Page 64 of Fractured Devotion
By late afternoon, I’ve run out of distractions. I need answers. The kind only Reyes can give, if he still will.
I find him in the third wing, where the walls are thicker and fewer people linger. He’s hunched over a terminal, his eyes narrowed like the screen has betrayed him.
“Dr. Reyes.”
He doesn’t look up right away. Then, finally, slowly, he does.
“Celeste. I was starting to think you’d disappeared.”
“Almost,” I say. “I need to ask you something. And I need you not to lie.”
He takes a long breath as he leans back in his chair and folds his arms. “Go on.”
I tell him everything I’ve been seeing—the surveillance van, the access logs, the changes to my ID string. I don’t tell him about Kade or my discussions with him. Not yet. I watch his face, measuring every twitch.
He listens carefully, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. When I finish, he exhales like something has been waiting to get out.
“You’re not wrong,” he says. “Someone’s in the system. And not just watching but manipulating. It’s been happening for months. But it’s gotten worse since you accessed that flash drive.”
“You knew about that?”
“Of course I did. I’m the one who gave it to Alec. I was hoping he would give it to you.”
That stops me, and my spine stiffens.
“Why?”
“Because you needed to see what was done to you. What you helped design. Even if you don’t remember.”
The room tilts slightly. The floor doesn’t feel stable anymore.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying someone is trying to erase your past, piece by piece. And the more you remember, the more dangerous it becomes for them.”
My mouth is dry. I nod once, then again, because it’s the only thing keeping me standing. “Who? Who is trying to erase me?”
He hesitates. Long enough that it matters.
“I don’t know. But I think someone very high up does.”
And with that, the fracture widens.
By the time I return to my lab, the lights feel too bright, and my skin itches with something I can’t touch. I feel the walls are now closer than usual, and every surface is humming.
Mara finds me at 7 p.m.
She looks tired and paler than usual, her eyes red-rimmed. She says nothing until we’re behind the door, and the lab is locked.
Then she hands me something.
A small, crumpled photograph.
I unfold it.
It’s a blurry shot of me. In my apartment. Sleeping.
My pulse drops, and the photo trembles slightly in my hand. I don’t scream. I don’t speak. I just sit down, staring at the image until it blurs again, this time from tears.
