Page 73 of Lost Echoes

And across from her—even through the static—I recognize the man in the tailored suit.

Dr. Radley.

Florencia’s breath catches. “They already found him?”

The feed flickers, the sound lagging. Kenzi’s voice comes through in fragments. She’s quiet, steady, and rehearsed. Sofia stands just behind her, one hand on her shoulder, guiding her.

Luke glances up at me. “We’re recording.”

But my stomach churns with acid. Behind Radley, something moves—a shadow crossing the glass wall. Someone else is watching them.

I step closer to the screen. “Luke, zoom in.”

He frowns, pinching the display. The image sharpens.

For a moment, I wish it hadn’t.

The shadow behind the glass isn’t security. It’s a mask. Smooth, featureless, and all too familiar. The same figure from the rafters.

He tilts his head toward the camera.

Then the feed cuts to black.

37

Kenzi

The lights are too bright. Even with my eyes half closed, I can see the glare of burning at the edges of everything. The table, the floor, the careful posture of Dr. Radley across from me.

He has changed little, and his smile is still the same measured curve I remember from the conversations in his office before I knew my actual history. My old memories—including the one that used to mean applause was coming—are coming more into focus now.

Beside me, Sofia stands steady. Her hand rests lightly on my shoulder, grounding me. I can feel her pulse through her fingertips, fast but controlled. She will keep me safe until I’m ready to do that for myself.

“You look well, Mackenzie,” Radley says, voice smooth as polished marble. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again.”

I keep my gaze low, rehearsing my breathing. “I imagine you weren’t.”

He leans forward, folding his hands. “You were always gifted, the perfect subject. Even as a child, you understood performance.”

The words hit like a slap. Performance.

Sofia’s fingers press once on my shoulder. That’s our cue. I need to stay calm and in control.

“I remember everything,” I say evenly. “The stage, the spool, and the curtain call.”

His eyes glint. “Ah, so you’ve been remembering. How delightful.”

I force myself to look at him. “You built us to forget, and that was your mistake.”

His smile falters.

Good. One small step toward being on level ground.

Sofia steps forward, her voice calm, clinical. “Dr. Radley, I’m here to review your ongoing programming models. I’d like to document this conversation for research accuracy.”

He glances at her, eyes narrowing. “And you are?”

“Dr. Sofia Hanson,” she says evenly. “North Ridge, Class of 1995.”