Aaron Adams

Addictive Romance Novels, Read Right Now👈

Instead of rushing to clear my name after serving three years for a crime my sister committed, I booked an appointment to have her erased from my memory. Along with my husband. My husband had just admitted it himself. After my sister—the one who was actually driving—crashed the car and killed someone, she’d dragged my unconscious body behind the wheel. Then, using the amnesia I suffered from the crash, they had all convinced me to confess. Because she was pregnant. Because she was the one who deserved their protection. I couldn’t believe they could be so cruel, the people who were supposed to love me. I had to see it for myself, so I drove to the family estate. The house was ablaze with light. Inside, my husband, Grant, was holding my sister, Paige, while she wept that I was just jealous she had his love. Standing outside in the cold, I watched the surveillance footage on my phone one last time. Then I made the call. “I want to forget all of you.” … “Evelyn, I need to confirm this one more time.” Dr. Matthews’s voice came through the phone, calm and precise. “Selective autobiographical memory reconsolidation isn’t your average trauma therapy. We can weaken your emotional and autobiographical memory links to specific people, but we can’t pick and choose which memories to keep.” “You may forget how they hurt you, but you may also forget the first time your husband proposed, forget your parents holding you as a child, even forget your sister calling you ‘big sister’ when she was little.” “Even the few good memories you have left will disappear.” I looked through the manor window at the family embracing inside. Grant was still wiping away Paige’s tears. “I understand.” “The program requires an evaluation first. Approval isn’t guaranteed. And even if you are approved, you have to understand that you could see them again one day and not remember who they are.” “That’s exactly what I want.” Silence hung on the line. “All right. I’ll schedule you for a preliminary screening at the Boston Trauma Center.” After I hung up, I didn’t go back inside. In my car, I opened a new, encrypted email account and uploaded the police report from three years ago, the trial records, the confession agreement, and the original, unedited surveillance footage I’d recovered from the cloud. The recipient was a law firm specializing in wrongful convictions—an Innocence Project affiliate. I wrote only one line. “Three years ago, I was convicted of vehicular manslaughter. I have now recovered footage showing the actual driver. My family and husband knew the truth and testified against me.” “I am requesting legal assistance to overturn my conviction.” After I hit send, I turned off my phone. For three days, I didn’t sleep for more than an hour at a time. I drove to Boston for the initial evaluation. On the way back, my car died on the shoulder of the highway. Red warning lights flashed across the dashboard, one after another. The moment I pushed the door open, a roar filled my ears. The white lines on the asphalt blurred and stretched. A second later, my knees hit the ground, hard. When I woke up, the air smelled of disinfectant. Grant sat beside the hospital bed, his tie loose, his eyes bloodshot. The moment he saw me open my eyes, he took my hand. “You’re finally awake.” His palm was warm, a familiar weight in mine. For a split second, I almost let myself believe it—that the footage, the embrace I’d seen through the window, the lie he’d confessed to my face—was all just a nightmare I’d had in a coma. He bent over and tucked the blanket around my shoulders. “The doctor said you’re severely sleep-deprived and dehydrated. You just got out of prison; your body hasn’t recovered. Why were you driving so far by yourself?” I didn’t answer. I just pulled my hand from his. Grant froze. Then his face softened into that patient, helpless expression he wore so well. “You’ve had a day to calm down. You should have thought it t......