Scarlett
My heels click impatiently on the marble as I fume silently, waiting at Scotty’s Café with a barely touched cup of black coffee. It’s not my usual style, but it’s busy enough to quench my fear of getting jumped.
Under the table, my fingers dig into my thigh, shaping crescents into my skin. Agitation and frustration are my only companions as I recall the conversation I had with the doctor and a hateful Isabel before I left the hospital.
“It would do him good if you stayed, Ms. Montogomery. It’d speed up his recovery,” Dr. Ian says, his fingers running along the stethoscope hanging off his neck. Retrograde Amnesia, that’s what the doctor thinks Alexander has, caused by the trauma of the accident. Even he doesn’t believe that as he says it to me. A more feasible explanation would
