Chapter 5 - My Wife in MichiganRachel backed away from the laptop.
She stepped between Marcus and the doorway.
He stared at her.
“Seriously?”
She looked at me.
“What exactly did you say?”
I replayed the video.
My past self’s face filled the screen.
“Do not let him leave.”
Then the recording continued.
“There’s something Marcus isn’t telling us. I found his name in the North Harbor files. He was consulting for them three years ago.”
Marcus closed his eyes.
Rachel turned slowly.
“You worked for North Harbor?”
“Yes.”
“You never told me.”
“No.”
My anger sharpened.
“What did you do for them?”
“Clinical research.”
The room became silent.
“You told us you barely knew the company.”
“I said I wasn’t involved with your case.”
“Word games.”
Marcus rubbed his forehead.
“Daniel, I left North Harbor because of what they were doing.”
“What were they doing?”
He hesitated.
I stepped closer.
“Answer me.”
“Memory research.”
Rachel made a small sound.
Marcus continued.
“North Harbor funded neurological studies related to trauma, PTSD, dementia, and memory interruption.”
“Interruption?”
“The idea was to weaken how traumatic memories consolidate.”
I stared at him.
“Erase memories.”
“That was the marketing fantasy. The science was more complicated.”
“Was?”
“The program was shut down.”
“When?”
“Officially? Four years ago.”
“And unofficially?”
Marcus said nothing.
That was answer enough.
I held up the burner phone.
“Did you poison me?”
“No.”
“Did your company?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wrong answer.”
“I haven’t worked there in three years!”
“Yet you’re the neurologist who happened to treat me when I collapsed?”
“I work at the hospital nearest your office.”
“Convenient again.”
Rachel spoke.
“Daniel.”
“What?”
“Ask him about Michigan.”
Marcus stiffened.
I looked between them.
“What about Michigan?”
Rachel said, “North Harbor has a facility there.”
The lake.
My notebook.
I remembered the repeated word.
“Where?”
“Near Traverse City.”
My pulse rose.
An image flashed through my mind.
Water.
A concrete dock.
A white building.
Then pain stabbed through my head.
I grabbed the dresser.
Rachel rushed toward me.
“Daniel?”
The image vanished.
“I saw something.”
Marcus approached.
“What?”
“Water.”
His expression changed.
“What kind?”
“A lake.”
Rachel looked terrified.
Marcus said, “Sit down.”
“No.”
“Daniel—”
“No more managing me.”
I went downstairs and opened the security camera footage from the previous weeks.
If a man had entered my house nightly, there would be evidence.
Except there wasn’t.
The cameras were new.
But our doorbell camera went back months.
I searched May.
June.
July.
Marcus’s car appeared repeatedly after midnight.
Fine.
Then I searched for anyone else.
At 3:08 A.M. on June 2, a silver sedan pulled up.
A man wearing a baseball cap walked to our side gate.
He never appeared leaving.
My skin crawled.
“Rachel.”
She leaned over.
“Do you recognize him?”
“No.”
I zoomed in.
Useless.
Marcus looked.
His face changed.
I caught it.
“You know him.”
“No.”
“You reacted.”
“I reacted because—”
“Who is he?”
Marcus exhaled.
“His name might be Warren Pike.”
“Who is Warren Pike?”
“He worked security for North Harbor.”
Rachel whispered, “Why would he come here?”
Marcus didn’t answer.
I replayed the video.
The sedan’s license plate was partially visible.
I copied what I could.
Then the doorbell rang.
All three of us froze.
Rachel looked through the front window.
“No car.”
I checked the camera.
A delivery driver stood outside holding a package.
Normal.
Almost laughably normal.
I opened the door.
The driver handed me a small cardboard box.
“Daniel Carter?”
“Yes.”
“Sign.”
I did.
No return address.
Rachel’s face tightened.
“Don’t open it.”
I carried it into the kitchen.
Inside was a flash drive.
Nothing else.
Marcus immediately said, “Do not plug that into your computer.”
I looked at him.
“For once, we agree.”
I had an old laptop disconnected from our network.
I booted it.
Inserted the drive.
One folder.
MAY 17.
Inside were photographs.
Dozens.
A North Harbor facility.
A parking lot.
Employees.
Then a photo of Marcus.
Taken through a window.
He was shaking hands with a man I didn’t recognize.
The next image showed me.
I was crouched behind a parked truck photographing them.
Rachel whispered, “Daniel, you were following Marcus.”
Marcus stared at the screen.
“I never saw you.”
Another file appeared.
Audio.
I clicked it.
My own recorded whisper came through the speakers.
“May seventeen. Marcus Hale meeting Victor Sloan at the North Harbor property.”
Marcus whispered, “Oh God.”
“Who’s Victor Sloan?”
He didn’t answer.
The audio continued.
“Sloan is supposed to be dead.”
Rachel turned toward Marcus.
He looked sick.
“Who is he?”
Marcus finally spoke.
“The man who created the compound found in Daniel’s blood.”
Silence.
I stared at him.
“You said the program shut down.”
“It did.”
“You said you left.”
“I did.”
“Then why were you meeting the scientist who developed the drug?”
Marcus’s voice became quiet.
“Because he called me.”
“Why?”
“He said someone had restarted the trials.”
My stomach twisted.
“On who?”
Marcus looked directly at me.
“He wouldn’t say.”
I thought about the chemical in my bloodstream.
“You knew I might have been exposed.”
“I suspected it.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“You couldn’t retain the information.”
“That isn’t your decision.”
“No. But keeping your nervous system stable was.”
Rachel suddenly reached for the mouse.
“There’s another file.”
A video.
The timestamp read May 17, 11:46 P.M.
It showed a dim corridor.
The camera shook.
I had apparently filmed while walking.
A door appeared ahead.
Voices behind it.
I moved closer.
A man said, “Subject Seven is showing severe episodic fragmentation.”
Another voice answered.
Victor Sloan.
“Then increase the dose.”
“What if he remembers?”
“He won’t.”
The recording shifted.
A metal cart blocked part of the view.
Then a third voice spoke.
A woman.
“We can’t keep doing this.”
I stopped breathing.
Rachel looked at me.
Marcus went pale.
May you like
Because every person in the room recognized the voice.
It belonged to Rachel.
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