Page 62 of Lost Echoes

I turn back to her, my voice breaking. “And if I’m not strong enough? What if I remember wrong?”

“You’ll remember right,” she says firmly. “You already are.”

The silence between us stretches, thick with things I can’t say. Finally, I force the words out. “If I do this your way, you have to promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“We don’t just write about him. We still face him in person. I want him to know who’s behind his fall.”

“Of course.” Her eyes glisten, but she nods. “We’ll make that the final act.”

The phrase makes me shiver.

Final act.

But for a change, I feel like maybe the ending won’t belong to Radley. Maybe I can even return to my life as if none of this had ever happened. But I don’t dare speak the words out loud.

Dr. Hanson doesn’t pick up her pen this time. She doesn’t hide behind her notes or her calm professional mask. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, and studies me like I’m not a patient anymore but a partner. “All right, let’s treat this like strategy, not therapy. What’s our first move?”

For a moment, I just stare at her. I’m so used to being directed—remember this, focus on that—the question almost doesn’t compute. But then I realize she means it. She’s asking me.

I take a slow breath. “We need proof Radley is still active.”

Dr. Hanson nods. “Proof that ties him to North Ridge and Willow Glen, which is another site. We have to prove it’s not just Radley Hospital. If we can show the network is still running, it can’t be brushed off as history.”

A spark flickers in her eyes. She grabs a legal pad but doesn’t angle it away this time. She writes while I speak, like we’re drafting battle plans. “I have records, financial transfers, partial rosters. But it’s fragmented. What you bring are the memories—specific rooms, objects, names they used inside. That’s what makes the paper trail unshakable.”

“What about your memories?” I ask.

“They’re similar to yours, which ties North Ridge to Radley. It will help, but it has to be more than just our words, our memories.”

My pulse kicks faster. The memories don’t feel like chains around my throat. They feel like weapons. “I can describe the stage, the props, the spool, and whatever else comes to mind. I can draw them if I have to.”

“Good,” she says. “That will corroborate what I’ve already collected. And there’s something else.” She lowers her voice, as if even the office walls might be listening. “There are whispers about another performance scheduled. Not here, but at one of the other facilities. If it’s true, we’ll need to be ready before it happens.”

My lungs deflate. “They’re still staging?”

She nods. “Still scripting, still programming. Which means we need someone on the inside who remembers enough to recognize the cues as they happen. That’s you.”

The weight should crush me. But instead, I feel steady. Seen.

I lift my chin. “Teach me how to see like you do. Not just as a survivor, but as an investigator. Someone to take the whole thing down.”

Her mouth curves into the faintest smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”

For once, I don’t feel like I’m sitting in a therapist’s office. I feel like I’m sitting in a war room. And perhaps I’m finally on the winning side.

31

Ember

Luke made a show of it. Logging out of every account, shutting down the laptop, even slamming the car door loud enough for anyone watching to hear. He drove away from the mansion with his shoulders stiff, his profile sharp in the window.

It was theater, and we both knew it. A performance for any watchers.

Now, hours later, I sit in the old library with Billa. The fire has burned down to embers, the shadows long and restless. We’ve spent the last hour stitching together everything we know—her near-capture at the survivors’ meeting, Florencia’s warnings, my files from Phoenix, Luke’s discovery of Wing B. The picture forming between us is jagged and terrifying.

“We’re circling the same three facilities,” Billa says, voice low. “Radley Hospital, North Ridge, Willow Glen. Different names, different locations, but the same script.”