Then why don't I remember any of it? I've lived in New York my entire life. My mom died when I was little. The only best friend I had in high school was the quarterback I slept with twice before I found out he was gay.
[The more she talks about it, the crazier she feels--because she can't get around the things that have anchored themselves, too solidly to ignore any longer: Lydia Martin and Scott McCall are not just people she knows, they're barely people she's close to.
They're...limbs. They're organs. They're strangers, they came out of nowhere, but their names echo through her with every beat of her heart.
Leaning against the table, her eyes narrow with an anger borne out of fear and frustration.]
My name is Allison Rappelevie. My home is New York City, I have never heard of Beacon Fucking Hills...and I trust you with my life. How the fuck does that happen?