What Sinners Love by Eva Ashwood

Author:Eva Ashwood [Ashwood, Eva]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Goodreads: 54595765
Published: 2020-10-16T05:00:00+00:00

15

I skip classes for the next few days. It’s exactly what I was trying to avoid, and the stubborn part of me hates letting Alan and his disgusting progeny claim even this small victory.

But I'm not ditching out on my classes just so I can stay home and cower. I’m not doing it because I’m too scared to face Cliff again. I’m skipping class because I need to paint. I could feel it after the encounter with Cliff—there was something inside of me that needed to get out, that would tear me open and crawl out if I didn’t pick up my brush and paint it out first.

I’ve always loved art, but I never thought painting would become a conduit for memories the way it has.

I finally came to terms with the fact that I didn’t remember my past, convincing myself it didn’t really matter. But now it does matter. It matters more than anything in the world.

We can’t play the same trick on Cliff twice. We tried to draw an incriminating statement out of him by letting him get me alone. But after I flipped out on him when my memory was triggered last time, I think he realized what I was trying to do. He cut himself off before mentioning the bunker, and I’m sure it wasn’t an accident.

So in the absence of any other information or evidence, I’m focusing on getting my memories back. I know that just remembering what happened all those years ago isn’t going to give me solid evidence that I can take to the police, but it might lead us to the right place. If we can’t get Alan or Cliff on anything we have right now, we’re going to need new dirt.

Maybe there’s something I saw in my past, something I remember, that could help us nail Alan. Maybe I have a reason locked away somewhere in my head—a reason why he kidnapped me, why he locked me away for so many years.

Why did he want me? What would he have done with me if I hadn’t escaped? Reagan was there too, and now she’s going to Hawthorne just like I am. How the hell did she get out if she didn’t come with me when I escaped?

My head spins with questions, but for once, I don’t block them out. I let them rush in like a flood, consuming me until my head feels like it’s about to fucking explode. I don’t think about what I’m painting, what colors I’m picking up with my brush, I just paint and hope that something comes out.

Why was I kept in a bunker? What is Alan’s deal, what’s his game? How did he find me? Was I just a kid on the street he picked up? Why me?

My paintbrush curves and swirls. I remember a woman. Snippets of memories come back, like puzzle pieces that all belong to the same puzzle but don’t connect anywhere. I remember a woman, but I don’t remember who she was.

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