Remember Me Tomorrow: A Novel by Farah Heron

Author:Farah Heron [Heron, Farah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Skyscape
Published: 2024-10-02T00:00:00+00:00

FIFTEEN

Ifind Jack on the library steps at seven, sitting alone with his head in his hands. He’s wearing the same suit he had on at his party, and my balled-up sweatshirt is next to him. I approach him slowly, not sure if he’s asleep.

“Hi, Jack,” I say.

His head shoots up. He blinks a few times, like he’s not sure who I am. Which, fair. I’m back in my own clothes: jeans and my father’s old sweater. My parka’s on, but it’s unzipped because it’s finally warming up. Also, no more girdle.

“I’m Aleeza?” I say. “You have my sweatshirt?”

He shakes his head. “Of course. Octopuses can change their colors. Never the same look twice.” He hands me the sweatshirt, then starts to get up. His eyes are bloodshot with dark circles under them.

“Do you have a minute?” I ask. “I was wondering—”

He shakes his head, then runs his hand over his hair. “The party is over. There’s a shower with my name on it.”

I raise a brow. “Have you slept at all since your party?”

He shrugs. “I quite honestly don’t know.”

He still might be high. I doubt I’ll get any answers out of him like this. “Okay then, can I ask you one thing? What do you know about the Birdwatcher Instagram account?”

He snorts. “Ah. That’s what this is about. You’re looking for a place to air your grievances.”

I shake my head. “No. I mean, I don’t want to post on it or anything . . . I’m wondering, do you know who was behind it?”

He looks at me for a long time. “You really don’t know?”

“No, that’s why I’m asking you.”

He snorts, then walks down the stairs away from me. “I can’t read you, octopus girl. Are you the mastermind, or the sidekick? If you don’t know who Birdwatcher is, what hope do the rest of us have of figuring it out? Follow the money. It always talks.”

Yeah, he’s still on something. Jack Gormley can’t tell me a thing. Or maybe . . .

“When’s the last time you talked to Jay Hoque?” I ask, rushing down the stairs to keep up with him.

“Why?”

“I’m doing a true crime podcast about him.”

Jack turns to me, and the bored look I saw on his face last night is back. “The last time . . . I don’t know. Memories are so fragile; how can I be expected to keep them whole for that long? I believe it started with a phone call. No, wait, a text. A picture on a text. Goodbye.”

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