And now it feels like the floodgates have opened. I remember more—Simon whispering in my ear that we should “get out of here,” my head lolling in the back seat of his Porsche as he drove back to my hotel, him practically carrying me to the room. The terrifying part is that if I hadn’t come face-to-face with Simon and smelled his sickening cologne, I might not have remembered any of it.
