Madison Square Murders (Memento Mori, #1)

by C.S. Poe

“My short-term memory is terrible,” Larkin answered. “I miss appointments without reminders because I’m just… unable to recall a plan on its own that exists outside a strict routine. I misplaced my wedding ring today. Forgot about it entirely. Gun to my head, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you where I’d put it because I was so immersed in a past event that I was running on autopilot in the here and now. It’s not a gift when my husband confronts me about the missing ring. It’s not a gift that I can’t control intrusive memories because a date, a time, a voice, a crack of thunder is an association and now the past has to play itself out in full like a film projector with no controls. It’s not a gift that I’ve developed obsessive-compulsive traits as a method of coping. It’s not a gift that I can barely hold a regular conversation, because I’m too busy automatically cataloging every mundane and minute detail, and that if I focus—really focus on the other person—there’s a constant fear that the conversation will take a negative turn and I’ll have invested energy into something I now can’t forget, a pain that doesn’t diminish with time.” Larkin wiped his cheeks and took a wet breath. “None of that is a gift.”