The Direction I Failed to Run Toward at Eighteen
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Summary
Alistair Marshall’s voice was poison as the needle slid into my vein.
“Lydia,” he whispered, “go back to the girl who only had eyes for me.”
When I opened my eyes, I saw his face—a mask of false devotion. I pulled my hand back, finding hands once insured for millions now cracked and calloused.
Seeing my daze, he smiled. “The drug worked. It reverts your memory to eighteen.”
“Welcome back, Lydia. For ten years you’ve been hysterical, accusing me about Penelope. Now we can start over.”
I looked toward the doorway. A woman in white stood there, timid yet provocative.
