The first thing I did after leaving the underground room was call my mother.
She answered on the second ring.
"Where are you?"
I looked at the woman standing beside me.
Then at the cassette in my hand.
"With someone I need you to meet."
Silence.
My mother knew immediately that something had changed.
"Did you remember?"
"Yes."
"Everything?"
"Enough."
Her breathing became unsteady.
"What did you find?"
I looked at the street ahead.
"The truth about Dad."
Another silence.
Then, very quietly:
"Your father is dead."
"I know."
"No."
Her voice sharpened.
"You don't understand. He died before you were old enough to remember him."
"I saw him."
"You couldn't have."
"I did."
"Where?"
"St. Agnes."
My mother stopped speaking.
Then I heard something fall on her end of the call.
"What did you say?"
"He's alive."
"No."
"Mom—"
"That's impossible."
"I know."
"Your grandmother told me he died."
"I think Grandma lied."
My mother began to cry.
I closed my eyes.
"I'm sorry."
"Where are you?"
I hesitated.
"Somewhere safe."
"Come home."
"I can't."
"Why?"
"Because he's looking for me."
My mother was silent again.
Then she whispered:
"Then don't let him find you."
I looked at the woman.
"That's not what I'm planning."
We returned to the house belonging to the woman before noon.
She locked the door behind us.
Then every window.
Then the back entrance.
I watched her.
"You've done this before."
"Many times."
"Running from him."
"Running from all of them."
I placed the cassette on the kitchen table.
"How many people are still involved?"
"I don't know."
"How many were at St. Agnes?"
"At its peak?"
"Yes."
"Forty-three staff members."
"Doctors?"
"Some."
"Researchers?"
"Most."
"Security?"
"Several."
"And my father?"
"Director."
I stared at her.
"Director?"
She nodded.
"He wasn't merely a researcher."
"Then what was St. Agnes?"
She looked toward the window.
"A laboratory disguised as a hospital."
I sat down.
The pieces were beginning to fit.
Daniel's death.
The complaints.
The notes.
The photographs.
The memories.
The people who had been watching.
None of it had been random.
The woman placed two cups of tea on the table.
"There's something you need to understand."
"What?"
"Your father isn't the only person who knows about the archive."
I looked at her.
"Who else?"
"Some of the researchers."
"Are they alive?"
"Some."
"Where?"
"Scattered."
"Why haven't they come after me?"
"They have."
I frowned.
"The people following me."
"Yes."
"Then why hasn't anyone taken me?"
She looked directly at me.
"Because your father won't let them."
I didn't understand.
"Why?"
"He wants the archive intact."
I felt cold.
"They can't hurt me."
"Not if they want what you carry."
"Then why kill Daniel?"
She didn't answer.
I already knew.
"Daniel wasn't part of the archive."
"No."
"He knew something."
"Yes."
"What?"
"He found one of the old files."
I remembered Daniel's page.
"She listens even when she thinks she isn't."
My stomach tightened.
"He knew about me."
"He suspected."
"And they killed him."
"Yes."
I looked down.
The anger came slowly.
Not explosive.
Not wild.
Cold.
Controlled.
"They're going to keep killing anyone who gets close."
The woman nodded.
"Unless we stop them."
I pulled out my phone.
There was a message.
Unknown number.
Only one sentence.
YOU REMEMBERED.
I showed it to her.
She didn't look surprised.
"How?"
"Tracking."
"From where?"
"Your phone."
I turned it off.
She shook her head.
"Too late."
"What?"
"They already know where you are."
I stared at the device.
"Then why send the message?"
"To make sure you know."
"That doesn't make sense."
"It does if they're confident."
I looked toward the door.
"You think he's coming here."
"Yes."
"When?"
She checked the clock.
"Today."
We spent the next hour preparing.
Not weapons.
Not traps.
Information.
She showed me a hidden room beneath the kitchen floor.
Inside were computers.
Old drives.
Printed documents.
Photographs.
Names.
Dates.
Locations.
A complete record of St. Agnes.
I stared at it.
"Why did you keep all this?"
"Insurance."
"Against whom?"
"Everyone."
She handed me a folder.
"Read this."
I opened it.
The first page contained a list of names.
Some had been crossed out.
Others had notes beside them.
DECEASED.
MISSING.
TRANSFERRED.
ACTIVE.
I stopped at the last category.
There were seven names.
I recognized one.
My father's.
Another name made my stomach drop.
Daniel.
Not crossed out.
Not deceased.
Not missing.
ACTIVE — UNDER OBSERVATION.
I stared at it.
"No."
The woman stepped closer.
"What?"
"This says Daniel was active."
She looked at the page.
Her face changed.
"That's impossible."
"He died."
"Yes."
"Then why is he here?"
She took the folder.
Read the entry.
Then another.
"These records are old."
"How old?"
She checked the date.
"Six months."
My blood ran cold.
"Daniel was being monitored six months ago."
"Apparently."
"By whom?"
She pointed to the bottom of the page.
There was a code.
S-7
I stared at it.
"Subject Seven."
She shook her head.
"No."
"What?"
"S-7 was the security designation."
I frowned.
"Security?"
"St. Agnes had an internal security division."
"What did they secure?"
She looked at me.
"The archive."
I sat down.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
"Daniel wasn't investigating St. Agnes."
"No."
"He was working for them."
"We don't know that."
"But he was being monitored."
"That doesn't mean he worked for them."
I remembered his expression.
His warnings.
His strange knowledge.
His fear.
"Then what was he doing?"
The woman turned another page.
There was a photograph.
Daniel.
Standing outside St. Agnes.
Alive.
The date was two years ago.
I stared at it.
"Why didn't he tell me?"
"Maybe he couldn't."
"Maybe he was afraid."
"Maybe."
I looked at the photograph again.
There was another person beside him.
A man.
Older.
Gray hair.
I didn't recognize him.
The woman did.
"Who?"
She went pale.
"Dr. Elias Mercer."
"Who is that?"
"Your father's second-in-command."
A sound came from upstairs.
We both froze.
Footsteps.
The woman looked at me.
"He's here."
I stood.
My heart pounded.
"Your father?"
"No."
"Then who?"
She grabbed the folder.
"Security."
The footsteps continued.
Slow.
Deliberate.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
The warmth stirred.
"Seven."
I looked toward the ceiling.
"Seven people."
The woman nodded.
"How do you know?"
"I can hear them."
She looked at me.
"How many?"
I closed my eyes.
The archive opened.
The world became sound.
Seven heartbeats.
Seven breathing patterns.
Seven minds.
And beneath them...
something else.
A memory.
A voice.
I opened my eyes.
"They're not here for me."
"Then who?"
"Daniel."
She froze.
"Daniel?"
I nodded.
"He's alive."
The door upstairs opened.
We heard voices.
One of them was familiar.
A man's voice.
Calm.
Controlled.
"Search the house."
The woman looked at me.
"That isn't your father."
"No."
"Then who?"
I listened.
The archive responded.
A memory surfaced.
Daniel sitting across from me.
"If anything happens to me, don't trust anyone."
I had thought he'd been speaking about the police.
He hadn't.
The voice upstairs spoke again.
"Find the girl."
Then another voice.
Older.
"She isn't here."
I knew that voice.
The warmth recognized it.
Dr. Elias Mercer.
The man from the photograph.
The second-in-command.
I looked at the woman.
"We need to go."
She nodded.
"Back tunnel."
"No."
She stopped.
I pointed toward the ceiling.
"They expect us to run."
"Then what?"
"We go upstairs."
She stared at me.
"That's insane."
"Probably."
"You heard what I said."
"I did."
"Seven armed men."
"I know."
"And you want to walk toward them?"
I looked at her.
"I can hear their memories."
She understood.
"The archive."
"Yes."
"You can use it."
"I don't know how."
"Neither did you when you were five."
The warmth stirred.
This time...
it didn't feel like fear.
It felt like certainty.
We climbed the stairs.
The first man appeared at the end of the hallway.
He raised something in his hand.
"Stop."
I stopped.
The archive opened.
His memories flooded into me.
A child.
A hospital.
A mother.
A badge.
Training.
Fear.
Loyalty.
I saw the man beneath the uniform.
Not a monster.
A frightened person who had convinced himself he was doing the right thing.
I looked at him.
"Your daughter's name is Emily."
He froze.
His weapon lowered slightly.
The woman stared at me.
I continued.
"She's eight."
The man's face went pale.
"You don't know me."
"I know you."
"No."
"I know what you remember."
He took a step backward.
The archive released him.
He stumbled.
The other men appeared.
I heard their memories too.
A brother.
A divorce.
A dead wife.
A son.
A debt.
A promise.
Seven people.
Seven histories.
Seven reasons.
None of them wanted to be here.
I looked at them.
"You don't have to do this."
Mercer's voice came from behind them.
"Yes, they do."
He stepped forward.
Older.
Thin.
Gray-haired.
Exactly as I remembered from the photograph.
He looked at me.
And smiled.
"You really are remarkable."
I stared at him.
"You worked with my father."
"Yes."
"You helped create Subject Seven."
"No."
He smiled.
"We only discovered it."
"You hurt children."
"We made sacrifices."
"Michael died."
"A tragic failure."
My hands clenched.
"You call that a failure?"
Mercer shrugged.
"Science is rarely kind."
The warmth surged.
The archive opened.
And suddenly...
I heard Mercer's memories.
Everything.
Every experiment.
Every name.
Every child.
Every death.
Every secret.
And one memory stood out above the rest.
A conversation with my father.
Years ago.
Mercer had asked:
"What happens when she remembers?"
My father had answered:
"Then we bring her home."
I opened my eyes.
Mercer was still smiling.
I smiled back.
"You made one mistake."
His expression changed.
"What?"
"You assumed remembering would make me obedient."
I stepped forward.
"It made me dangerous."
Mercer's face hardened.
"Take her."
The seven men moved.
I opened the archive completely.
And every memory they had ever tried to bury...
came rushing back.