I looked up at her and frowned apologetically. “Sorry,” I said. “I sometimes…” I let the sentence trail as I met her eyes. They lacked the shrewd coldness from before and were somehow softer, more like fresh-fallen snow than ice. I cleared my throat and looked away, back to the sterile white, tiled floor. “I sometimes slip into the past. Perfect memory has its drawbacks. Call it solipsism.”
“Solipsism?” Detective Schumer asked.
I nodded. “A narcissistic obsession with one’s own feelings, desires, and personal history. I don’t always have a choice in the matter. There are triggers – sounds, smells, words. The definition isn’t perfect, it’s just the closest. Like I said, I can recall any moment in my life with perfect clarity. It’s… easy to get lost.”
I sat in silence as she digested the information. “So…” she finally spoke, “you can remember everything that’s ever happened in your entire life?”
“Mostly,” I acknowledged. “Everything before five is a little fuzzy, but after that, it’s everything.”
“The bad memories, too?” she asked softly.
I rubbed the brand on my forearm absently through my thermal. “Yes.”
She pointed to the spot. “I didn’t want to ask yesterday, but I saw the scar on your arm,” she said. I couldn’t help the slight smile that curled the corners of my mouth. How she had ended up partnered with a complete dunce like O’Leary was beyond me.
“That memory is off-limits, Detective,” I replied. “Even to me.”
