I Know Who You Are: A Novel

“I run and I run and I run.”

This sentence concludes a flashback chapter in which five-year-old Ciara witnesses a traumatic event. The use of epizeuxis (the immediate repetition of a word) emphasizes the child’s desperate, instinctual flight. This moment is a narrative catalyst, introducing the act of running away as a primary response to trauma that defines the character’s later actions.

“The series of childhood doctors I was made to see afterwards said that I had something called transient global amnesia. […] I knew that I had only been pretending not to remember what happened.”

Here, Aimee addresses The Unreliability of Memory as a Consequence of Trauma as a theme while simultaneously undermining her own narrative reliability. By admitting that she was “pretending not to remember,” she reveals that her amnesia may be a conscious coping mechanism rather than a purely psychological condition. This complicates the novel’s portrayal of her past, suggesting a willed suppression of events she finds too painful to confront.

“Well, hello there, little lady. I’m your new dad, but for now, you can just call me John.”

This line marks the beginning of Ciara’s captivity and the systematic deconstruction of her identity. John’s unsettling tone and false claim of paternity signal the transition from a kidnapping to a long-term, psychologically abusive relationship. This moment initiates the novel’s examination of The Destructive Nature of Deception in Relationships, recasting familial roles as tools of control.

“It says Aimee. That’s your new name from now on. It means ‘loved.’ You do want people to love you, don’t you?”

This quote captures the moment that Maggie finalizes the erasure of Ciara’s identity by renaming her Aimee. Maggie weaponizes the name’s meaning, “loved,” as a tool of psychological manipulation, forcing the child to accept a new identity in exchange for affection. The irony of this exchange thematically illustrates the fragility of a constructed identity, as a name meant to signify love is used to enforce control.

“My foot connects with the large stainless-steel pedal bin and the lid opens obediently, ready to swallow my rubbish, but also revealing its own. My hands hover above the trash while my eyes try to translate what they are seeing: two empty black plastic bottles that I’ve never seen before. I pick one up to read the label. Lighter gel?”

This passage builds suspense by transforming a mundane object into a source of menace. The personification of the bin lid, which “opens obediently” and is “ready to swallow,” imbues the scene with an ominous tone. The discovery of the lighter gel bottles creates dramatic irony, as readers know that the police have evidence linking a woman who resembles Aimee to the purchase of this item and thereby connecting her to suspicious circumstances.

“‘If it’s a shop, then don’t you have to sell something?’ ‘We do, I told you already. We sell dreams, Baby Girl. Dreams that will never come true.’”

This dialogue between Aimee and her captor, Maggie, metaphorically defines the corrupt world that Aimee has been forced into. Maggie’s assertion that they “sell dreams that will never come true” extends beyond the betting shop to describe the false promises of familial love and loyalty she offers Aimee. The line thematically encapsulates the destructive nature of deception in relationships, framing the protagonist’s new reality as one built on lies.

“I’m sorry to call, but you said that I could if I ever felt in danger again, and I think she’s going to kill me.”

Played for Aimee by Detective Croft, this voicemail, ostensibly from Ben to a domestic abuse counselor, represents the core of her husband’s deception. The dialogue weaponizes the language of abusive relationships to frame Aimee and manipulate the police, thematically developing the destructive nature of deception in relationships by demonstrating the perversion of intimacy and trust into tools for psychological warfare.

“‘There are only three rules we follow under this roof. I keep telling you what they are, but seems to me you keep forgetting. What is rule number one?’ […] ‘We work hard.’ […] ‘Rule number two?’ ‘We don’t trust other people.’ […] ‘Rule number three?’ ‘We don’t lie to each other.’”

While forcing young Aimee to eat off a dirty restroom floor, Maggie makes her recite their family “rules.” The irony of Maggie demanding that Aimee not lie while their life is built on the foundational lie of Aimee’s kidnapping underscores the novel’s exploration of deception. This catechism-like dialogue is a form of brainwashing, and the juxtaposition of the cruel punishment with the recitation of moral codes highlights the abusive and contradictory nature of Maggie’s control.

“We marry our own reflections; someone who is the opposite of ourselves, but who we see as the same. If he is a monster, then what does that make me?”

After a repressed memory of her husband’s abuse resurfaces, Aimee’s reflection recalls the recurring motif of mirrors and reflections to explore her fractured identity. The rhetorical question reveals her struggle to reconcile her self-perception with the reality of her marriage. This moment of anagnorisis, or critical discovery, forces her to confront how trauma has blurred the boundaries of her own identity.

“People judge your dad and me because of how we speak, and I don’t want that for you, Baby Girl. […] It’s just an act, that’s all. We all have to learn to act, Aimee. It’s never, ever, a good idea to let strangers see the real you. So long as you never forget who you really are, acting will save you.”

As Maggie explains why Aimee must erase her Irish accent, she directly articulates the fragility of a constructed identity as a theme. Maggie frames identity as a performance necessary for survival, a philosophy that Aimee internalizes and later adopts in her acting career. The final line, “acting will save you,” is both literally and psychologically true, as it foreshadows how Aimee navigates future trauma.

“I’ve always felt safe in bookshops. It’s as though the stories inside them can rescue me from myself and the rest of the world. A literary sanctuary filled with shelves of paper-shaped parachutes, which will save you when you fall.”

While Aimee takes refuge in a bookstore, her metaphorical language characterizes the shop as a “literary sanctuary” and books as “paper-shaped parachutes.” This reveals her deep-seated need for escapism to cope with trauma. The passage highlights her interiority, contrasting her chaotic external life with the safety she finds in fiction, and shows that her impulse to lose herself in narratives predates her acting career.

“Sometimes I think that every person might be his or her own star, shining at the center of his or her own solar system. […] As I sit and stare at the galaxy of faces, trying to get from one place to another, I understand that it doesn’t matter who we are or what we do; we’re all the same. We are all just stars trying to shine in the darkness.”

While observing other passengers on the tube, Aimee’s extended metaphor presents a moment of empathy and philosophical reflection. Conceptualizing people as a “galaxy of faces” and “stars trying to shine” suggests a universal human struggle for significance against an overwhelming “darkness.” This passage reveals Aimee’s capacity for connection, a trait that a lifetime of distrust has largely suppressed.

“That man is dead because you didn’t do as you were told. I didn’t kill him, you did.”

After a traumatic robbery, Maggie psychologically abuses the young Aimee, directly implanting a false memory and sense of guilt. This moment of gaslighting is thematically foundational to the unreliability of memory as a consequence of trauma, demonstrating how an authority figure can manipulate a child’s perception of reality. The declarative, accusatory tone establishes the source of the self-doubt that plagues Aimee into adulthood.

“I stare down at my new red shoes; it’s as though they have become stuck to the pavement. I wonder if I click my heels together three times, if I might magically vanish, but there’s no place like home if you’ve never had one, and I was only ever pretending to be Dorothy in that school play all those years ago. Just as I’ve only ever pretended to be Aimee Sinclair.”

This passage links the red shoes as a symbol of Aimee’s fragmented identity through a direct literary allusion to The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (1900). The shoes, which represent a desire for escape and a lost childhood, fail to offer magical deliverance because Aimee’s concept of “home” is nonexistent. The final clause creates a parallel between playing a character on stage and living her entire life as a performance, explicitly stating the central conflict of her constructed self.

“I do what she taught me to do and shoot until nobody moves. Then I carry on shooting anyway, until I don’t have any bullets left.”

During a violent robbery, Aimee acts as she has been conditioned. The narrator’s detached, methodical tone highlights the effectiveness of Maggie’s psychological training, reducing Aimee’s actions to a learned, automatic response. The detail that she keeps shooting “until I don’t have any bullets left” suggests that the act transcends self-defense, becoming an expression of rage born from trauma.

“I barely recognize myself, but I don’t know the man pictured next to me at all. […] I don’t recognize the man they claim I killed, because the man in the picture is not my husband. It isn’t Ben.”

This quote marks a pivotal plot revelation. Aimee’s inability to recognize her own image alongside the stranger’s literalizes her fragmented identity and the fabrication of her marriage. The passage delivers a narrative twist that reframes the central mystery, confirming that Aimee is the target of an elaborate deception.

“‘John Sinclair didn’t die in the robbery. He was in hospital for three months, then he went to prison.’ […] ‘He killed the alleged burglars with an illegal firearm. The gun was found in his hand and was linked to three other serious crimes.’”

This revelation from Detective Croft shatters the foundational trauma of Aimee’s childhood, proving that her memory of the event is critically flawed. The information demonstrates the long-term consequences of Maggie’s deception, which imprisoned an innocent man. This forces a reevaluation of the past, emphasizing how manipulated memories have dictated the course of Aimee’s life.

“The stories we tell each other about our lives are like snow globes. We shake the facts of what happened in our minds, then watch and wait while the pieces settle into fiction. If we don’t like the way the pieces fall, we just shake the story again, until it looks how we want it to.”

In this moment of reflection, Aimee offers a simile that encapsulates the novel’s thematic exploration of the unreliability of memory as a consequence of trauma. The “snow globe” comparison suggests that memory isn’t a fixed record but a malleable narrative, rearranged to create a more palatable version of the past. This establishes Aimee as a narrator who acknowledges her own subjectivity, blurring the line between fact and the “fiction” she constructs as a coping mechanism for surviving trauma.

“I turn it over, unable to take another step when I read what is written on the back of it in a child-like scrawl: John Sinclair. Age 5.”

This moment of anagnorisis, or critical discovery, centers on the photo of John Sinclair. The “child-like scrawl” on the back is physical evidence from the past that unravels the constructed identity of the man Aimee married. This turning point marks the collapse of the deceptions surrounding her marriage, propelling her toward the final confrontation.

“I keep turning the pages, and it appears as if every interview, profile piece, or review of my work that ever existed has been collected inside. A part of me knows that I should leave now […] but I just keep turning the pages, as though I’m in some kind of trance and can’t stop.”

Upon discovering her stalker’s scrapbook, Aimee confronts an archive of her public persona. Thematically, the scrapbook physically manifests the fragility of a constructed identity, showing how her performed self has been obsessively monitored. Aimee’s “trance”-like compulsion to keep looking highlights the disturbing nature of seeing one’s own curated life reflected, especially when it’s weaponized.

“Oh, the nose? Do you like it? I asked for one just like Jack’s, showed them his picture […] Did the police show you what I looked like? I went straight there after the surgery, let them take a picture of my broken nose, black eyes, and swollen face as evidence of your abuse.”

Eamonn’s confession reveals the lengths of his deception, tying his physical transformation to his psychological manipulation. His plastic surgery to resemble another man thematically enacts the fragility of a constructed identity. The quote demonstrates his calculated cruelty, as he weaponized the recovery from his surgery to frame Aimee for domestic abuse, highlighting the destructive nature of his obsession.

“There is a mirror on the dressing table, and when I twist my body as far as the restraints will allow, I can see myself in it. I am wearing clothes I don’t recognize. An adult-size white blouse, red skirt, and white tights. My hair has been tied into bunches.”

Tied to a bed, Aimee’s reflection reveals that Eamonn has dressed her as a doll-like version of her younger self. This invocation of the mirrors and reflections motif forces her to confront a grotesque fusion of her past and present: her adult body in the costume of her stolen childhood. This image visually conveys the novel’s exploration of unresolved trauma, as Eamonn attempts to physically regress Aimee to the point of her initial flight.

“When it is over, he unties just one of my hands and holds it, then lays his head on my chest. When I think enough time has passed, I ease my fingers out of his, and when he starts to snore, I reach for the Jesus statue […] then smash it hard against his skull.”

In this climactic scene, Aimee uses her acting skills for survival, performing intimacy to manipulate Eamonn into untying her. The cold, methodical narration contrasts with the act she performs, demonstrating a synthesis of her professional skill and her fight for life. Her transformation from a passive target to an active, violent agent marks a pivotal character shift, subverting the established power dynamic.