She woke up in a bathtub she didn’t recognize. Nothing was missing—except her.
Waking in Memphis begins now.
Chapter 1: A is for Absence
Casey
I’ve never been a great sleeper. Always the last one to crash—too afraid I’d miss something fun—and the first one up, bright-eyed and mouth-already-running, no matter how much damage was done the night before.
Except today.
Today, something was off. And by off I mean real fuckin’ off.
My eyes were heavy. My limbs didn’t just feel tired—they felt borrowed. Numb, leaden, like someone had filled them with wet cement.
My head pounded. My stomach rolled. And even without moving, I knew something was wrong.
I was cold.
Not chilly—freezing.
And naked.
No sheets. No warmth. No squishy pillow under my head. No familiar pull of a comforter or even the soft cotton of a T-shirt. Just cold, hard surfaces pressing against my bare skin.
I kept my eyes shut.
Partly because they felt glued closed. Mostly because I was scared to see what was waiting.
Okay, Casey. Think.
What kind of cold, hard-sided container might you reasonably wake up naked in? Why is this even something I have to ask myself?
Ok….tanning bed?
I used to fall asleep in the tanning bed all the time. But this didn’t smell like coconut lotion or burnt skin.
And I wasn’t glowing.
So, small win?
Bobsled?
Why the fuck would I be in a bobsled, Casey? This is Memphis, not Jamaica. Nobody's filming Cool Runnings 2. Get it together.
Ok colder than a tanning bed but not bobsledding cold.
Bathtub.
Yeah. It had to be a bathtub. In college I’d always want to take a hot bath when we’d get home from a night out at 4am. Tessa would find me the next morning sound asleep in cold water and yell at me that she did not want to be the one to find my dead body in a tub. I’d just reassure her I was safe because I was a good swimmer and laugh it off.
But it didn’t feel… safe.
It felt hard. Dry. Wrong.
This wasn’t a cozy spa day or a hungover morning-after at a friend’s place. This felt like a horror movie.
Like the part right before they actually find the body.
I could hear it now—the distant hum of an air conditioner. The echo of nothing.
No voices.
No laughter.
No Jill.
Jill.
I’d picked her up from the airport last night. That part I remembered.
We dropped our stuff at the hotel. She changed. We went out.
We always go out.
And she never lets me wander off alone.
Where the hell was she?
Why couldn’t I remember anything past the bar? I only had two drinks. Three max. And I know my limits.
I wasn’t ready to open my eyes. Not yet. I needed to know if someone else was here before I had to see them.
So I stirred. Just slightly. Tilted my head and let out a soft hum. Like a warning shot.
Ready or not here I come, assholes.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No movement. No breath but mine.
I cracked one eye.
White tile.
Neutral paint.
Unfamiliar everything.
This wasn’t our hotel.
No makeup-stained towels or half-zipped makeup bags. No dresses draped over chairs. No bobby pins or wine corks or inside jokes.
The place looked... untouched.
Except for the bathtub.
Except for me.
My clothes from the night before were folded neatly—too neatly—on the floor. My purse sat next to them, half-sunken in a puddle of—
Oh.
Vomit.
Perfect.
Judging by the taste in my mouth, that was definitely mine.
I reached for the bag, gagged, and dug through it anyway.
Wallet? Check.
Cards? Still there.
Phone? Dead.
Charger? Never had it.
Hotel key. Present.
I had everything—
Except a clue.
Nothing was missing.
Except me.
So where was I?
And how the hell did I get here?
I finally managed to open both eyes and stand up. It may have taken half an hour or thirty seconds—I couldn’t tell. All I knew was my head was splitting in half.
I gathered my things and cleaned myself—and the floor—as best I could. Honestly, the floor looked better than I did.
Walking out of the bathroom was an Olympic event. I felt like I was moving across puffy clouds—which, I realize, is impossible because clouds are just water and air. At least that’s what I remember from our third-grade cloud unit. I loved third grade—it was so much… wait. I’m getting off track again.
Okay, back to walking.
Maybe it’s a trampoline I’m thinking of?
Whatever it was, it felt like every time I tried to put one foot in front of the other, the floor pushed back, trying to take me down. Each step was more questionable than the last.
I scanned the room as best I could, trying to find anything that might jog my memory or explain how I ended up here—wherever here was.
The room looked… spotless. Sterile. Untouched. No trash, no food, no water bottles. Not even a crease in the bedsheets.
How had I made it through the room without knocking anything over or even messing up the bed? Did I just creep through like a blacked out ninja, then puke on the floor, strip, and curl up in the tub? I mean… stranger things have happened, but something felt seriously off.
There had to be some kind of clue.
I opened the desk drawer, half-worried I was smudging someone else’s fingerprints. What if I’d been in here with a murderer?
Pens. Notepad.
Then something: a matchbook from a karaoke bar—the only place I actually remembered going.
Not helpful now, but I tossed it in my purse anyway. Maybe it would come in handy later.
After one last painful scan of the eerily untouched room, I headed out to find the lobby.
Since my phone was dead and I couldn’t even focus my eyes enough to read the hotel information on the notepad, I figured I’d ask the front desk to call me a cab.
The elevator ride from the sixth floor was a full-body betrayal. I’m pretty sure my stomach stayed behind while the rest of me descended. I was actively fighting back gags as more people piled in. The smell of the people on the elevators was overwhelming, like they’d been at a campfire—though I’m sure my scent was gagging them right back. I guess they’d gotten an early start for the BBQ festival.
Six-sixteen, six-sixteen, six-sixteen, I kept repeating. I didn’t have my phone to snap a picture or jot it down, and I wasn’t about to forget the number of the mystery room I just escaped.
By the time I reached the front desk, I was sweating. That kind of cold, vibrating sweat that somehow manages to feel hot and dry at the same time.
Finally, I stepped forward and asked for a cab. Then, on a whim, I asked if they could tell me which card I’d used to pay for the room. “Six-sixteen” I said with relief like clearing that number out of my mind would make room for memory of last night to come back to me.
I couldn’t help but notice the front desk agent’s long, manicured nails clacking away on the keyboard. There’s no way she needed to type that much. Was she coding a video game? She could’ve been nailing shingles to a roof and it would’ve sounded the same.
The noise was so distracting I almost didn’t hear her say it:
Paid in cash.
My knees buckled. I grabbed the desk to stay upright.
I never carry cash. Ever.
I think she could tell I was teetering somewhere between a panic attack and a full blackout, because she offered me a cup of water while I waited for the cab.
I sat down, resisting the urge to dump the water straight over my head and soak it up like a flower. Instead, I took small sips, trying to look like a functional adult.
I looked around the lobby searching for anything that might jar my memory from last night. I’ve seen this on criminal minds - don’t think focus on other senses. Sounds, smells, sights. Nothing. Just a lot of people functioning normally in whag seemed like fast forward mode.
The whole thing felt surreal. Like I’d fallen into a sleep-paralysis inception loop. Maybe when I got back to my real hotel, my body would still be asleep and Leonardo DiCaprio would be spooning me. I’d dive into bed, the dream would collapse, and I’d wake up safe and sound.
That semi-comforting fantasy was obliterated when one of the clacky nails landed on my shoulder. I nearly jumped back to the sixth floor.
“Your cab is here,” she said.
I tossed my water cup in the trash and thanked her. I was halfway out the door when I spun around and rushed back to the desk.
“Is there any security footage of me checking in?” I asked. Maybe I could see who I was with—or at least confirm I looked safe. Or happy. Or something.
Another dead end. She said she didn’t have access to the footage.
It made me madder than it probably should’ve.
I don’t know if I was still hung up on the sound of her nails or just jealous she could move her head from side to side without it falling off—but the way she shut me down was so fast. Like, look at me. I’m clearly a mess.
Where was the girl code?
Where was the hospitality?
And where the hell was Jill?
I walked outside and climbed into the cab, hoping I could at least answer that question.
The driver didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just pulled away like he’d been waiting
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