Page 60 of Lost Echoes

Something brushes the air, like a draft, or a presence slipping away.

Florencia’s footsteps pound up the stairwell. “Billa, don’t!”

But I can’t stop. Not now, because if I don’t see who’s pulling Phoenix’s strings, I’ll never forgive myself. Almost everyone I care about is at stake now.

A faint rustle sounds. Followed by a sharp metallic ping, like a hook catching on wire.

“There!” My voice echoes up and out. I rush toward it, my heart in my throat.

A figure darts between beams, too fast and too shadowed to make out. Just the sweep of fabric, the scrape of boots.

“Stop!” I lunge, grabbing for the sound. My fingers close around air, then wood splinters. A board shifts under my weight with a sickening crack.

“Billa!” Florencia’s cry echoes.

But I’m already moving, reckless and determined. The figure slips again, but not before something drops from his pocket. It’s a glint of white against the black.

I snatch up a small plastic spool. The thread’s frayed like it’s been used a thousand times.

My chest tightens. White spool. Again.

A shadow looms. I whirl just as the figure swings down on a rope of knotted fabric, landing hard on the beam in front of me. A mask covers his face, making his features look smooth, featureless except for slits where eyes should be.

For one breathless second, I’m frozen.

Then the masked figure lunges.

I stumble back, my heel catching on a loose board. My balance tilts, the drop threatening beneath me. I clutch the spool like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered.

Hands seize my arms. Florencia’s, pulling me down, yanking me out of reach. The figure’s grasp misses by mere inches, and then he leaves, vaulting into the shadows.

Florencia and I crash onto the landing in a heap. My breath comes ragged, wild. She grips my shoulders, her face pale with fury. “Do you want to die? Do you want to end up back in their hands? Then what? There’ll be one less person helping the victims.”

I can’t answer. I just stare at the spool, thread unraveling between my fingers.

Because when I turned it over in the light—just before the masked figure lunged—I saw letters etched into the plastic base.

Three sets. Three initials.

NR. WG. RH. North Ridge. Willow Glen. Radley Hospital.

The facilities. All tied to the same thread.

And now I know whoever was up there wasn’t just watching. They were delivering a message.

30

Kenzi

Dr. Hanson’s office is warm, the blinds drawn against the late evening chill. I sit on the edge of the couch, restless, my hands twisting in my lap. I’ve been pushing for her to set up a meeting between Dr. Radley and me.

“Did you finally reach him?” I ask.

Her face doesn’t change. She just leans back in her chair, fingers steepled. “I suppose it’s time you know the truth.”

A cold knot forms in my stomach. “What truth?”

She exhales long and heavy, as though she’s been rehearsing this moment. “I’ve been documenting everything. Every session, every recovered memory. Every trigger and response.”