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and shines it into my eyes. The sudden brightness makes me blink and lean further back into the pillow. ‘It’s OK; I just want to examine you.’ He holds my eyelids open until he’s finished. Clicking off the torch, he says, ‘Good. Can you follow my finger with your eyes?’ He holds up his finger, moving up, down, side to side. ‘Yes, very good. Do you know what happened?’
    ‘I was kidnapped,’ I say in a shaky voice. ‘I woke up underground somewhere and managed to escape. Then I just kept running and running. I don’t know how I got there. I don’t—’ I break off to take a calming breath. ‘I don’t remember what happened.’
    He frowns, nods, and looks at his folder. ‘Can you confirm your date of birth for me, please, Chloe?’
    I tell him.
    ‘And your address?’
    I tell him that, too.
    ‘Before you were…er…kidnapped, what’s the last thing you remember?’
    ‘A party. My husband’s birthday party.’
    ‘And when was that?’
    ‘The twenty-third of March.’
    He narrows his eyes slightly. ‘You can’t remember anything since the twenty-third of March?’
    That’s what I just said, isn’t it? ‘No,’ I say calmly, fighting the frustration.
    ‘Do you know what date it is today?’
    ‘The nurse told me it’s the ninth of May. Which means I’ve lost seven weeks of my life somewhere. Have I got brain damage? Is that why I can’t remember?’ I touch the lump above my ear.
    ‘When you were brought in unconscious, we carried out some scans. Apart from the bump to your head and a few abrasions on your wrists and hands and face, we couldn’t find anything significantly wrong with you, which is good. There’s no brain injury or damage. You are a little dehydrated, but the drip will sort that out now, and there should be no lasting effects. But…’ His smile erodes as he studies me for a moment before tapping the file in his lap. ‘These are your medical notes.’
    I frown, confused. ‘Yes?’
    ‘Do you remember being hospitalized in April?’
    ‘What? No? I just told you. I remember my husband’s party, and then…’ I stop, wondering what the hell he’s talking about. ‘Did I have an operation or something?’
    ‘No.’ He flicks open the folder and reads to me. ‘You suffered a miscarriage on March the twenty-fourth. You were apparently very depressed afterwards, and your GP prescribed Zolafaxine. It’s an antidepressant.’
    His words trigger a memory to hit me with the force of a wrecking ball. Of course! It’s what I was trying to remember when I was held captive. The important thing I was going to tell Liam about after his party. I was pregnant. I don’t know how I could’ve possibly forgotten that.
    I tune him out as my hands instinctively touch my stomach. An empty stomach, devoid of any life that was in there. I gasp. Tears sting my eyes. But I have no time to reflect on what I’ve lost, because he carries on talking and I have to concentrate on what he’s saying. This is important.
    ‘…a bad reaction to the antidepressants, apparently. It can happen occasionally.’
    ‘What do you mean a bad reaction? What kind of reaction?’
    ‘You were suffering from psychosis-like side effects.’
    My blood turns to ice in my veins. ‘Wh…what does that mean?’
    ‘You were having hallucinations. You were confused, agitated, and paranoid. Your husband and the hospital thought it best for you to be admitted to hospital for your own safety until the drugs wore off.’
    ‘My own safety?’ I shriek, not believing what I’m hearing.
    He looks up sharply. ‘Yes. You were sectioned under the Mental Health Act and admitted to the psychiatric ward.’
    I shake my head, and the movement sends throbbing pain through my brain.
    ‘You don’t remember any of this?’
    ‘No!’ I struggle to keep calm.
    ‘When you were released from hospital and sent home, the effects of the drugs had completely worn off. You were functioning normally, although you were still a little