Kalorama Road

By E. Denise Billups

Her memories died, but the dead won't let them sleep.

There's something Allie can't remember. Lost memories refuse to surface until something triggers images of a blank night.

A year after graduating from Emsworth University, Allie receives a mysterious email asking a single question. Do you remember what happened at 1414 Kalorama Road?

Someone wants her to remember, and they are getting closer. As memories resurface, Allie must accept a sinister night and a discovery she could never have imagined.

Will she remember before it's too late?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Jan 13, 2022
• ISBN: 486752347X

Book preview

Part One

Forgotten

Prologue

IT’S COMING. Anticipation and unease coil within me as I await its arrival, every nerve on edge as the seconds tick away: fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine... Midnight. Like clockwork, my cell phone chimes, signaling an email that has graced my inbox every month for the past two years. A reminder from an anonymous sender, posing an unanswerable question that won’t let me forget one memory-less night. It’s torture. A night I wish had never happened haunts dreamlike and vaporous, appearing and receding with crushing anxiety, clouding my clarity. I should have trusted my instincts and steered clear of that off-campus party. But as Grandma Blu always said, "What’s done is done."

Often, I’m lost in what-if scenarios, yearning to rewind time. Especially when I revisit a pivotal moment in my dormitory vestibule, grappling with whether to stay or go to the off-campus party. Opting for the latter, I bolted from the dorm into the chilly autumn night toward the sleek Jaguar with tinted windows. Grandma Blu’s cautionary words roared in my mind, "Never get into a stranger’s car." But the person at the wheel wasn’t a total stranger. Despite never speaking, we shared a classroom for an entire semester, seated just two rows apart. Our existence was barely acknowledged until the day she extended an invitation after class.

Vibrant and full of mischief, she sauntered toward me with a sly smile. Her eyes were ablaze with curiosity as she measured me up like a skilled tailor and invited me to a mysterious party. Her odd approach left me more than hesitant. Why the sudden interest after three months? She’d introduced herself as Belle, a sweet and innocent name that clashed with her bold demeanor. But she was beguiling, upbeat, and fun. Against my better judgment, I couldn’t resist and accepted her invitation. In retrospect, I should have said no. But you didn’t, Allie.

The closer I grew to the car, the louder Grandma Blu’s warning screamed in my mind. Never get into a stranger’s car unless you’re 100 percent sure. I lacked one percent assurance of the blond from Literature 301. I rambled toward the luxury vehicle, peering through its tinted windows at the elusive driver. The car door flew open. Belle leaned toward the passenger side, greeting me with a warm smile. Girl, it’s freezing. Get in the car. I hesitated, stunned by her dramatic transformation. No longer the fresh-faced nineteen-year-old in jeans and a T-shirt, she had morphed into a seductive siren clad in a form-fitting black dress. Charcoal eyeshadow and long false eyelashes aged her youthful face, the dark colors contrasting the yellow of her blown-out, silky blond strands.

As we passed Emsworth University, Belle fell silent. The distance from campus heightened my unease; most off-campus gatherings were typically a short walk away, not miles away. Beyond Kalorama Square, a part of me wished Belle would turn the car around. My instincts, on high alert, cataloged landmarks just in case I needed to find my way back to the dorm without a ride.

In my younger years, I often pondered what actions I would take if faced with the peril Grandma warned me about repeatedly. I devised a plan to memorize surroundings, street signs, and landmarks, though a foolproof escape strategy never materialized. Now, my childhood musings seem almost comical. With every mile distancing us from campus, my anxiety swelled. I revisited those childhood contemplations, carefully studying the route past Kalorama Square.

The car glided to a graceful stop in front of an imposing residence. It swiveled into the driveway, passing through retracting garage doors. Given Belle's easy access to the interior, I assumed it was her family’s home. The car halted. The garage door closed. Unease crept in, paralyzing me for a moment.

We stepped into a space that exceeded the grandeur hinted at by its exterior—a setting far too opulent for a mere student party. I had envisioned a lively gathering of college students, not silent halls. It appeared we were the first to arrive until distant voices echoed from unseen corners.

Belle led me through a billiard room, maneuvering past a scattering of guests, until we reached a wide-eyed teenage girl seated at an open bar. Allison, Belle said in a sweet, apologetic tone, I need to attend to an urgent matter. She gestured toward the perplexed girl. She’ll take care of you until I return. Belle leaned in, whispering a quick message into the girls ear. The girl nodded, her expression showing compliance with whatever was said. Belle grinned. I’ll be back in a jiffy. With that, she disappeared, leaving me amidst a gathering of mismatched young women and older men, appearing like a secret society. Their lingering stares suggested I might be the evening’s main course.

Belle never returned, and the young woman abandoned me at the bar. A fifty-ish-looking man slid onto the empty stool beside me. With a look that made me uneasy, he introduced himself as Pennington. His eyes lingered on every detail of my being as he handed me a drink. The delicate flute, its cobalt rim, held a concoction far too sweet—sugared to mask the alcoholic strength. After finishing it, he refilled my glass with another potent mix.

As the room blurred and a strange disorientation set in, figures became indistinct. My body felt like a distant island, detached from my head. An urgent need to escape overcame me. Pennington refilled my glass again, his fingers stroking my arm as though testing the texture of a fabric. I forced a smile and looked away, sensing his gaze fixed on my body. He whispered, Don’t be afraid. Relax. Everyone’s here to have fun. That’s when his hand landed on my thigh. Furious, I pushed him away and stumbled out of the room, searching for Belle.

Stumbling through the home, I wandered upstairs on invisible legs, floating with a giddy high, arriving at the landing. When I approached a small, moonlit alcove, a concerned man asked, Sweetheart, are you okay? His words sounded miles away. My lips parted, but words refused to form. Pressing forward on unsteady legs, I meandered down the hallway, driven to find Belle. Muffled voices emanating from behind the first door drew my attention. I paused and summoned what strength remained, reached for the knob, producing a reluctant squeak as the door creaked open. The room unfolded before me, a collage of indistinct shadows and fleeting images. Like a camera lens, my mind snapped shut and reopened at dawn.

The events of that night lay shrouded in a blank canvas, devoid of detail. Over several months, fragments of that enigmatic evening surfaced sporadically, teasing my consciousness before slipping back into the recesses of memory.

Amidst the haze of inebriated double vision, the figures and faces in the room blurred into indistinct shapes. A lingering sense of foreboding suggested that something sinister transpired within those walls, and the ensuing amnesia served as a safeguard, shielding me from horrors lurking in my memories.

Exhaling deeply, I reach for my mobile on the nightstand. True to form, the email from my anonymous sender materializes, bearing a solitary, bold, small-capped question.

Do you remember what happened at 1414 Kalorama Road?

Ryan: We Meet Again

Two years have passed since I last laid eyes on Allison. The vivid memory lingers—she sat alone on the steps of Emsworth University’s campus quad, engrossed in conversation on her mobile phone. Unaware of autumn’s first snow blanketing the campus, she stared down at her Ugg-clad feet. A sleek black ski parka embraced her slender frame, while a beige wool ski cap adorned her head, framing a pair of concerned brown eyes. Her bee-stung lips formed hushed words, revealing a hidden distress. Despite her visible turmoil, I found her more captivating than ever.

Concerned, I approached hesitantly, taking a seat across from her. She glanced up, and in that fleeting moment, I wished she’d recognized me. When she didn’t, I was relieved, thinking it might be for the better. Intently, I listened under the guise of disinterest. Her soft voice oscillated with a sense of alarm as she recounted the events of the off-campus party from three days prior. Worried something horrible happened, her pitch intensified into a fearful trill, amplifying her distress. Allison’s anguish tugged at my heart and conscience, prompting a need to console her and divulge the treachery of Kalorama Road. But I couldn’t.

Self-conscious, her eyes darted around the quad, meeting and holding mine for a second that felt like an eternity. As I suspected, she had forgotten everything, including me.

Two years have elapsed, and now, on the brink of reuniting with Allison, a nagging concern haunts my thoughts. Has her memory returned? As I approach 9 West 57th Street, a slanted building adorned with a bold, red number nine on the sidewalk welcomes me like a piece of art. Lost in thoughts of Allison, I step into the revolving door of her office building, only to realize, to my embarrassment, that I’ve circled past the exit twice. With a newfound focus, I make it through on the third rotation, narrowly saving my coattail from the door’s brisk flaps. I regain composure and stride toward the security desk, now more alert than ever.

I have an appointment with Allison Bertrand at McClelland.

May I see your identification? inquires the security guard.

I’m thirty minutes early, I respond, extracting my driver’s license from my wallet.

He nods. It’s okay as long as someone’s there, he says, checking the computer and calling upstairs to confirm my appointment. Mr. McThursten is here to see Ms. Bertrand… Okay, he says, hanging up with a smile. Returning my driver’s license with a guest pass, he gestures toward the left. Thirtieth floor, elevator bank two.

Thanks, I acknowledge, following his directions and arriving at a talking elevator.

Unbeknownst to me, my father unwittingly thrust Allison back into my life. If he hadn’t submitted my manuscript to McClelland Publishing, I would never have seen her again. I had no plans to publish the book. When I heard Allison’s voice on the phone, I didn’t recognize her until she announced her name on the second call. I couldn’t believe the fawn-eyed student from Emsworth University who’d entered my life one fateful night now held my manuscript. What are the odds of that? I couldn’t resist seeing her, so here I am, ten floors from her office, wondering if her memory has returned. If so, will she remember me? The elevator opens in front of two large glass doors. At this moment, I consider not entering, but the elevator doors close, squeezing and forcing me out. A gray-haired receptionist looks up and buzzes me inside the office.

Mr. McThursten, you’re early. Allison will be here shortly. Please hang your coat over there, she says, gesturing toward a closet by the entrance.

I walk to the closet and loop my trench coat on a hanger. When I turn around, I find the gray-haired receptionist standing behind me.

Allison just called. She’s only minutes away. In the meantime, you’re welcome to wait in the conference room until her arrival, she suggests and guides me towards a room bathed in sunlight near the windows. Would you like coffee or tea while you wait?

No, thank you. I’m fine.

She won’t be too long. Make yourself comfortable with magazines, she adds, pointing towards a side table and concluding with a friendly smile as she closes the door.

Too tense to sit, I approach the window, gazing thirty stories below at Central Park’s rectangular expanse, a vibrant oasis amidst the imposing cement skyscrapers. But Allison’s fawn eyes and the stolen kiss eclipse the cityscape. A kiss I can’t forget. Will she remember? If she does, I’ll have no choice but to tell her the truth. My eyes drift to McClelland’s clock, ticking away the minutes. In just twenty minutes, I’ll discover the answer.

Allison: Have We Met?

GOD, I CAN'T BELIEVE I OVERSLEPT.

Navigating Fifth Avenue’s congestion, the taxi weaves through Central Park, flanked by vibrant cherry blossom-covered trees. The intoxicating scent of spring envelops me, but amid the allure, an anonymous email lingers in my thoughts. I push aside the mysterious message and focus on Ryan McThursten. After months of coaxing, he finally agreed to meet and discuss a potential contract with McClelland Publishing. But lingering doubt creeps in—will he reconsider and reject McClelland’s offer again?

I seldom harbor high expectations. I’m conditioned to expect the worst, half-expecting an unforeseen, life-altering event to wreck my world since my parents’ divorce and the unsettling off-campus party. Happiness, for me, remains an elusive daydream—a pendulum that swings between cold, warm, and occasionally scalding. I find solace in the tepid middle ground, navigating between contentment and discontent, aware that life’s trajectory can change without warning. In this precarious equilibrium, I embrace the fleeting bliss of spring, knowing too well that emotions can sour within twenty-four hours.

I dial the office number and inform the receptionist that I'm just five blocks away in a taxi. To my surprise and delight, she tells me that Mr. McThursten has arrived. Of all days to oversleep, I rebuke myself. The cab swiftly exits the park, races past the first traffic light, and I silently pray for a smooth, uninterrupted journey to the office door. The taxi zooms through the second yellow light, executes a sharp left turn, and pulls up at the side entrance of the building. Exiting the cab, I hasten upstairs, my breath coming fast.

However, my joy dissipates the moment I step into McClelland. The receptionist wears a concerned expression, and an eerie hush hangs over the office, foreshadowing an impending bombshell. Despite the employees being aware of McClelland Publishing's imminent merger with SNC Media for weeks, there's an undeniable sense that another disaster is looming. I approach the temporary receptionist, a retiree who returned to work after losing her savings in the last recession. It's disheartening to see her shouldering the burden of supporting everyone; as a senior, she should enjoy a well-deserved retirement.

A warm smile graces her face as she looks up from her task. Mr. McThursten is in Conference Room A.

Thank you, I reply, glancing at my wristwatch. Ryan is punctual, a pleasant surprise given the effort it took to get him to the office. Briskly, I assert, fearing he might reconsider if I keep him waiting, Send him down in five minutes. I hurry to my office, eager to meet the talented author whose novel I unearthed in the slush file and the reluctant man who rudely hung up on me.

Two months ago, McClelland’s rejection of the captivating novel puzzled me. Could it have wound up in the slush file by mistake? Upon discovering the manuscript, I reached out to the author, expecting enthusiasm. But he interrupted me before I could finish. "I’m not interested in publishing my book, but thanks for the call," he declared before promptly disconnecting the call. His indifference didn’t discourage me. Obstacles abound on my path to fulfillment, yet I persist. His disinterest clarified why the manuscript landed in the slush file, but his behavior intrigued me.

Despite the nippy dismissal, I was glad whoever handled the manuscript hadn’t deleted it from the file. I couldn’t imagine this story being unpublished. I pursued the author with gentle supplications via voice mail. After several appeals, he answered my call, apologized for his first response, and agreed to a meeting.

In my office, I throw my bag under the desk and open the manuscript. Before I can check my face and hair, I hear my name.

Allison?

Yes? In the doorway, my wide-eyed coworker beams at the stunning man by her side. I confess I’ve taken a siesta from men, but my heart woke with an instant and unexpected attraction. He could be a cover model for McClelland’s romance novels. I’m surprised by his age and appealing six-foot frame. Every fiber of him exudes sex. Washboard abdomens, hugged by a bright white T-shirt under a gunmetal blazer. Dark-washed denim exposes a slight bow in his long legs. I’d expected someone older, not a twenty-ish-looking hunk. At once, I ponder the flaws beneath his gorgeous skin.

This is Ryan McThursten.

Before I can respond, a curious breeze stirs the manuscript, sending pages flying across the room. Ryan rushes in, retrieving and piling the disheveled papers atop my desk. The strange breeze abates, followed by a hush between us.

That was peculiar, I remark, my gaze fixed on Ryan.

He glances toward the entrance, where Catrina stands, wearing an amused smirk. It might be cross ventilation from the door opening.

My brows arch. That’s never happened. But I choose not to dwell on it.

Ryan extends his hand, grinning.

Is he smiling because of my awed expression. I reciprocate his firm grip and adopt a professional demeanor. Please, take a seat, I say, studying his wrist adorned with bracelets, no wristwatch, which might explain his early arrival. I noticed Catrina still beaming at the entrance. Thanks, Catrina.

She throws me a sly grin and taps her fist against her chest, mimicking a rapid heartbeat as she closes the door.

Suppressing a laugh, I refocus on Ryan.

Can I get you something to drink? Coffee or tea?

No, thank you. I’m fine, he replies.

His voice evokes a peculiar sense of déjà vu. Have I met him before? The notion flits across my mind, swiftly dismissed. It’s implausible. I would remember his face. The air carries a subtle sweetness, an aroma too floral for a typical man's cologne. Is it Catrina's perfume?

Are you okay? Ryan asks.

The scent lingers, enveloping the room. Do you smell that?

Yes, I thought it was your perfume.

No, I’m not wearing any.

Smells like flowers, he remarks, scanning the office.

Maybe someone in the hall sprayed air freshener, I suggest, even though the scent envelops the desk as if originating inside the room. Dismissing the peculiar ambiance with a smile directed at Ryan, I state, I hope you didn’t wait too long.

That’s on me. I believe in arriving early for appointments—call it impatience, Ryan confesses with a grin.

It’s a commendable habit. I’m relieved you didn’t change your mind this time, Mr. McThursten ... Ryan.

Ryan is fine, he replies, attuned to my thoughts.

I trust your trip from Washington to New York went well?

He adjusts his body in the seat, propping his elbow on the chair with an alluring self-assurance. I drove. I prefer driving over flying. But the hotel is perfect. Pausing, he rests his brown eyes on mine. His lips part to speak, then close, his gaze never leaving my face.

The silence makes me acutely aware of my appearance. Fidgeting with the tacit pause, I wait for Ryan to speak. His expression shifts with whatever he’s about to say. Breaking the silence, I interject, Excellent choice. Le Parker Meridien Hotel offers impeccable service. I avert my eyes from his unflinching gaze, glancing at his disheveled manuscript. Nervously, I rearrange the askew pages. Well, as you know, your writing captivated me. McClelland is eager to publish your story, I add, locking eyes with him again.

He smiles. Making this decision wasn’t easy. I’ve put it off too long. As I mentioned during our phone conversation, my father sent the manuscript. The story was for my eyes only. He pauses in the middle of his sentence, hinting that the novel served a therapeutic purpose, though he doesn’t elaborate. I judge by his reserved manner the story holds deep personal meaning.

Ryan, taking this step is significant. Sharing personal information with the world is challenging, but you’re a talented writer.

Allison... is it okay if I call you Allison?

Of course. The sound of my name on his tongue brings an unexpected warmth, prompting my mind to race through distant memories, trying to place the familiarity. The instant déjà vu and attraction leave me bewildered, questioning whether I’ve met him before today. No, I could never forget his face. An inexplicable chill fills the room. Are you cold? I ask, rubbing my arms.

Just a tad. I can handle it.

You sure you don’t want coffee to warm you? I ask, rising from my chair and moving toward the small coffeemaker purchased when I grew tired of running upstairs to the office cafeteria. I notice Catrina, who shares the room, has brewed a pot. It’s already made, I explain, hoping to change his mind.

Well, in that case, I’ll take a cup.

Cream and sugar…

No, I prefer dark.

I pour two cups of coffee, one dark and the other lightened with a swirl of cream. Returning to the desk, I place Ryan’s cup in his waiting hand. A hush descends on the room, a subtle chill permeating the air as the aromatic tendrils of coffee weave their way around us. Ryan turns his head, drawn by the mysterious fragrance that lingers and settles in the corner around the office sofa. The temptation to investigate tugs at my curiosity, but I resist, mindful of how it might appear. Instead, I focus on Ryan, cradling the cup in his hands, and give him my full attention.

As we savor our coffee, our eyes lock in a moment of connection. I lower my gaze to the cup, wondering when I’ve ever felt like such a blushing fool. With a synchronized motion, we place our cups on the desk. Ryan leans back, a subtle smile playing on his lips.

After our last conversation, I worried you might not show up, I admit.

His angular jaw softens with a one-sided grin. I’ve given it a lot of thought since your call. You don’t need to convince me any further, he reassures.

I’m so relieved and happy you’re going through with the publishing. You’ve made a tremendous decision, I reply, smiling.

Well, he muses, glancing down at his wrist and idly twisting a colorful beaded bracelet around a triple-helix silver cuff, I’m not doing this to become a renowned published author. I couldn’t care less. But I feel... Let’s put it this way. It’s for my brother.

The encounter with Ryan marked both the commencement and conclusion of our interactions. Management summoned my division into the conference room three hours later without forewarning. Anticipating yet another impromptu sales meeting, I braced myself. However, the bombshell I had dreaded detonated unexpectedly. None of us had seen it coming.

Months before the merger, managers bolstered our confidence with assurances, citing McClelland's steadfast no-layoff policy. So, why entertain worry? We believed McClelland had our backs. Yet, management's stern demeanor paints a starkly different picture. With wide-eyed disbelief, I absorbed the revelation as McClelland discards employees like last year's model.

We regret to inform you several divisions will be closed...

A collective gasp of disbelief echoes through the conference room, leaving an eerie silence as it settles. The announcement feels like a colossal boulder crashing onto my path, propelling me into shock.