Read Forgotten: A Novel for Free Online

his palms flat on his thighs.
    “Thanks for bringing me here,” I say eventually.
    “Of course. Are you feeling better?”
    “I guess.”
    “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
    “That judgment . . . it said that I was . . . missing . . . that I was maybe . . . dead.”
    “Jesus. Why would anyone think that?”
    I hold my knees to my chest. “I wish I knew.”
    “Well, why were you gone so long in . . . where were you, anyway?”
    “Africa.”
    “What were you doing there?”
    I hug my knees tighter, willing myself to stick in the present. “My mother passed away and she left me a trip.”
    “What about your father?”
    “I don’t have a father. I mean, I don’t know him. He left when I was three.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter.”
    Dominic flexes his hands on his knees. “So you went to Africa, but you were only supposed to be there a month?”
    “Yes.”
    “What happened?”
    “I got sick early on, but also . . . I was in Tswanaland.”
    “You mean you were there when the earthquake—”
    “Yes.”
    He stands abruptly.
    “Where are you going?”
    “Hold on a sec, I’ve got an idea.”
    He leaves the room, returning in a moment with a thin silver laptop.
    “I was thinking. How would Pedro know to tell the court you were missing?”
    “Good point.”
    I take the laptop and open a web browser. I google Emma Tupper Attorney. The first hit is a link to the Post ’s webpage. I click on it and an article loads.
    The title says it all: “Rising Star at TPC Goes Missing.” I race through the article. I’d been in Tswanaland on safari. I’d gotten sick and been left in a village near the game reserve so the guides could get a doctor. I’d called a few friends and told them I’d be back in the capital on the twentieth. The earthquake struck on the twenty-first, 8.9 on the Richter scale, twenty miles from the capital. Much of it had been razed to the ground, wiping out the country’s infrastructure and killing thousands. All foreign nationals were strongly encouraged to register with their embassies (built to First World standards, they were some of the only buildings left standing) and take home the rescue flights that were sent in the following weeks. But I never turned up, and no one could find any trace of me. Officials assumed the worst and placed me on a list, a bad list. The conclusion was sad but obvious. “She’ll be greatly missed,” Matt was quoted as saying. “She had a bright future ahead of her.”
    “What did you find?” Dominic asks.
    My eyes dart to his, then back to the computer screen that says I’m probably dead. Which would explain a few things. Like the dead feeling in my heart, for one.
    Dominic takes the computer from me, his eyes scanning the screen. He emits a low whistle. “Fuck.”
    “I don’t think that even comes close to covering it.”
    “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
    “For what? This isn’t your fault.”
    “Just the same.” Dominic puts down the computer and walks toward a box in the corner. He pulls out a bottle of Scotch and a glass and pours several generous fingers. He hands it to me. “Here, drink this.”
    I stare into the glass. The amber liquid glows. “This isn’t going to solve anything.”
    “You never know.”
    I toss the whole thing back in two long gulps. It burns like fire and tastes like the bottom of a peat bog. I look up at Dominic. He’s watching me like I’m made of glass and he’s a ball-peen hammer. One sharp blow and I might shatter into a million little pieces.
    I could use something to blunt the blow.
    “Hand me that bottle.”

Chapter 4: Some Samuel Clemens
    I ’ve had this recurring dream for months.
    It’s day three of my trip. We’ve spent two days tracking elephants and giraffes under a sky so wide and flat it feels like being lost in a watercolor painting. The air smells like dust and sunbaked hay. My ears are full of the whir and peal of birds. As the bleached-out sun