Page 31 of Lost Echoes
I swallow hard. “I don’t… remember much.”
Her lips press into a thin line. “That’s how it works. They make sure you don’t, but I see it in your face. I’ve seen it before.” She leans closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “If you ever see the spool again, don’t touch it. Don’t let them hand it to you, no matter what happens.”
My fingers tighten around the folded drawing in my bag. “Why?”
“Because if you take it,” she says, “you’ll do their work for them. Whether you want to or not.”
A shiver runs through me. What if I’ve already taken it? I want to ask more, but she pats my hand gently, like she’s already said too much. Then she pushes to her feet and disappears into the shuffle of people leaving.
Florencia reappears at my side, clutching her notes, her eyes alight with fierce determination. “We’re coming back. Whatever they’re hiding, whatever they’re afraid to say aloud, it’s buried in there. I can feel it.”
But her voice is far away, because all I can hear is the woman’s whisper. Don’t touch it. Don’t let them hand it to you.
And the echo of something I don’t fully remember but know in my bones. The weight of an object passed from hand to hand, heavier than its size, impossible to refuse.
I’m not sure going to this meeting helped at all. Now I have even more questions and fewer answers.
But I won’t give up.
16
Kenzi
Dr. Hanson sets a thin binder on the table between us. Its edges are worn, and tabs jut out in neat rows.
“This,” she says, her voice gentle, “is Laurel Radley’s journal. Confiscated during her arrest. Portions of it were admitted as evidence, and I’ve been given access through the court. It’s not everything, but…” Her voice dips. “It mentions you.”
Ice floods my veins. “Me?”
She opens to a page marked with a yellow tab. The handwriting slants sharp and impatient, black ink bleeding through thin paper. Dr. Hanson turns the book so I can see.
The theater was our classroom. Kenzi was always my most promising student. She learned to perform perfectly.
The words blur, and my stomach heaves. I shove the journal away so hard it skids across the table and crashes to the floor. “No!” The shout rips my throat raw. “I wasn’t her student… I wasn’t…”
I curl into myself, rocking. My hands fly to my face, pressing against my eyes until I see stars. I hum under my breath, the way I used to, which kept me from falling apart on stage.
Dr. Hanson crouches down, retrieves the journal, sets it aside. “Kenzi, breathe. You’re safe here. I won’t let them hurt you.”
But her words can’t quiet the scream echoing inside me. Laurel made me her puppet.
The phrase clings like oil. And beneath it, another memory. Laurel’s smile as she passed a white spool into my hands. My cue. My turn to make someone else break.
My rocking slows, breath shuddering out of me. “She’s right.” Shame sticks thick in my mouth. “I performed every time she told me to.”
Dr. Hanson’s eyes are steady, her voice calm. “Yes. Because you were trained to. Conditioned. You had no choice. That doesn’t make you guilty. It makes you a victim of their script.”
“Script?” My voice is tight.
She nods. “Dr. Radley’s original design for programming. He called it a ‘script.’ Laurel followed it. Built on it. Used it to control you.”
I press my shaking hands to the table, grounding myself in its solid weight. “Then I have to see it. All of it. Every page, every piece. If I don’t, I’ll never know what was mine and what was theirs.”
Dr. Hanson studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “All right. I’ll help you uncover it. But we’ll take it piece by piece. We’ll process it together. No more blindfolds, no more stage lights. Only the truth.”
A shiver runs through me, equal parts fear and relief. I don’t know whether I’m strong enough.
But I know I can’t stay their puppet anymore.
