Elena presses herself against the cold concrete pillar, watching commuters stream past Platform 3. Her heart hammers against her ribs as she scans faces, looking for threats, for answers, for any sign of who sent that text.
The photograph burns in her memory her own face smiling over Richard's corpse. But she can't remember taking it. Can't remember anything after Friday night's calibration sequence.
Three days of her life, surgically removed.
A memory expert who's lost her memories. The irony would be funny if Richard weren't dead.
"Dr. Vasquez."
Elena spins toward the familiar voice and nearly collapses with relief.
Detective Marcus Kane approaches slowly, hands visible, his gray eyes scanning the platform for threats. Five years have added lines around those eyes, silver at his temples, but he still moves with that careful precision that once made her feel completely safe.
"Marcus." His name comes out as a whisper. "You came."
"I got your text."
"I didn't send any text." The words tumble out. "Someone's been messaging me. They have photos—" She stops, seeing the skepticism flicker across his face. "You don't believe me."
Marcus stops just out of arm's reach. Close enough to talk, far enough to draw his weapon if needed. The distance feels like a chasm.
"I want to believe you, Elena. But the evidence—"
"Is being manufactured." She pulls out her phone with shaking hands. "Look at this."
She shows him the photograph. Marcus's face goes rigid as he stares at the image of her standing over Richard's body, scalpel gleaming in her hand, that horrible smile twisting her features.
"When was this taken?"
"I don't know. I can't remember anything after Friday night." Elena's voice cracks. "Marcus, someone used my own technology on me. They stole my memories."
A muscle ticks in his jaw. "That's not possible."
"It is. Richard and I were working on surgical memory extraction. We'd perfected the process on laboratory subjects, but we'd never tried it on humans. Until someone tried it on me."
Marcus studies her face, and Elena feels stripped bare under that analytical gaze. He's looking for tells, for signs of deception. The realization cuts deeper than any scalpel.
"Show me," he says finally.
Elena lifts her hair, exposing the base of her skull. Two small puncture wounds mark the entry points for neural interfaces, surrounded by the faint blue discoloration of recent medical adhesive.
Marcus's expression shifts. "Jesus, Elena."
"Someone extracted three days of memories and left me to take the blame for Richard's murder." Elena's voice hardens. "But they made a mistake."
"What kind of mistake?"
Elena pulls up another message on her phone—one she received while hiding in the transit center bathroom. The text shows a blurry photograph of a man in a dark coat entering the Blackwood Institute.
"Whoever's doing this wants me to know who really killed Richard. They're playing games with me."
Marcus examines the photo. "Could be anyone. Face is obscured."
"Look at the timestamp."
Marcus squints at the screen. The photograph was taken at 12:34 AM on Saturday—hours after Elena's last clear memory.
"This proves someone else was there," Elena says. "Someone who knew exactly when to show up, exactly how to use my prototype, exactly how to frame me."
Marcus is quiet for a long moment, weighing evidence against instinct. Elena holds her breath, remembering how he used to make decisions—methodically, carefully, trusting his gut when facts weren't enough.
"Okay," he says finally. "But we do this my way. No more running."
Relief floods through her. "You believe me."
"I believe something's not right." Marcus's radio crackles with dispatch chatter. "But Elena, if you're lying to me—"
"I'm not."
"If you're lying to me," he continues, "and I help you, I'm done. Career over. Life over."
The weight of what he's offering settles between them. Marcus is risking everything—his badge, his reputation, his future on faith in a woman who broke his heart.
"Why?" Elena whispers. "After what I did to us?"
Marcus looks at her for a long moment, and she sees echoes of the man who once promised her forever.
"Because five years ago, you chose your work over me. But you never would have chosen murder over everything you believed in."
Elena's phone buzzes with another message. This time it's a video file.
She opens it, and her blood turns to ice.
The video shows Richard Blackwood strapped to a chair in the lab, very much alive, pleading with someone off-camera. The timestamp reads Saturday, 2:17 AM.
Richard wasn't killed Friday night.
He died Saturday morning.
Which means Elena's memories weren't stolen to cover up a murder.
They were stolen to force her to commit one.
And in the background of the video, Elena can hear her own voice saying, "I'm sorry, Richard. I have no choice."
"Marcus," she whispers, her entire world tilting sideways. "I think I really did kill him."