The Ryders did their best to make me feel at home. They tried to keep the conversation casual, but even with the small talk the severity of the situation loomed over us like a hushed fog of darkness. I couldn't stand it. Sat on the edge of my seat, ready to flee at any moment, painfully I watched the clock tick.

      Though my ringtone startled me, and I tended to hate phone calls, today, I jumped at the chance of excusing myself. The relief of leaving the three at the table, was short lasted. Screen reading Unknown caller ID, something churned in my stomach. Very few people ever called me, and of these few people none, but one, would call me in this state. I had never so desperately wanted to be called by a telemarketer.

      Holding my breath, I answered the call, unable to decline in spite of my suspected caller. My heart dropped when I heard the automated voice recording. "This is a call from Sacramento California State Prison, from Lucie Collins. Press 1 to accept the call."

      Hand tensing around my phone, I stared blankly at the pin pad, chest aching with heavy breaths as every part of me thought it unwise to answer but fingers involuntarily pressing the instructed number.

      As much as I despised what they did, part of me still saw them as my parents; part of me still loved who I knew them to be. The sense of loss only made me angrier, enhanced my sense of betrayal towards my real family.

      "Hello?"

      Immediately I recognized the voice. A voice in which I had once found solace and comfort now filled me with fiery rage, an anger of an intensity I hadn't thought in my capacity.

      "Alexa," My— Lucie tried again. "Sweetie, can you hear me?"

      The pet name may as well have been a dagger to my heart. I wondered if my real mother had ever used the term of endearment... wondered if she would still use it.

      "Alexa?" Andre urged. My ragged breaths surely revealed my presence, but I couldn't force any words from my tight throat. "Did you hear your mother?"

       My jaw clenched. My mother. Pictures of Emma Adams from today's search of albums flooded my mind. The brown eyed woman of whom I had only inherited raven hair but somehow still held an uncanny resemblance. Her face angular and features striking compared to my soft, subtle ones, still her plump lips formed the same crooked grin as my thin lips. Her dimples and squinted eyes when she smiled were identical to mine. From afar some may not have noticed the family resemblance, but it was unmistakable in our side-by-side pictures; the brunette hugging me tightly as I blew out candles, dancing together at some forgotten party, lazy Sunday picnics... My real mother. The mother they had murdered.

       "Lucie is not my mother," I bit through gritted teeth, eyes blurring with tears as my nails dug painfully into my palm.

      Lucie inhaled sharply.

     "I may not have given birth to you," she snarled. "But I cared for you. We loved you. We raised you—"

      "You did not raise me. You stole my childhood!"

      "We gave you everything you ever needed! We did what was necessary to give you the life you deserved."

      "My parents' deaths weren't necessary," I barked, voice cracking in agony. "And my little sister... She was only eight years old... How—How could you kill a child?"

      There was a short silence on the other end of the line before Andre answered.

      "That was a mistake," he admitted, and just enough to catch it, I noted an inkling of remorse in his statement. "We meant to take her too, but she didn't take the blow to the head as well as you did."

      Remark spoken so casually, as if he weren't speaking of someone's life, I choked on a sob. Trembling hand traveling to the scar atop my head, I shut my eyes, agonizingly picturing the young blonde's faith. She could have survived, with a scar like my own. I could have had a future with this person of my past. But they showed her no mercy. They used too much power, and mistake or not, their actions could never be justified. They spoke of the accidental killing of my sister with the same tone one would use when explaining their accidental cracking of a dish. I couldn't believe I had let them fool me; let them convince me that they were ever anything other than monsters. 3 years...

      "You have to forgive us," Lucie pleaded. "We only ever wanted to save you both."

      "I didn't need saving," I croaked, lump in my throat growing to an unbearable size, leaving no room for air. I was gasping for breath, room spinning and knees shaking with shock. "I'll never forgive you," I answer firmly. "You ruined my life. You took everything from me, and you left me nothing behind. Not even a memory to honor them by! Do you understand how that feels?" Tears spilled freely, feet moving towards the door as a faraway part of me sensed Grayson's approach. "If there is anything, I hate you for more than murdering my family, it is letting me betray them by teaching me to love you!"

      With a last mangled sobbed I ended the call and threw the phone at the wall. The impact shattered the screen, but the blow was nothing compared to the way their words had shattered my conscience. The Collins had murdered my family to get to me. I was in part responsible for their deaths, and I had repaid them by caring for their murderers.

      Hunching over my knees, I clung desperately to my chest.

      Living room door swinging open, blue eyes travelled to my shattered phone to my broken state, with crushing sympathy. I didn't want Grayson to see me this way, but I had been swallowing my emotions since learning the truth, and I could do nothing to stop the tears that had finally been set free. Naturally, my solution was to run.

      Panic and blurry vision making my actions clumsy, I struggled with my boots, fingers fumbling with the laces.

      "Alex—" Grayson called softly, taking a few careful strides forward. Pity, so prevalent in his tone, I hid my face in my hair, urge to run only intensified. I didn't care that my boots weren't tied, or that the much too large coat hung crookedly on my body. I was shrugging Grayson away, shakily pulling the front door open.

     "Leave me alone," I begged.

     "No." He shook his head softly. The distance separating us was closing too quickly, so I bolted.

     "You don't have to do this alone!" he shouted, but I was already running down the front steps. Even in the pouring rain my strides didn't falter. "Wait!"

      I didn't wait. Catching a glimpse of Grayson struggling with his own boots and coat, I ran as fast as I could. I ran until my lungs couldn't handle it anymore. Ran until I reached the park, until I was sure that I had lost Grayson's trail.

      Park empty, as no one in their right mind would choose this place as shelter during the storm, clothes, and hair dripping, I collapsed on a swing. The rain was cold, and the wind strong. Goosebumps littered my cool skin and I shivered uncontrollably, but I didn't care. The aching chill in my bone served as a successful distraction.

      Holding tightly to the cold chains, I swung silently; eyes shut as I attempted to clear my mind.

      I only had a few moments to myself. I should have known better than to think I could outrun him.

      Approach tentative, quietly he took the swing next to mine. He didn't say anything; made no move to comfort me. He simply swayed tranquilly next to me, waiting for the storm of emotions to subside.

     "Your blatant refusal to follow my wishes might become a problem," I managed once the tears slowed and the lump in my throat had melted. I don't know how long we sat there silently.

      Chuckling gently, his soft gaze landed on me but still he made no remark. Abandoning the coat to save time, his wet t-shirt clung to his shivering body. Goosebumps lacing the tanned skin of the arms folded against his chest, in spite of the cold's discomfort he continued to swing calmly. Almost like he didn't want to show his own discomfort.

     "Are you really not going to say anything?" I asked, growing slightly impatient.

     I hadn't wanted to be followed, and I certainly didn't wish to strike a conversation with Grayson. I had wanted to avoid him altogether, but the silence was worse. I hated that he had caught me in such a vulnerable state, and his lack of words allowed my mind to freely imagine the worst of his thoughts.

     "Is there anything I could say that wouldn't make you angry?"

     Brows furrowing in brief consideration, I shook my head with pursed lips.

      Grayson laughed. "That's what I thought."

      Eyes narrowed, I bit back a remark. Was he always infuriatingly, correct?

      He waited a few beats before speaking. "Do try not to bite my head off." He was extra cautious. "But do you want to talk about it?"

     "No."

      Tone leaving no room for negotiation, Grayson sighed. Swiping his dripping locks from his eyes, he shifted slightly, angling his body towards mine.

      "I see you're as resentful of emotions as ever," he mumbled.

      Eyes puffy from the crying, odd hiccup escaping me, my head shot his way, eyes throwing daggers. Was this his idea of comforting me? Making fun of my attempt to deal with traumatic news?

      "Are you always this annoying?" I crossed my arms over my chest. "There is no way we were ever friends, if you're always like this."

      He had the audacity to grin, as if my irritation was amusing.

      "To others not so much," he confessed. "But you've always thought me annoying. It didn't change the fact that we were best friends. You used to be able to talk to me about stuff like this..."

      "Key word used to," I pointed out. "I used to know you. I don't, now. And even if I knew you well enough to do this whole cheesy sharing of feelings thing, there's nothing to talk about."

      Brows shooting into his hairline, he watched me skeptically. His arched brows may as well have shouted, "are you kidding?" As if I could forget that the only life I could remember was the three years spent with my family's murderers.

      "You don't have to tell me that my life sucks," I conceded. "I'm well aware that I've been dealt a shitty hand. Everything that could have gone wrong in my life, did. But, talking about it certainly won't help. I don't know how to feel right now."

      Grayson was silent, eyes soft and patient as he waited for me to go on. He knew I had more to say, but I wrestled the urge to share it with him. I was the keep everything bottled up type. I wasn't the extroverted, share my burdens kind, but his inquiring, safe gaze pulled the words from my lips. Paying my mind, no attention, my mouth moved on its own accord.

      "I know I'm supposed to be mourning," I muttered, looking down at the mud at my feet. "But I can't mourn the loss of something I don't remember having. If I'm mourning anything it's what I thought was a normal life. I'm mourning the loss of the parents I thought those monsters to be— and I can't deal with that guilt. It's so ridiculously disgusting. I feel like they've taken me with them, surely the Alexa Adams you knew would never love these people like I did."

      "You didn't know," he refuted gently. I didn't miss the spark of anger in his eyes upon the mere mention of the Collins.

     "It doesn't matter that I didn't know. It doesn't change what happened."

     He didn't try to disagree, didn't reassure me with a white lie, and for a moment I genuinely appreciated his presence.

      "That doesn't count by the way," I added quickly, voice harsher than usual as I wished to counter my appreciation. My life was complicated enough. I didn't have the time or energy to befriend him. "This wasn't bonding over shared feelings. I had things to get off my chest and you just so happened to follow me against my wishes."

      The unfriendly tone didn't affect him. He smiled. "I could help you—"

     "No," I answered immediately. "There's no fixing this."

     "I can help you remember." His voice was strong with conviction.

      I shook my head. As much as I wanted to believe him, I had long lost hope that I would ever come to remember. Nothing ever worked. Lord knows I had already tried just about every trick in the book.

      "I've done research." Eagerly he scooted to the edge of his seat, eyes wide with hope. "Your amnesia can be reversed. I've read so many success stories. Let me try to kick start your remembering."

     "I've already tried everything."

     "You haven't tried this," he insisted. "You haven't had someone from your past help you. I was present for most of what you've forgotten, let me recreate it."

      I shook my head, sighing heavily as I found myself losing the battle. I forced myself to look anywhere but directly at him. He was so difficult to refuse, pleading eyes impossible to disappoint. But giving in to his wishes, meant giving in to a vulnerability that I wished to share with no one but myself.

      "I know you hate accepting help. But this isn't just for you. I need you to remember. And... I know it's a lot to ask, but don't leave on your birthday. It's too soon."

      I had told myself that I would leave the moment I could, convinced myself that there would be no room to negotiate on the matter, but facing his hopeful, imploring gaze, perished my earlier resilience.

      "Grayson—" I tried weakly.

      "This will already be hard on you," he said. "Let us help. My parents can help you with the legal stuff, and I'll handle the memories. Don't let yourself do this alone. Don't you want to enjoy your senior year? Stay until the end of the year. Please... If you give me until then, until graduation, that's 248 days. 248 days to recreate our memories."

      I held my breath, a grunt of confusion and panic escaping my throat. 248 days was a lot. I was supposed to hate him. Supposed to want nothing to do with him. How could I keep his friendship at bay if I accepted his help? But one would have to be heartless to reject those pleading eyes.

      "It seems like a lot of trouble," I argued feebly.

      "It's worth it," he answered without hesitation. "I know you think it's a waste of time, but I need to try. I don't want to make new friends Alex, I want you... I just want my best friend back."

      I heaved a weighty breath, knowing in my heart that there was no way I was refusing his offer. He was only offering to help. No matter if I thought my situation hopeless, if there was a slim chance that he would succeed, didn't I owe it to my family to try to remember them? It would be selfish to deny his help.

      "Alright," I eventually agree dejectedly. "I'll give you 248 days, but not a day more."

     "That's all I need." He smiled brightly. "But if we do this you have to be all in. You have to give it a real chance."

      Though I remained as reluctant and uncertain, I shook his hand on it. Whether I would come to regret it or not, I gave him my word of seeing out the 248 days.

      That night when we both should have been sound asleep, through his open door I spotted him sprawled on his bed. While I was in my pyjamas, tiredly rubbing my eyes as I made way for the bathroom, he was wide awake, dozens of papers scattered across his bed covers. He was scribbling wildly into what looked like a handmade calendar, too caught up in his meticulous planning to notice my snooping. Noting the scribbles and notes that filled every inch of his papers, I concluded that I would absolutely, without a doubt, come to regret surrendering to his pleading blue eyes.