She was listening, stricken, staring at his chest. When he said that her room had been picked clean, she looked up as if she could spot something awry--one statuette on the bookshelf, one missing pillow from the wide sofa--but everything looked right, as far as she could remember. And what the hell could she really remember, if they could put her in cold storage for twelve days?
"No," she whispered, tearful, looking at him again. "No, Erran, I don't remember anything. Literally nothing. I know I went to bed last night... like, look at me, I'm clearly dressed for bed here." Her long bare legs. She drew the blanket tighter around her, trying to stop that kitten-weak shaking. They could have done anything to her and she'd never know. She'd never have any idea. "Oh Christ," she whispered, a shudder running down her back. "Erran--"