so gently.”

  Jack laughed softly. The sound was something I’d fallen in love with eighteen months ago after our eyes had met across a crowded bar, the mother of all uninspired first-encounter clichés, except in this case I’d been forced to admit clichés weren’t always a bad thing.

  “It’ll be really late, Lily,” he said, his voice deep. His English accent was something of a rarity in our small coastal town, and still capable of making my legs wobble in anticipation of his next words. “I’ll go for a quick swim now, then finish up work. How about I come over in the morning? Around nine? I’ll bring you breakfast in bed.”

  “Blueberry pancakes from Patti’s? With extra maple syrup?”

  “This time I’ll order three stacks to make sure I get some.”

  “Pancakes or sex?” I said, before telling him how much I loved him, and whispering exactly how I’d thank him for waking me with sweet weekend treats. I’d hoped it might change his mind and he’d come over earlier, except it was ten now, and he still hadn’t shown. It was odd. Jack detested being late as much as he loved being early. He often joked they set Greenwich Mean Time by his father’s old watch, which Jack had worn since his dad passed a little over a decade before we’d met, when Jack was only twenty.

  I checked my phone again. Jack hadn’t answered either of my calls, another anomaly, but I tried to talk myself into believing he’d worked late into the night to make the final good impression he wanted, and overslept. Maybe there was a line at Patti’s—the restaurant was slammed every weekend—and perhaps his phone was set to silent.

  I picked up my bowl and wandered to the kitchen. My place was the smallest of six apartments, a tiny but well-maintained one-bedroom in a building a few miles from the beach, farther than I’d planned, but the closest I could afford. I’d lived there for almost five years, had furnished it with an eclectic assortment of third-hand furniture, my favorite piece a royal blue microfiber sofa I’d bought for fifty bucks, and which Jack swore was the most comfortable thing he’d ever sat on. Whenever he sank down into it and pulled me on top of him with a contented sigh, I’d tease him about what made him happier: the squishy, well-worn cushions, or me.

  The image made my frown deepen. Where was he?

  Peering out of the kitchen window, I stood on my tiptoes, craning my neck to get a clear view of the spot on the corner where Jack always parked the ancient, faded silver F-150 he’d persuaded Sam, his landlord, to let him use. Apparently Sam hadn’t argued, saying as long as Jack stayed in the apartment and made rent on time, paid for the vehicle’s upkeep and rock-bottom insurance premiums, he could use it until he’d saved enough cash to buy himself a different truck. Sam’s generosity had surprised me until I’d met him and I’d realized the gesture was the epitome of his personality.

  I pushed myself up onto the counter, toes no longer touching the linoleum floor as my eyes swept the area outside again. No matter how hard I stared, the parking space remained empty, save for a lake-sized puddle from the incessant rain. An uncomfortable sensation sneaked its way down into my belly, refusing to be quietened by my silent words of reassurance Jack was running late, and there was nothing to worry about.

  Over an hour later the rain hadn’t let up. Neither had the feelings about something being wrong. If anything, they’d both increased in intensity, churning my breakfast so I could feel it in the back of my throat. I called Patti’s Pancakes.

  “Haven’t seen him all morning, darlin’,” Patti said after I explained I was looking for Jack, and I imagined her wide brown eyes, her giant silver hoop earrings swinging left to right as she shook her head.

  “Are you sure?” I asked, already knowing there was no way Patti would have missed him. We were regulars, and she always made time for a chat, never failing to comment on Jack’s “ridiculously gorgeous” accent that reminded her of her long-deceased grandfather, another real gentleman, and one she remembered fondly. There was no doubt if Jack had been at the restaurant this morning, she’d know.

  After I hung up, I phoned the place where he worked. No answer. My brow furrowed again as I tried Jack’s cell once more, listening to the standard factory voice-mail message he’d never bothered to personalize. We weren’t the kind of couple to live in each other’s pockets. Both of us gave one another, and ourselves, enough space to breathe while enjoying every moment we spent together, but I knew Jack. Something was wrong.

  I couldn’t hang around in my apartment any longer. At the risk of him making fun of my paranoia, I grabbed my jacket, keys and bag, and dashed outside. With a cough and splutter, the on-the-verge-of-death engine of my old Chevrolet gained a little more self-confidence when I backed out of the driveway and headed toward the center of town.

  The most direct route to Jack’s place took me past Patti’s, and I stopped the car outside regardless, craning my neck. All the tables were taken, and while the line of weather-braving, hungry brunchers huddled under the ruby awning was only two rows deep, there was no sign of Jack, or the truck, anywhere.

  I set off again, turned left on Marina Road to his apartment. Fat raindrops splattered against my windshield, making me go slower despite my impulses ordering me to put my foot down. Judging by the empty streets, most of the town’s few thousand souls had decided to wait out the storm in the comfort of their homes. That was Brookmount—sensible and quiet. Even at the height of summer, most tourists wouldn’t venture down this way, preferring the fun-filled attractions Ocean City had to offer. The mentality suited Jack and me fine. We’d found our separate ways here because we’d needed a change and had tacitly agreed not to push each other for too many details. In my experience, people always had a couple of ghosts in their past, skeletons in closets best nailed shut.

  I focused on the road, slowed down some more when I passed what had now officially become Jack’s prior workplace. Maybe he hadn’t been able to finish the job last night after all, and had returned this morning, but my theory didn’t add up. First, he’d have called me, or picked up their phone. Second, his truck wasn’t parked in the front or at the back. Third, all the lights were off, and—although I didn’t need a fourth—the red-and-white Open sign had been turned to Closed.

  The fearful, panicking voice in my head, the one I’d attempted yet failed to silence, whispered he’d gone to the beach last night. For a swim. I pushed the thought away, trying to shut it up, but it ignored my efforts, bounding around my mind like a bunny
on speed. “He’s fine,” I said out loud, startling myself. The words did nothing to placate my trembling fingers, or stop the hairs on the back of my neck from standing sentry and sending freezing shivers down my spine.

  A few minutes later I arrived at Jack’s place, the last house on Bay Court, where he rented the apartment above a double garage. Sam owned the house on the other side of the large driveway and was a veteran pharmaceuticals sales rep, often gone weeks at a time. The testament to his successful career—a bright yellow Porsche—was the only vehicle parked outside. I got out of my pathetic excuse for a car, held my jacket over my head in a pointless attempt to avoid the steady downpour and sprinted up the wooden steps to Jack’s front door, where I rattled the handle. Locked. I banged on the glass.

  “Jack? Are you home?”

  I knocked another few times, waited awhile for a reply in case he was in the shower. I so desperately wanted to hear him in the hallway, imagined him with sopping wet hair, a towel wrapped around his trim waist, and muttering something like, “All right, all right, mate, keep your hair on.” He’d open the door and I’d fling my arms around him, then take a step back, put my hands on my hips and ask if he had any idea how worried I’d been. The imminent feeling of relief made me hold my breath, but when there was still no answer, I had to let it go.

  Forced to concede Jack being in his apartment when the truck wasn’t there made no sense, I nonetheless invented stories. Maybe Sam had borrowed it. Unlikely, considering Jack had both sets of keys. Perhaps the Ford had broken down and Jack had got a ride home, or he’d parked the truck down the street for some reason, and I’d missed it when I’d driven by. Whatever the case, in all these scenarios Jack was inside either taking a shower, or fast asleep. I knocked again, cupping my hands against the frosted glass, peering inside and calling out Jack’s name, but the place remained dark and silent.