The memory came back in fragments.
Like shattered glass in slow motion, each piece glittered with truth but sliced through my sanity.
Blood.
A scream.
Ryker's voice shouting my name.
The sound of something — or someone — falling.
I clutched the edge of the desk in the lakehouse, trying to stay upright as the weight of it crushed my lungs.
Riven stood beside me, silent, watching the panic take hold.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
"No," I whispered. "I remember… blood. On my hands. On my dress. I thought it was a nightmare."
"What else?"
"I don't know." I shook my head violently. "Just flashes. Ryker screaming. Something breaking. And… a man's face. Not Ryker. Someone older."
Riven's brow furrowed. "Did you ever tell anyone?"
"I told my mom I spilled juice on my dress. She didn't ask more. I locked it away."
Riven slowly crouched in front of me. "Elara. I need you to trust me now. No more half-truths. No more protecting ghosts. If Ryker was right, someone made him disappear. And they might come after you next."
I looked down at my shaking hands. "But what if I was the reason he disappeared? What if I… hurt someone that night?"
"You didn't." His voice was firm. "Ryker was trying to protect you. Everything he said proves it."
I wanted to believe that.
But the flashbacks didn't lie.
I saw myself in a white dress, stained crimson. My hands trembling. My lips whispering his name — Ryker — over and over again.
And then… a gun.
I didn't know whose.
---
Back in the city, I couldn't focus.
Every knock made me flinch. Every message from an unknown number sent my heart into overdrive.
I started looking over my shoulder, walking faster, checking locks twice. Someone was watching me — not just online. In person.
One night, while Riven was out at a late board meeting, I found another envelope slid under our door.
No return address.
Inside it: a single photo.
Me.
Six years ago.
In the blood-stained dress.
Staring blankly at a mirror, eyes wide and vacant.
On the back, messy handwriting:
"What did you really forget?"
The photo slipped from my hands.
My knees gave out, and I sat on the floor, gasping.
I didn't remember this moment. I didn't remember the camera.
Who had taken this?
Was it Ryker?
Or someone who had been in that house with us?
I called Riven.
No answer.
Another message came through.
Unknown Number: He's not who you think he is. And neither are you.
I bolted the doors, turned off the lights, and curled up on the couch, gripping a kitchen knife. Sleep wouldn't come.
---
The next morning, I visited the hospital where my files from six years ago were supposedly kept.
I lied to the receptionist. Claimed I needed my "therapy records" from a breakdown after "a traumatic accident."
After much coaxing — and a signature — I was led to a dusty file in a private archive.
The name on the folder read: Elara Quinn - Temporary Amnesia Evaluation.
My blood ran cold.
I flipped through the notes. Doctors reporting my "emotional dissociation," "memory gaps," and "non-linear recall of trauma."
And then, a final report:
> "Patient reported sudden shock followed by blackouts. Suspected PTSD. Declined further therapy after discharge. Recommended follow-up never completed."
Tucked in the back was a note handwritten in looping blue ink.
"Don't dig too deep, sweetheart. It'll only make it worse."
— Uncle G.
I hadn't seen that name in years.
Uncle Gregory.
Ryker and Riven's uncle. The one who "retired" from the company suddenly after Ryker vanished.
Suddenly, it made sense.
He was the man I saw in the fragmented memory. The one arguing with Ryker. The one holding the—
Gun.
I gripped the paper tighter. It was him. He was there that night. And he tried to erase it from my mind.
But why?
---
When I got back home, Riven was waiting.
He looked wrecked — shirt wrinkled, eyes shadowed.
"I got a message too," he said before I could even speak. "It was a video. From Ryker. Same room. Same confession. But this time… he said you saw something. That you were the last witness."
I held up the hospital file. "I think they tried to erase it from me. His uncle. Your uncle."
He didn't even flinch. "I believe you."
I stared at him. "Even if it means your family is involved in something dark?"
His voice was low. "My loyalty isn't to them anymore. It's to you."
And then, for the first time in days, I cried.
Not just tears of fear, but of release — of finally having someone who didn't doubt me. Who didn't flinch at my past.
But the peace didn't last long.
That night, our apartment door was broken open.
Our safe was emptied. The flash drive stolen.
And on our mirror, in red lipstick, someone wrote:
"Too late. You were warned."