#delirious

The key cut deeper into my palm. Owen reached toward my hand, then stopped before touching me. “Can you open your fingers?” he asked gently.

His voice was careful. Too careful. I loosened my grip. The key lay across my palm, gray and tarnished, with a round brass head and teeth stained black. A thin line of blood surfaced where one edge had pressed into my skin. Dr. Shah remained seated several feet away. She had moved her chair back while I was gone. Not because she feared me, I told myself. Because waking with someone leaning over me tended to end badly.

I looked from the key to her. “You saw this happen?”

Dr. Shah folded her hands in her lap. “I saw you put your right hand into your coat pocket just before you lost awareness.”

I looked down. My coat had twisted beneath me when I fell. I pulled it free and searched the right pocket. Empty. Black dust coated the lining. Owen crouched beside me. “Was the key already in there?”

“I didn’t put it there.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“I don’t know.” The stitching along the bottom of the pocket had split. Not enough for the key to fall through, but enough to expose the pale inner lining. Dark residue had collected around the tear. Soot. The same kind that had stained the camera strap.

Dr. Shah’s gaze moved between the pocket and the key. “Do you remember reaching into your coat?”

“No.” I answered.

“Do you remember taking the key from Ivy?”

“No.”

Owen glanced at her. “Ivy?”

“One of the people inside,” Dr. Shah explained. The answer was clinical enough to sound simple. Owen already knew who Ivy was. He had met her once, two years earlier, after a car backfired outside a restaurant and I lost the rest of the evening. But he understood Dr. Shah’s real question: had the key come from my pocket, or had it crossed into my hand from somewhere else?

Neither answer was comforting. I pushed myself upright. The room shifted, then settled.

Owen placed a hand beneath my elbow without gripping me. “Easy.”

“I’m fine.” I lied.

“You’re bleeding.” He countered.

“It’s barely a cut.”

“That doesn’t make it imaginary.”

I looked at Dr. Shah. “Do you have an evidence bag?”

She blinked once. “No.”

“A sandwich bag?”

“I have specimen bags in the medical cabinet.”

“That’ll work.”

Dr. Shah rose and crossed to the cabinet beside her desk.

Owen remained near me. “You’re treating it like evidence.”

“It is evidence.” I argued.

“Of what?”

“That depends on where it came from.”

Dr. Shah then returned with a clear plastic bag. “I need to be clear that I cannot establish a chain of custody.”

“You witnessed me wake up with it.”

“I witnessed you open your hand. I did not see where the key originated.” She clarified.

“That’s better than nothing.” I held the bag open while Owen used a tissue to slide the key inside. He avoided touching the metal directly. Spending time with a crime-scene photographer had changed him. Most people saw a mysterious object and picked it up. Owen looked for gloves.

I sealed the bag and wrote the date, time, and location across the label. Dr. Shah just watched me. “What?” I asked.

“You’re grounding yourself through procedure.”

“I’m documenting.”

“Those things can both be true.”

I set the bag on her desk. My hands shook once I let go of it. Owen noticed. He always noticed. He sat beside me on the floor and lowered his voice. “We need to call Bell.”

“I know.”

The admission surprised both of us.

Dr. Shah returned to her chair. “Before you leave, I’d like us to make a safety plan.”

“I have one.”

“What is it?”

“Don’t touch strange keys.”

Owen looked at me. “That plan’s already failing.”

I ignored him. Dr. Shah leaned forward. “You experienced significant dissociation while driving yourself here.”

“I wasn’t driving when it happened," I disputed, not liking where this was going.

“You don’t know when it began.”

“I was sitting in this office.”

“You called this morning and don’t remember doing it. You drove here while communication inside the system was impaired. You lost awareness again during our session.” She spoke calmly, which made each sentence feel sharper.

“I’m not telling you that you cannot leave,” she continued. “I am telling you that I don’t believe you should drive.”

“My car is downstairs.”

“It will remain downstairs.”

“I have work.”

Owen rubbed his thumb across the back of his neck. “Bell told you to call before your shift.”

“I remember.”

“Good,” Owen said. “Then call him.”

I looked at the bagged key. A faint dusting of black remained against the plastic. I took out my phone. Bell answered before the second ring. “Tell me you’re not already at work,” the man grumbled.

I glanced at the clock on Dr. Shah’s wall. “Good morning to you too.”

“Leri.”

“I’m not at work.”

“Where are you?” He questioned.

“At an appointment.”

Bell went quiet for half a beat. “Is Owen with you?”

“He followed me here like a stalker with excellent credit.”

Owen leaned closer to the phone. “She’s welcome.”

Bell exhaled. “Put me on speaker.”

“No.”

“Then tell me what happened after you went home.” I looked at Dr. Shah. She gave no indication that I needed to leave the room, but her stillness reminded me that anything I said would become part of my clinical record.

“I found an extra photograph on my camera,” I told Bell.

“What kind of photograph?”

“The basement door.”

“From the hallway?”

“No.”

His silence changed. Bell’s casual silences meant he was waiting for me to fill them. This one meant he was already moving. “Where was it taken from?”

I hesitated before sharing, “Inside the basement.”

Owen looked down at the floor.

Bell lowered his voice. “Bring me the camera.”

“There’s more.”

“Of course there is.” He sighed.

“I woke up holding a key.”

Bell didn’t respond. I pictured him at his desk, closing his eyes. “What key?” he asked eventually.

“Old. Gray metal. Brass head. Black residue on the teeth.”

“Where did you find it?”

“That question has a complicated answer.”

“Make it simple.”

“I can’t.”

Bell breathed out through his nose. “Do not clean it. Do not put it against another key. Do not try it in anything.”

“I know how evidence works.” I said with an eye roll.

“You took evidence from a homicide scene home with you.”

“I don’t know that it came from the scene.”

“That is not helping.”

Dr. Shah looked toward the bag on her desk. I pressed the phone closer to my ear. “I’m bringing it in.”

“Good. Come through the south entrance. Don’t stop at the scene.” Bell instructed.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“You were thinking about it.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“I’ve known you for six years.”

“That isn’t proof. It’s circumstantial.”

Bell ended the call. I stared at the screen. Owen stood. “I’m driving.”

“I heard Dr. Shah.”

“That has never stopped you from ignoring medical advice.” He pointed out.

“She’s a psychiatrist.”

Owen picked up my coat. “That is still a doctor.”

Dr. Shah collected the bagged key from her desk and offered it to me. I hesitated before taking it. The plastic felt cold. “Leri,” she said, “whatever that key represents inside The House, you do not have to use it merely because you possess it.”

I slipped the bag into the zippered compartment of my camera case. “That sounds like advice you give someone right before they use the key.”

Her expression remained composed. “Then surprise me.”

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷

Owen drove his own car.

My car remained in the parking garage beneath Dr. Shah’s building, locked between a silver sedan and a delivery van. I watched it disappear through the rear window as we turned onto the street.

“You can pick it up later,” Owen said.

“I know.”

“I’m just saying.”

“You’ve said it three times.”

“Because you keep looking back at it like we abandoned a child.”

“My camera equipment is in your back seat.”

“I checked.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You didn’t have to.”

I looked through the passenger window. Pedestrians crowded the sidewalks. A woman balanced a coffee carrier in one hand while dragging a little boy through the crosswalk with the other. The boy dropped a red mitten. He twisted around to reach for it.

My body locked.

The woman caught him by the hood before he stepped away from her. The light changed. Cars began to move. I forced myself to breathe. Owen glanced at me. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Leri.”

“A kid dropped something.” I told him.

He waited. I kept my eyes on the side mirror until the intersection disappeared. Owen turned down the radio. “You heard someone crying inside,” he guessed.

“You heard me tell Dr. Shah.”

“I heard you say it was upstairs.”

“I don’t know who it was.” I admitted.

“Was it Ivy?”

“No.”

“Nia?” He tried again.

“I didn’t see her.”

Owen’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. Nia liked him. She liked most people until they gave her a reason not to, but her affection for Owen had been immediate. She left paper dinosaurs inside his shoes and demanded chocolate-chip pancakes at inappropriate hours. Once, after fronting during a grocery trip, she had convinced him to buy four boxes of cereal because each mascot looked lonely.

He still kept the paper stegosaurus she made him in his wallet.

“When did you last see her?” he asked.

“Inside?”

“Yes.”

“I-I don’t know.”

He looked at me briefly. “How do you not know?”

“Time doesn’t work the same way there.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

I turned toward him. Owen kept his attention on the road, but a muscle had tightened along his jaw. He wasn’t asking as a paramedic. He was asking as someone who knew her.

“I saw her door,” I said. “It was closed.”

“That still isn’t seeing her.”

“No.”

“Did you ask Ivy?”

“She said Nia was sleeping.” I recalled.

“Do you...believe her?”

I thought about Ivy’s face when she said she hadn’t gone into the basement. The quick denial. The keys hidden in her pocket. “I don’t know.”

Owen nodded once. He didn’t ask anything else. The silence between us lasted until the police station came into view. Bell met us at the south entrance. He was holding two coffees and wearing the same brown shoes from the crime scene. I pointed at them. “You had time to go home and still chose those?”

Bell handed one coffee to Owen. “I bought this for the person capable of being grateful.”

Owen accepted it. “Thank you.”

“Traitor,” I whispered.

Bell looked at the camera case hanging from my shoulder. “You have everything?”

“Yes.”

“The key?”

“Yup.”

“Did you touch it after you bagged it?”

“No.”

Bell’s eyes dropped to the cut across my palm. “What happened there?”

“The key.”

Owen lifted his coffee. “She woke up clutching it.”

Bell looked at him. Then at me. “In her therapist’s office?” he asked.

“Yes,” Owen answered.

Bell’s expression remained neutral, but his voice hardened. “We’re going upstairs.”

“I love when men discuss me like evidence.” I dryly joked.

Bell opened the secured door. “Evidence answers questions.”

“So do people.”

“Not when the person is you.” He led us through the building and into an interview room on the second floor. The room contained one metal table, four chairs, and a camera mounted in the upper corner. I had photographed suspects in rooms like this after altercations, overdoses, and deaths in custody. I had never sat on this side of the table.

Bell noticed me looking at the camera. “It’s off,” he assured me.

“You expect me to trust a detective?”

“I expect you to recognize that the indicator light isn’t on.”

“I’ve photographed enough broken equipment to know lights lie.” I shot back.

Owen pulled out the chair beside me.

Bell remained standing. “Camera first.” I removed it from the case and set it on the table. Then I placed the bagged key beside it. Bell stared through the plastic. “Where exactly were you when this appeared?”

“Dr. Shah’s office.”

“What do you mean, appeared?”

“I mean I didn’t know I had it until I woke up holding it.” I explained.

Bell looked at Owen. “Did you search her pockets before that?”

“No,” Owen replied. “I didn’t have a reason to.”

“Did you see her take it out?”

“No. I came into the office after Dr. Shah called for me.”

Bell turned back to me. “And Dr. Shah?”

“She saw my hand go into my coat pocket before I switched.”

“You switched?”

“Lost awareness.” I rephrased.

His gaze held mine. Bell knew the word I was avoiding. He let me avoid it. “Did she see the key before you went down?” he asked.

“No.”

Bell took out his phone and photographed the bag from several angles.

“The right pocket was empty afterward,” I added. “There was soot in the lining.”

“Did you bring the coat?” Owen lifted it from the back of my chair. Bell stared at him. “You carried it in without mentioning it?”

“You asked about the camera and key.”

Bell took the coat using a pair of nitrile gloves.

Owen looked at me. “Now I understand how you feel at work.”

“Vindicated?”

“Supervised.”

Bell sealed the coat inside a large evidence bag, then returned to the camera. “Show me the photograph.”

I powered it on and scrolled to image forty-two. Bell bent over the display. His expression gave nothing away. “The metadata?” he inquired.

“Untouched.”

“Transfer it.”

I connected the camera to the laptop he had brought into the room. The photograph opened across the screen. The basement door appeared larger than I remembered. Gray paint. Exposed brick. Evidence tape along the hinge. Bell’s shoulder visible through the narrow opening. Bell stared at the image of himself. “That’s me,” he said under his breath.

“I noticed.”

“The photograph was taken at eight fourteen.”

“Yes.” I confirmed.

“I found you outside the basement door at eight sixteen.”

“So I was inside at eight fourteen.”

“Maybe.”

“What else would explain it?”

Bell enlarged the right side of the image. The narrow piece of hallway visible through the gap became a collection of blurred pixels. His shoe. His hand. Part of the wall behind him. Then he zoomed in on the doorknob. A faint black mark ringed the metal. Soot.

“Was that there when you photographed the hallway?” the detective wondered.

“I don’t remember seeing it.”

“It isn’t in the scene notes.”

“I didn’t write the scene notes for the basement.”

“No one did.” He said matter-of-factly.

I looked at him. “What?”

Bell sat across from me. “The basement had already been cleared before you arrived. No blood. No signs of forced entry. No apparent connection to the homicide. The lead tech decided it didn’t require full documentation.”

“But there was evidence tape on the hinge.

“That isn’t evidence tape.”

I enlarged the strip. White material crossed the lower hinge, marked with dark numbers. “The case number is written on it,” I said.

Bell shook his head. “No, it isn’t.”

“It starts with today’s prefix.”

“It looks like it does because you know what the prefix is.”

“What is it, then?”

“We don’t know.”

Owen leaned toward the laptop. “Was it on the door when officers checked the basement?”

“No,” Bell said.

I looked at him. “How can you know that if no one photographed it?”

“One of the uniforms wore a body camera.” Bell opened another file. The footage showed a narrow view of the basement staircase. Concrete walls. Exposed pipes. A single bulb hanging above a washer and dryer. The gray door swung open ahead of the officer. No white strip marked the hinge. No black residue stained the knob.

Bell advanced the video. The officer descended five steps, swept the room with his flashlight, then climbed back upstairs. The entire basement inspection lasted less than a minute.

“What time?” I asked.

“Six forty-one.”

“Someone could have put the strip there afterward.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

Bell paused the footage on the lock. A modern silver deadbolt sat above the brass knob. The door in photograph forty-two had no deadbolt. I leaned closer. “That isn’t the same door.”

“It is the basement door,” Bell argued.

“No. The paint is different. The frame is unfinished in my photograph, and there’s no deadbolt.”

Owen looked between the two images. “Could the photograph be from another location?”

“The scene number—” I began.

“Isn’t a scene number,” Bell reminded me.

The room seemed to contract around the table. I enlarged photograph forty-two until the pixels broke apart. The basement door had been in front of me. I remembered its cold brass knob beneath my hand when Bell woke me. But the picture showed a door that did not exist.

Bell tapped the bagged key with one gloved finger. “For what it’s worth, this wouldn’t open the crime-scene basement.”

“You already know that?”

“The door uses a modern pin-tumbler lock. That key is old. Warded, probably.”

“How old?”

“I called Property Crimes and sent them a photograph. Their best guess is late nineteenth or early twentieth century.”

Owen looked at me. “The House?”

I felt Bell’s attention sharpen.

“The internal one,” I explained.

“I know which house he means,” Bell said.

Owen sat back.

Bell continued studying me. “Does it have a basement?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been inside it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It stays locked.” I shrugged.

Bell glanced at the key. I hated the conclusion before he said it. “You think this opens it,” he said.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not a no.”

“It’s also not relevant to your investigation.”

“A photograph taken during an active homicide scene shows a door that doesn’t exist, and you wake up with an antique key after going somewhere in your head. I’m flexible about relevance.” Bell remarked.

Owen placed his coffee on the table. “What happens to her job?”

The question settled over the room. Bell looked at me instead of answering him. “My supervisor knows about the ten-minute gap,” I informed him.

“She knows more now,” Bell replied.

My stomach dropped. “You reported the photograph?!”

“I had to.”

“You didn’t have to tell her before speaking to me!”

“I found you disoriented at a homicide scene. You withheld an image from the case file and removed your camera from the building.”

“It’s my assigned camera!”

“It contains departmental evidence.”

“I was bringing it back!”

“After I asked.” Bell added.

I stood so quickly that the chair legs scraped against the floor. Owen rose too but did not touch me. Bell stayed seated. “Sit down, Leri,” he commanded.

“Am I under arrest?”

“No.”

“Then don’t order me around!”

“I’m trying to keep you from making this worse.”

“You already made it worse,” I sneered through gritted teeth.

Bell’s mouth tightened. “Your supervisor has placed you on administrative duty until occupational health reviews what happened.”

The words reached me individually. Administrative. Duty. Occupational health. A polite sequence designed to avoid saying 'suspended.'

“I can still process photographs...”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“You mishandled evidence.”

“I documented evidence no one else noticed!” I contended.

“You failed to disclose it.”

“Because it made no sense!”

“That is not your decision to make.”

My hands curled against the edge of the table. Something shifted behind my thoughts. A sudden heat. Anger arriving too large and too fast to belong entirely to me. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Bell’s face sharpened. Every sound in the room separated—the air vent, Owen breathing beside me, the faint mechanical tick of the camera mounted in the corner.

He sold you out.

The voice came from inside. Male. Close. Micah. I pressed my thumbnail into the cut on my palm. Pain brought the room back into alignment. Bell noticed.

“Who is it?” he asked quietly.

The question made Owen turn toward me.

“No one,” I quickly dismissed.

“That didn’t look like no one.”

“You don’t get to ask me that after reporting me.”

“I reported an incident. I did not disclose your diagnosis.”

“Congratulations on meeting the minimum legal requirement.” I sarcastically spat.

Bell pushed his chair away from the table and stood.

“I am trying to protect your career.”

“By removing me from it?”

“By making sure this is handled before someone who doesn’t know you sees that photograph and decides you deliberately contaminated a homicide scene.”

I looked at the impossible door on the laptop. He was right. That made me angrier. Owen stepped between us—not blocking either of us, just changing the shape of the room. “Leri,” he spoke, “we should go.”

Bell lifted the bagged key. “This stays with me.”

“No.”

Both men looked at me.

Bell lowered the bag. “It may have come from the scene.”

“You just proved it doesn’t fit anything there.”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t connected.”

“I woke up with it in a medical office.”

“After taking an impossible photograph during a homicide investigation.”

The heat behind my forehead surged.

Don’t let him take it. Micah again. Closer now.

My fingers twitched toward the bag. Owen saw the movement. He turned his body slightly, placing himself in my line of sight. “Can you hear me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you here?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want the key because you believe it belongs to you, or because someone is telling you not to give it up?”

I stared at him. Bell remained silent. The room had become unbearably bright. “Both,” I admitted.

Owen nodded. “Then let Bell document it. Ask for a receipt. Keep the chain clean.” I hated how reasonable he sounded. I hated that the phrase chain of custody worked on me.

Bell retrieved an evidence form. He photographed the key in its original bag, sealed it inside a second departmental pouch, and wrote every transfer across the label while I watched. When he finished, he tore off the receipt and placed it in front of me.

I folded it into quarters. “I want it returned.”

“If it isn’t evidence.”

“It’s mine.”

Bell met my eyes. “You don’t know that.”

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷

Owen waited until we reached the parking garage before speaking. “You’re angry with me.”

“I’m considering it.”

“That means yes.” He unlocked his car but did not open the doors. Concrete pillars surrounded us. Every sound carried—the distant whine of tires, a door slamming on another level, the soft echo of our breathing.

“I didn’t need you to help Bell take the key.”

Owen leaned against the driver’s door. “You were about to grab evidence from a detective.”

“It was mine.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Then tell me where it came from.”

I looked away. Owen waited. “I can’t,” I said.

“That’s the problem.”

“No. The problem is that everyone keeps making decisions for me because I can’t provide answers quickly enough.”

“I didn’t make the decision. I helped you keep from making one that could cost you your job.”

“My job is already gone!” I laughed incredulously.

“You’re on administrative duty.”

“That’s how it starts.”

Owen’s expression softened. I disliked that more than anger. “Don’t look at me like that,” I warned.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m breaking.”

“I’m looking at you like you’re scared.”

“I’m not.”

“Leri.”

“I am angry.” I corrected.

“You can be both.”

I crossed my arms. The motion pulled at the scratches on my wrist. Owen’s eyes dropped to them, then returned to my face. He did not mention them. “I should go home,” he said.

The statement caught me off guard. “You don’t have to.”

“You said you were tired of people making decisions for you.”

“I am.”

“So, I’m not deciding to stay because I’m worried. I’m asking whether you want me there.”

I looked toward the concrete ramp behind him. Owen had his own apartment. His own bed. His uniforms hung in his own closet, and the plants on his windowsill somehow remained alive despite his schedule. When he stayed with me, it was because he chose to visit. Because I chose to let him. Not because he had quietly moved in and neither of us had acknowledged it.

“I don’t want to be watched,” I told him.

“Then I won’t watch you.”

“That’s not possible.”

“It is if I leave.”

The thought of returning to my apartment alone produced a tightness beneath my ribs. Owen saw my answer before I gave it. “I want you there,” I said. “I just don’t want you treating me like a patient.”

He opened the passenger door. “I’m off duty.”

“That has never stopped you.”

“I’ll make an effort to be medically negligent.” Owen joked.

I slid into the seat. “That’s all I ask.”

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷

Owen left that evening to pick up clothes from his apartment. He offered to bring dinner back. I told him I wasn’t hungry. He brought dinner anyway. After we ate, he showered in my bathroom and left his overnight bag beside the dresser. He did not ask whether I wanted him in bed or on the couch. He waited until I pulled back the blanket on his side. The distinction mattered.

I lay awake beside him long after his breathing slowed.

The receipt for the key sat on my nightstand.

Item: One antique metal key.

Source: Surrendered by Aleria Brooks.

Surrendered. As though I had confessed to possessing it. I turned the paper facedown. Owen shifted beside me. His hand rested on the mattress between us, palm open. Not touching. Offering. I slid my fingers across the sheet until they met his. His hand closed loosely around mine.

“Still awake?” he mumbled.

“I thought you were sleeping.”

“I was.”

“Then go back to it.”

Owen’s thumb moved over my knuckles. “You’re thinking loudly.”

“That isn’t a thing.”

“It is with you.”

I stared at the ceiling. “What happens when you stop trusting me?” I asked.

His hand stilled. “I don’t know,” he truthfully answered. The honesty hurt.

“You’re supposed to say you never will.”

“You’d know I was lying.”

“People lie during emotional conversations all the time. It’s considered polite.” I half-kidded.

Owen turned onto his side. A narrow stripe of streetlight slipped between the curtains and fell across Owen’s face. It caught in his blond hair, turning the tousled strands near his forehead almost silver, and traced the familiar angles of his high cheekbones and straight nose. His features could look sharp from a distance—the defined jaw, the slight hollows beneath his cheeks—but up close, they softened around his mouth. He had a fuller lower lip and a faint crease beside it that deepened whenever he tried not to smile.

His green eyes remained fixed on me, muted to something darker in the low light. Owen had a medium build, lean without looking fragile, with broad enough shoulders to fill the faded T-shirt he wore and the quiet strength of someone accustomed to lifting stretchers rather than weights for show. One arm was bent beneath his head. The other rested between us, still allowing me to choose whether the distance stayed or disappeared.

“I trust you,” he said. “I don’t trust whatever is happening around you.”

“What if there isn’t a difference?” I challenged.

“There is to me.”

“You can’t know that.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I can keep choosing to believe it until you give me a reason not to.”

My throat tightened. I looked away before he could see. Owen did not pull me closer. He let me decide. I moved into the space between us and rested my forehead against his chest. His arm settled around my back. For several minutes, neither of us spoke. His heartbeat remained steady beneath my ear. I counted it until the room began to soften.

One.

Two.

Three.

The pressure behind my forehead gathered. I tightened my hand in his shirt. Owen felt it. “Someone close?” he murmured.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to fight it?”

I listened inward. A floorboard creaked. Keys scraped together. Somewhere far beneath them, a camera shutter clicked. “No.”

Owen kissed the top of my head. “I’ll be here.”

The bedroom faded.

I opened my eyes in The House with an empty hand. Then metal pressed against my palm. The key was there. Not bagged. Not tagged. Not locked in an evidence room across the city. It lay warm against my skin, its brass head polished bright.

I stood at the bottom of the main staircase. The House was dark except for a lamp burning in the kitchen. A low voice carried through the hallway.

“You should’ve told her.” Micah.

I followed the sound. He stood near the basement door with his back to me. I had not seen him in weeks, though time inside The House made that difficult to measure. He wore a black T-shirt and dark green cargo pants, his hands wrapped in worn boxing tape. A screwdriver protruded from his back pocket.

I stopped in the kitchen doorway. “Tell me what?”

Micah turned. His eyes went first to my face. Then to the key in my hand. “Damn it,” he cursed.

“Good to see you too.”

He stepped away from the basement door. “Where did you get that?”

“You tell me.”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“You looked at it like you have.”

“I looked at it like it belongs in a lock.”

The basement door stood at the end of a narrow passage beyond the pantry. It had always been part of The House. Gray wood. Brass knob. No windows. No one went down there. When I was younger, I had accepted that as one of the House’s rules, no different from mirrors reflecting whoever held the front or rooms belonging only to the people who slept behind them.

I had stopped asking who made the rules. Now the door looked almost identical to the one in photograph forty-two. Unfinished brick framed it. A thin white strip crossed the lower hinge. Dark marks covered its surface.

“Move,” I told Micah.

“No.”

I stared at him. “You don’t give me orders.”

“Someone should.”

Heat flickered through my chest. The same anger I had felt in the interview room. “You were at the station.”

“I was close.”

“You told me not to give Bell the key.”

“I told you not to let him take something we might need.”

“Do you know what it opens?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know we need it?” I quizzed with my eyes squinted.

Micah folded his arms. “Because everyone else is terrified of it.”

A set of keys jingled behind me. Ivy stood in the kitchen doorway. She wore the same oversized gray sweatshirt from my last visit, but both hands were visible now. Her key ring was gone. “You brought it back,” she whispered.

“I didn’t bring it anywhere.”

Her eyes fixed on the key. “Put it down.”

“Where is your ring?”

“I lost it.”

“You don’t lose keys.”

“I did this time.”

Micah looked at her. “Tell her.”

Ivy shook her head.

“Tell me what?” I asked.

Neither of them answered. The lamp above the kitchen table flickered. A kettle began to whistle on the stove, though there was no flame beneath it. Amara appeared in the doorway behind Ivy. She wore her copper cardigan, one hand closed around the front as though she were cold. Her gaze found the key immediately.

“No,” she said. The word was soft. Absolute.

I turned toward her. “Do you know what it opens?”

Amara stepped into the kitchen. “Some things remain locked because opening them serves no one.”

“That sounds like a yes.”

“It is not.”

Micah gave a humorless laugh. “You’re terrible at lying.”

Amara looked at him. “And you mistake destruction for honesty.”

“At least I say what I mean.”

“You say what hurts.”

“Sometimes those are the same thing.” He bit.

“Stop!” I barked.

Both of them fell silent. I pointed toward the basement door. “I took a photograph of that door during a blackout.”

Amara’s face changed. Only slightly. Enough.

“You know about it,” I accused with a pointed finger.

“I know you went somewhere you should not have gone.”

“The physical basement?”

“Perhaps.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the only one I can give safely.”

I stepped toward the narrow passage. Ivy moved in front of me. “Don’t,” she said. Her voice trembled.

I stopped close enough to see the tears gathering in her eyes. “You were at the crime scene,” I told her.

“No.”

“You knew the photograph was taken in the basement before I told you.”

“I guessed.”

“You don’t guess. You count, listen, and remember.”

“I don’t remember that.” She lied.

“Who told you not to tell me?”

Ivy looked toward the wall. Not at Amara. Not at Micah. The wall. A faint humming passed through the wallpaper. The same tune I had heard upstairs. Amara’s shoulders stiffened. Micah turned toward the sound.

“Who is that?” I asked. No one answered. The humming traveled downward. Through the wall. Beneath the floorboards Toward the basement. The key grew warmer in my palm. I looked down. Black residue gathered between its teeth. Not soot this time. Something thicker. It crawled slowly across the metal like ink. Ivy backed away.

“Put it down,” she begged.

I closed my fingers around it. “Why?”

“Because it knows you have it.”

The humming stopped. Silence filled The House. Then something struck the basement door from the other side. Once. The impact shook dust from the frame. Amara grabbed Ivy and pulled her backward. Micah stepped in front of them. I moved closer to the door.

“Leri,” Amara said, “do not touch that lock.”

Her fear made the decision for me. I raised the key. The passage seemed to narrow, the brick walls drawing inward as I approached. Cold air slipped beneath the basement door and curled around my bare feet. Behind it, something dragged slowly across concrete. I reached for the lock. The key hovered less than an inch from the opening.

A camera shutter clicked on the other side. White light flashed through the keyhole. I jerked back. The brass knob turned. Slowly.

“That’s impossible,” Owen said.

I enlarged the photograph. The basement door filled the camera display, its gray paint flattened by the flash. From the hallway, the door had looked ordinary. From inside the basement, it looked heavier. The frame was unfinished on that side, surrounded by exposed brick and crumbling mortar.

The brass knob gleamed near the center of the image. Beyond it, through the narrow gap between the door and the frame, part of the hallway was visible. Bell stood outside. Only half of him had made it into the shot—one shoulder, one hand, the edge of his brown shoe. His face was turned away, as though he hadn’t yet realized someone was watching him from the darkness. Watching him through my camera.

Owen lowered himself to the floor beside me. “Could Bell have taken it?”

“He’s in the photograph.”

“Someone else, then.”

“The camera was around my neck.”

“You don’t remember that.” I looked at him. He softened the words without taking them back. “You don’t remember those ten minutes,” he tried again.

The timestamp in the corner read 8:14 a.m. I opened the image information. Shutter speed. Aperture. Lens. Flash. Everything appeared exactly as it should. There were no obvious signs of corruption, no duplicated file number, no editing history. The camera had recorded the photograph as though there were nothing strange about it.

Image forty-two. Taken by someone standing inside a locked basement while I stood outside with my hand on the knob.

“Maybe the clock is wrong,” Owen said.

“It isn’t.”

“Could it be an older photograph?”

“No.”

“How can you tell?”

“The scene number is on the doorframe.”

He leaned closer. A strip of white evidence tape had been fixed to the lower hinge. Most of the writing was too small to read, but the first digits were visible. Today’s case number. Owen sat back. The apartment seemed too quiet without the sound of him trying to explain it away. “You need to call Bell.”

“No.”

“Leri.”

“I need to think.” I corrected him.

“You’re holding evidence from an active homicide.”

“I know what it is.”

“Then you know you can’t keep this to yourself.”

“I’m not keeping it.”

“What do you call sitting on the floor at midnight staring at it?” Owen quipped.

“Analysis.”

“I call it keeping it.”

My grip tightened around the camera. The pressure behind my forehead had not returned, but the absence of it felt deliberate now. The silence inside me was no longer an empty room. It was someone on the other side of a wall, holding their breath.

“I can’t tell him yet,” I mumbled.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know what happened.”

“That is exactly why you tell him.”

“And say what? That I wandered away from a body, lost ten minutes, and somehow took a photograph from inside a room I don’t remember entering?”

“Yes.”

“He’ll have to report it.”

“Maybe he should.” The words were quiet. They hurt more because of that.

I placed the camera on the coffee table. “You think I can’t do my job.”

“I think something happened to you at work.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

Owen rubbed the back of his neck. He did that when he was worried and trying not to sound worried, which meant he did it around me more often than either of us acknowledged. “I think you’re good at your job,” he clarified. “I also think you’re getting hurt, losing time, and hiding how bad it is because you’re afraid someone will decide those things matter more than everything you’ve done right.”

I looked away. The apartment door was locked now. Owen had checked it twice. The deadbolt sat firmly in place, the security chain drawn across the frame. My shoes were still on. I hadn’t taken them off after waking on the couch because I didn’t remember putting them on.

“You don’t understand what happens if they decide I’m unstable,” I said.

“I understand that hiding this won’t make you look more stable when they find out.”

“They don’t know what they’re looking for.”

“Neither do you.”

The silence sharpened. Owen reached for the camera. I caught his wrist before he could touch it. He froze. My hand was wrapped around him hard enough to leave marks. For one disorienting second, I didn’t recognize my own fingers. I released him. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t.”

He flexed his hand but didn’t move away. That made it worse. I stood and carried the camera to the dining table. My scene log remained inside the front pocket of the case. Forty-one entries, each written in my handwriting. I checked them again.

One through sixteen: overall photographs. Seventeen through thirty: midrange. Thirty-one through forty-one: close-ups. No forty-two. No basement. No gap in the numbering. I turned the final page over. Blank.

“Maybe I didn’t take it as part of the scene,” I theorized.

Owen remained on the floor beside the couch. “What does that change?”

“It explains why it isn’t logged.”

“It doesn’t explain how it exists.”

“No.” I checked the camera strap. A faint black residue marked the underside near the buckle. The same substance I had rubbed from the basement doorknob. I touched it with my thumb. It smudged like soot.

“You need to bag that,” Owen warned.

I almost laughed. “You’ve been spending too much time with me.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” I retrieved a clear evidence envelope from the emergency kit I kept with my equipment. Taking supplies home was against policy. So was keeping an unlogged photograph from an active homicide. I was accumulating violations quickly. I swabbed the residue, sealed it, and wrote the date and time across the front.

Owen watched me. “You have evidence envelopes in your apartment?”

“I have hobbies.”

“You need better hobbies.”

“I tried knitting. Too much blood.” His mouth twitched. The joke did not make either of us feel better.

My phone lit on the table.

A message from Bell.

Home?

I stared at it. Owen waited. I typed:

Yes.

Bell responded almost immediately.

Alone?

My fingers paused.

Owen’s here.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Returned.

Good. Call me in the morning. Before your shift.

I read the message twice.

“What?” Owen asked. I showed him. “He knows something."

“Bell always thinks he knows something. Occupational hazard.”

“Call him now.”

“He said morning.”

“And you’re famous for following instructions?”

I locked my phone. “I’m not calling him until I know what I’m saying.”

Owen rose. For a moment, I thought he was going to argue again. Instead, he walked into the kitchen and turned off the light above the stove. “Do you want me to stay tonight?”

He asked it carefully. Not 'Should I stay?' Not 'Are you safe alone?' He left the choice with me. I looked toward the dark apartment door. “Yes,” I answered.

“All right.”

“You can take the bed.” I offered.

“So can you.”

“I’m not sleeping.”

“Then neither am I.” He stubbornly announced.

“That’s stupid.”

“I’ve made peace with that.”

He went to retrieve the overnight bag he kept in his car. Not a drawer in my bedroom. Not clothes hidden in my closet. Owen had his own apartment, his own bed, his own life. When he stayed, he arrived carrying a toothbrush and whatever shirt happened to be clean. The arrangement worked because it was temporary. Because he could always leave.

I looked down at the sealed swab on the table. A dark smear showed through the plastic. For half a second, it seemed to move. I blinked. It was only soot.

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷

I dreamed about the basement. I stood at the bottom of a staircase with no memory of descending it. The air was wet and cold. Pipes crossed the ceiling overhead, dripping black water onto the concrete. Somewhere in the darkness, a camera shutter clicked. I followed the sound.

Click.

A flash illuminated a gray door.

Click.

A hand wrapped around the knob.

Click.

My own face turned toward me from the other side.

I woke with Owen’s hand on my shoulder.

“Leri.”

I swung at him. He caught my wrist before my palm reached his face. “Hey. It’s me.”

The bedroom came together slowly. My bedroom. My black curtains. My dresser. Owen sitting on the edge of the mattress in yesterday’s T-shirt. Morning light showed around the edges of the blinds. I pulled my wrist free. “Sorry.”

“You said that already.”

“What?”

He looked at me. “You kept apologizing in your sleep.”

I sat up. My throat felt scraped raw. “What time is it?”

“Seven twelve.”

“My appointment is at nine.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to drive me.”

“I know.” Owen said, sounding like a broken record.

“I’m going alone.” I sternly told him.

“I know that too.”

His calm irritated me. I pushed the blanket away. “You can stop agreeing with me.”

“Absolutely.”

I looked down at myself. I was wearing the same shirt from yesterday, but my jeans had been removed and folded over the desk chair. I did not remember getting into bed. “Owen.”

His expression shifted.

“Did you change me?” I worriedly inquired.

“No.”

“Did I?”

“You went to the bathroom around two. You came back dressed like that.” He recalled.

“Was I awake?”

“You answered me.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

He hesitated. “You looked awake.”

I checked my arms.

No new scratches.

No bruises.

The skin beneath my fingernails was clean.

“Did I say anything?”

“You asked whether I had locked the door.”

“And?”

“I told you yes.”

“What did I do?”

“You checked it anyway.”

A faint memory surfaced. My hand against the deadbolt. Cold metal. Someone humming behind me. It vanished before I could hold on to it. “What else?”

“You stood in the kitchen for a while.” He sighed.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at the evidence envelope.”

I turned toward the bedroom door. “Where is it?”

“Still on the table.”

I got out of bed. Owen followed me into the living room. The camera sat where I had left it. The sealed swab lay beside it. The envelope had been turned over. A sentence had been written across the back. Not in my handwriting.

DON’T OPEN WHAT YOU CAN’T CLOSE.

Owen stopped beside me.

“You didn’t see me write that?” I pressed.

“No.”

The letters leaned sharply to the right. Deep grooves marked the paper where the pen had been pressed too hard. I picked up the envelope by its edges. “Did I use a pen?”

“I didn’t see one.”

A black ballpoint rested on the floor beneath the table. Its tip was bent. Owen crouched to retrieve it.

“Don’t touch that.” I cautioned. He pulled his hand back. I photographed the envelope, the pen, and the floor before putting on gloves. Evidence first. Panic later.

The routine had always calmed me. This time, it felt like pretending.

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷

Dr. Shah’s office smelled like sandalwood and printer toner. She had moved buildings three months earlier, but the room looked almost identical to the old one. Same blue chairs. Same low bookshelf. Same framed watercolor of a shoreline she claimed not to like enough to hang at home.

I sat in the chair closest to the door. Dr. Shah glanced at it. “You usually sit by the window.” The woman observed.

“I wanted variety.”

“You dislike variety.”

“I’m growing.”

She smiled without believing me. Dr. Samira Shah was in her forties, though she had possessed the same calm face for the six years I had known her. She dressed in muted colors and wore thin silver rings on three fingers of her right hand. Today, one of the rings was missing. I noticed because noticing was what I did.

“How much time have you lost this week?” she asked, readying her book.

“No hello?”

“Hello, Leri. How much time have you lost this week?”

Just like Owen...

“Very subtle.”

“You didn’t come here for subtlety.” She playfully snipped.

I looked toward the window. Traffic moved six stories below us. Horns. Brake lights. Pedestrians gathering at the corner while the signal changed. I counted the children without meaning to. One girl holding a woman’s hand. A boy in a red coat. Another child farther back, partially hidden behind a delivery truck. Three. The light changed. They crossed.

“Leri?” Dr. Shah called.

“Maybe thirty minutes.” I finally revealed.

“This week?”

“Yesterday.”

Her pen paused above the notebook. “Tell me.”

I described the crime scene without revealing identifying details. The repeated doorway photographs. The basement. Bell finding me with my hand on the knob. I did not mention image forty-two. I did not mention the blood beneath my nail. I did not mention the message on the evidence envelope.

Dr. Shah listened though.

“How has communication been?” she quizzed when I finished.

“Quiet.” I told her honestly.

“Completely?”

“Mostly.”

“Who have you heard from?” Now her eyes were squinted.

“No one directly.”

“Have you been inside?”

“Last night.”

“Well, what did you see?”

“The House.”

Her expression remained neutral, but her posture changed slightly. Attention sharpening. “Was anyone there?”

“I thought someone was upstairs.”

“Who?”

“I didn’t see them.”

“Did you call for anyone?”

“Yes.”

“And no one responded?”

I crossed one leg over the other. “I’m aware of how conversations work.”

“Which door was open?”

I looked at her. “I didn’t say there was an open door.”

“You looked toward the office door when you described the upstairs hallway.”

“Maybe I’m fascinated by the architecture.” I sassed, my irritation slowly rising.

“Which one?” She pressed, ignoring my shifting mood.

“I don’t know.”

“Did it belong to someone?”

“They all belong to someone.”

“Was there anything unusual about it?”

“It was open.”

This made Dr. Shah lean forward. And then she asked, “How far?”

“Barely.”

“Could you see inside?”

“No.”

“What did you feel?”

“Annoyed.”

Like right now.

“Leri.”

“Fine. Nervous.”

“Afraid?”

“I don’t like that word.”

“Words generally survive being disliked.” The pressure behind my forehead stirred. Not painful. A warning tap. I pressed my thumb into my palm. Dr. Shah noticed. “Is someone close now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ask.”

“They aren’t answering.”

“Ask anyway.”

I closed my eyes. The office faded slightly. Not enough to enter The House. Just enough to sense its shape behind everything else. The front hall. The staircase. The silent rooms above.

Is anyone there?

Nothing.

I need to know what happened yesterday.

A floorboard creaked. Then a girl’s voice whispered from far away.

Don’t tell her.

My eyes opened. Dr. Shah watched me. “What did you hear?”

“Nothing.” I fibbed.

“That wasn’t nothing.”

“I said I didn’t hear anything.”

“You looked frightened.”

“I’m allowed facial expressions.”

“Of course.” She set the notebook aside. “When communication breaks down suddenly, we treat that as information.”

“I know.”

Dr. Shah hurried to say, “It doesn’t automatically mean danger.”

“I know.”

Dr. Shah's gaze dropped briefly to the scratches at my wrist before returning to my face. “But paired with increased amnesia and unexplained injuries—”

“They’re scratches.”

“Unexplained injuries,” she repeated. “Paired with increased amnesia, they suggest something within the system has changed.”

The word sat between us. System. Clinical. Contained. As though everything inside me could be drawn with neat circles and arrows. “What do you want me to do?” I asked.

“Reduce stress where possible.”

“I work crime scenes.”

“Then we identify what is possible.”

“I can’t take leave.”

“I didn’t say leave—"

“You were thinking it.” I butted in.

“I was thinking that your safety matters.”

“My career matters.”

“They are not mutually exclusive.”

“They are to people who hear the wrong words in the wrong order.”

Dr. Shah folded her hands. “Has anyone at work expressed concern?”

“Bell.”

“What did he observe?”

“A gap.”

“Does he know the full context?”

“He knows enough.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

I looked away. Dr. Shah waited. The problem with therapists was that silence cost them nothing. They could sit in it all day and charge by the hour. “Bell knows,” I stubbornly reiterated.

“Your supervisor?”

“Knows I have accommodations.”

“Does your supervisor know your symptoms have changed?”

“No.”

“Does Owen?”

“Yes.”

“Is that why he drove you?”

“He didn’t.” Her eyes moved toward the hallway. Owen sat in the waiting room. I had insisted on driving myself. He had followed in his own car. “He worries,” I spoke.

“He loves you.”

“Those are not always different things.”

“No.” The agreement landed more gently than I expected. Dr. Shah picked up her pen again. “Tell me what you aren’t telling me.”

My body went still. “I told you everything.”

“You gave me a scene report. You did not tell me why you booked the earliest appointment I had available.”

“This was already scheduled.”

“You called at six forty-three this morning and asked whether I had a cancellation.”

I had forgotten that. Or someone else had made the call. The pressure behind my forehead deepened. A faint sound moved through The House. Humming. The same melody from the upstairs hallway. I stood. “I need some air.”

“Sit down.”

“I’m not a danger to myself.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Everyone keeps saying that after implying it.”

“Leri, sit.”

The humming stopped. A child began to cry.Not in the office. Inside. The sound was soft and muffled, as though coming through several closed doors. I pressed both hands against my temples. Dr. Shah moved slowly from her chair. “Who do you hear?”

“I don’t know.” I choked out, tears forming at the corners of my eyes.

“Can you tell where they are?”

“U-Upstairs.”

“In The House?”

“Yes.”

“Can you reach them?”

“I said no one is answering me!”

The crying grew louder. Then another voice cut through it. Older. Female. Calm.

You’re upsetting her.

I stopped breathing.

“Leri?”

The room tilted. Dr. Shah’s watercolor stretched sideways. The walls dimmed, the corners filling with shadow.

“I need to go inside.”

“Not while you’re driving yourself home.”

“Owen’s outside.”

“Then tell him.”

“I don’t need permission.”

“I’m not giving permission. I’m helping you remain safe.” The carpet beneath my feet softened. Floral wallpaper bled through the office walls. I reached for the arm of the chair. “Leri, stay with me.”

But the office was already gone. I stood in the upstairs hallway of The House. The crying had stopped. Every door was closed. For a moment, I thought I was alone. Then I saw the girl crouched beside the wall. Ivy wore an oversized gray sweatshirt and black leggings. Her hair had been braided close to her scalp, though several strands had worked loose around her face. A ring of keys hung from one hand.

She looked fourteen because she had always looked fourteen. Not younger. Not older. Fixed at an age when fear had learned how to speak but not how to make anyone listen.

“Ivy.”

She flinched. “Don’t.”

“I’m not going to touch you.”

“You always say that before you get closer.”

I stopped several feet away. “What happened yesterday?”

Her gaze moved past me. Toward the staircase. “I don’t know.”

“Who was crying?”

“No one.” She said, eyes darting over my shoulder..

“I heard them.” I insisted.

“You hear lots of things.”

“So do you.”

Ivy tightened her fingers around the keys. There were dozens of them. Silver, brass, rusted iron. Some opened doors in The House. Others had never fit anything we could find. One key was new. Gray metal. A round brass head. Black residue marked its teeth. I stared at it. “Where did you get that?”

Ivy shoved the keys into the pocket of her sweatshirt. “Get what?”

“The new key.”

“There isn’t one.” Ivy lied.

“I saw it.”

“No, you didn’t!”

“Ivy...”

Her eyes filled with panic. “I told them you would notice.”

“Told who?”

She looked toward the end of the hallway. The door I had seen open last night was closed now. Sunflower-yellow paint covered it. A paper dinosaur had been taped near the handle. Nia’s room. Relief came too quickly.

I had thought—

I wasn’t sure what I had thought.

“Is Nia in there?” I asked.

Ivy didn’t answer. I approached the yellow door. “Don’t.”

I stopped. “Why?”

“She’s sleeping.”

“It’s the middle of the day.”

“She’s tired.”

“I heard someone crying.” I said, finally starting to pick holes in Ivy's lies.

“That wasn’t her.”

“Who was it?” Ivy’s eyes moved toward the walls. Not the doors. The walls.

“I don’t know.”

I lowered my voice. “Did someone use the body yesterday?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you?” I grilled, feeling closer and closer to the truth.

“No.”

“Did Nia?”

“No.”

“Amara?”

“I don’t know.”

“Micah?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who took the photograph?” By now, I was fed up with the back and forth and absence of clarity.

Her face emptied. “I didn't go into the basement."

I went still. “I never said it was taken in the basement.”

Ivy backed away. The keys jingled in her pocket.

“I need Amara.” I demanded.

Ivy's gaze darted toward the staircase. “She won’t come.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s angry.”

“Amara doesn’t get angry.”

Ivy tightened her hand around the keys. “Everyone gets angry.”

A door opened behind me. Warm light spilled into the hallway. Amara stood in the doorway of her room, one hand resting against the frame. She wore a long copper-colored cardigan over a cream dress, her hair wrapped in a patterned scarf. She looked tired. Not physically. The House did not require sleep in the way the body did. She looked worn through.

“Ivy,” she said gently, “go downstairs.” Ivy didn’t move. “Now.”

The girl glanced at me once before walking away. She kept one hand inside her pocket, gripping the keys so tightly I could hear them scrape together. I waited until she disappeared around the staircase.

“What is she hiding?” I asked.

Amara stepped into the hallway and closed her bedroom door behind her. “Fear makes secrets out of ordinary things.”

“That sounded rehearsed.”

“I’ve had years of practice with you.”

“Who took the photograph?”

“I don’t know.”

“At least look at me when you lie.”

Her expression tightened. Amara was the person who made tea during arguments. Who remembered which music calmed Nia and which books Micah pretended not to read. She softened every sharp edge in The House, including truths that should have remained painful. I trusted her because she cared for everyone. I distrusted her for exactly the same reason.

“Something has changed,” I realized.

“Yes.”

The answer startled me. “What?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Why is everyone hiding?”

“Because you arrive with questions like weapons.”

“I lost time at a homicide scene!” I raised.

“And everyone here felt you panic.”

“I woke up with blood beneath my fingernail.” Amara’s eyes lowered toward my hands. “You didn’t know that,” I said in disbelief.

“No.”

“Someone left me a warning.”

“What warning?”

“Don’t open what you can’t close.” I recited.

The warm light from beneath Amara’s door flickered. She looked toward the yellow bedroom. “Nia wrote that once.”

“When?”

“A long time ago.”

“What did she mean?”

“She was eight.”

“Nia is always eight.” I argued.

Amara closed her eyes briefly. A mistake. Small, but unmistakable.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Not everything hidden is a threat.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“It is the only one I have.”

The House creaked around us. A vibration moved beneath the floorboards, so faint I felt it more than heard it. Amara’s head turned.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Old pipes.”

“The House doesn’t have plumbing unless someone needs it.”

“Then perhaps someone needs it.” Another vibration. Closer this time. From behind the walls. I walked toward the sound. Amara caught my arm. “Don’t.”

Her grip was gentle. Her fear wasn’t. I looked at her hand. She let go. “What’s inside the wall?”

“Memories.”

“That’s not where we keep them.”

“No,” she agreed. “It isn’t.” A narrow crack ran through the floral wallpaper beside Nia’s door. I had not noticed it before. Black dust gathered along the edges. Soot. I touched it. Amara inhaled sharply.

The hallway vanished.

I opened my eyes on Dr. Shah’s office floor. Owen was kneeling beside me. Dr. Shah sat several feet away, giving me space. My right hand was clenched against my chest.

“Leri,” Owen spoke. “Look at me.”

I did. “What happened?”

“You were gone for six minutes.”

“That’s all?”

His expression told me it had not felt like only six minutes to him. I opened my fist. A key rested in my palm. Gray metal. Round brass head. Its teeth were stained black. No one spoke. I stared at it until the edges blurred. Dr. Shah was the first to break the silence. “Was that with you when you arrived?”

“No,” Owen answered for me.

The key was cold against my skin. Ivy’s pocket had been empty when she walked away. I was certain of it now. Not because I had seen her remove the key. Because I could still feel her fear wrapped around it.

Blood dries darker than people expect.

Fresh, it can be bright. Almost theatrical beneath fluorescent lights. But given enough time, it settles into something closer to rust or old varnish—a color people walk past every day without thinking about what it resembles.

I raised my camera and photographed the dining room floor. Wide shot first. The victim lay between an overturned chair and the kitchen doorway, one bare foot tucked awkwardly beneath her. Most of the blood had gathered around her head, filling the narrow grooves between the floorboards. Thinner streaks led toward the wall, where she had apparently tried to drag herself away.

I adjusted the lens.

Click.

The overturned chair.

Click.

The broken wineglass beneath the table.

Click.

Her right hand, curled against the floor as though she had died trying to hold on to it.

“Tell me you got the shoe print.” Detective Marcus Bell’s voice came from somewhere behind me.

I kept my eye against the viewfinder. “Tell me you didn’t breathe on it.”

“I’m four feet away.”

“Three and a half.”

“You measured that through the camera?”

“I measured it when you almost stepped on marker seven.”

Bell glanced down. The toe of his brown dress shoe hovered near the partial print beside the kitchen doorway. He moved backward. “Hostile workplace,” he muttered.

“Competent workplace.”

One of the uniformed officers outside the dining room laughed. Bell usually would have kept going. He had an entire collection of jokes reserved for crime scenes, most of them bad enough to qualify as their own form of misconduct. Instead, he watched me. I felt it before I looked at him. “What?”

“You good?”

“I’m photographing a dead woman at seven in the morning. Define good.” I snapped.

“You’ve been staring at that doorway for a while.”

I lowered the camera. The doorway between the dining room and kitchen was ordinary except for the blood smeared along one side of the frame. White trim. Chipped paint near the baseboard. Nothing that should have held my attention. “I haven’t.”

“You have.” I checked the display on my camera. The last six photographs were identical. Same doorway, same angle, and the same strip of dried blood. My stomach tightened. I pressed the button again, scrolling backward as though the images might rearrange themselves if I gave them the opportunity.

Doorway.

Doorway.

Doorway.

Doorway.

I had no memory of taking any of them. A pressure gathered behind my forehead. It wasn’t quite pain. More like someone pressing two fingers against the inside of my skull.

Not now.

I tightened my grip on the camera.

“Leri?”

“Flash glare.”

Bell looked toward the windows. “The blinds are closed.”

“I know how blinds work.”

“There wasn’t a flash.” He pointed out.

I raised the camera between us. “Do you want the photographs or an interrogation?”

His eyebrows lifted. For a moment, I thought he would push. Bell knew more than most. Human Resources had paperwork, my supervisor had a list of accommodations, and everyone else had theories—migraines, panic attacks, some neurological condition I was too private to explain. Bell was one of the few people I had trusted with the truth. He knew there were times when I lost minutes and returned to find that someone else had continued my life without me. What he didn’t know was that it had begun happening more often.

Bell looked away first.

“The photographs,” he said.

“Good choice.” I turned back toward the victim. Female. Mid-thirties. Silk pajama bottoms and a white camisole stained nearly black at the shoulder. One diamond stud remained in her left ear. Its match rested beneath marker twelve near the baseboard.

I crouched beside her hand. Her nails were painted yellow. Not pale yellow. Not gold. Bright, cheerful, sunflower yellow. My finger paused over the shutter. A red rubber ball bounced through my mind. Once. Twice. Then it rolled beyond the curb. A car horn screamed. I blinked hard. The dining room returned around me. The victim’s yellow nails remained in the center of my viewfinder. I pressed the shutter. The photograph blurred. “Damn it.”

I deleted it and tried again. Yellow polish. Blood beneath the nails. A wedding band twisted backward around a swollen finger. Details steadied me. That was what details were for. Observe, document, and reserve.

Crime scene photography wasn’t about distancing myself from the dead. Detachment caused mistakes. The job required the opposite. I had to look closely enough to preserve the truth after the body was removed, the blood was scrubbed away, and everyone else decided they were ready to forget.

I focused on the woman’s hand.

The pressure behind my forehead sharpened. For a moment, the dining room seemed to stretch away from me. Bell’s voice became muffled. The click of another camera sounded from somewhere impossibly far away.

Then—

Nothing.

“Leri.” Someone touched my elbow. I jerked away so quickly that my shoulder struck the wall. Bell stood in front of me. Behind him was a narrow hallway I didn’t recognize. It took me several seconds to understand that I was no longer in the dining room. A wooden door stood beside me. Heavy. Painted gray. A tarnished brass knob rested inches from my hand.

“Where am I?”

Bell’s expression changed. Not dramatically. Bell was too practiced for that. His mouth tightened. His eyes moved over my face as though he were searching for an injury. “Basement door.”

I looked down. My hand was already wrapped around the knob. I released it. The hallway tilted beneath my feet.

“How long?”

“What?”

“How long was I gone?” I whispered.

Bell glanced toward the kitchen. “About ten minutes.”

Ten minutes.

I searched my memory. The woman’s yellow nails. The blurred photograph. Nothing after that. “Did I come back here alone?”

“As far as I know.”

“You didn’t see me leave?”

“No.”

“Did anyone?”

“I asked.”

My pulse moved into my throat.

Bell lowered his voice. “Do you know who was fronting?”

“No.” The answer came too quickly. He noticed. I hated that he noticed. “I’m fine,” I added.

“I didn’t say you weren’t.”

“You were thinking it loudly.”

“I was thinking you look like you might pass out.”

“I skipped breakfast.”

“You always skip breakfast.”

“Then apparently this is my natural glow.”

Bell didn’t smile. His eyes lowered toward my wrist. Three scratches crossed the inside of it. Fresh, shallow, and painfully straight. I pulled my sleeve down. “What happened?” He questioned.

“Equipment case.”

“That case is plastic.”

“It’s very aggressive plastic.” I lied horribly.

“Leri.”

“I said I’m fine.” Silence settled between us. There was a correct way to handle moments like this. Dr. Shah had given me several. Identify five things I could see. Four things I could feel. Three things I could hear. Tell someone I trusted. Check the time. Ask whether anyone inside remembered what happened.

The problem was that the inside had gone quiet. Not peaceful. Quiet. There was a difference. Usually, even when no one spoke directly to me, I could sense them. Movement behind a thought. Music playing from another room. An emotion that arrived without an explanation. Now I felt nothing; a sealed house after a storm.

Bell stepped away from the basement door. “You’re done for today.”

“That’s not your decision.”

“I can call your supervisor.” Bell threatened.

“And I can tell your wife what you paid for those shoes.” I shot back.

He glanced down at them. “They were on sale.”

“They were still ugly.”

That almost got a smile. Almost. “Finish your scene log,” he said. “Then text me when you get home.”

“You’re not my father.”

“No. I have better boundaries.”

“That sentence contradicts itself.”

“Text me.” He walked away before I could refuse. I looked at the basement door again. There was a faint black mark on the knob. I rubbed my thumb over it. Soot, maybe. Or old grease. It stained the pad of my finger.

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷

Owen was chopping onions when I got home. I heard the knife striking the cutting board before I unlocked the apartment. Steady, quick, followed by the scrape of the blade as he swept the pieces aside. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.

I stood in the hallway longer than necessary, listening to him hum off-key. “Before you say anything,” he called, “I know the recipe says shallots.”

I stepped inside and locked the door behind me. “Then why are you using onions?”

“Because shallots cost four dollars.”

“You have a job.” I chuckled.

“I also have principles.” I placed my camera case beside the entry table. The apartment smelled like garlic, butter, and the citrus cleaner Owen used on the countertops. The evening news played quietly in the living room, though neither of us ever really watched it.

I walked into the kitchen. Owen stood over the stove in navy uniform pants and a faded gray T-shirt. His hair was still damp from the shower he took after every shift, but a pale line remained across his forehead where his cap had pressed against the skin.

He looked at me. Then at my wrist. “What happened?”

No hello. Straight to the injury. There were times when dating a paramedic felt less like having a boyfriend and more like living with an extremely handsome triage nurse.

“Work.” I lazily answered.

“What at work?”

“Equipment case.”

“What part?” He interrogated.

I stared at him. He stared back. “Hello, Owen.”

“Hi, Leri.” He crossed the kitchen and kissed my forehead. “Now what happened?”

“I scratched it.”

“I gathered that.”

“It’s nothing.” I tried to assure him.

“Did you clean it?”

“No.”

“Sit.” He ordered.

“Owen.”

“Sit, Aleria.” He only used my full name when he was worried or irritated. Sometimes both. I sat at the kitchen table. Owen turned off the stove before retrieving the first-aid kit from the cabinet above the refrigerator. He knelt in front of me and pushed my sleeve back gently. His thumb hovered beside the scratches. “These are fresh.”

“I know.”

“They don’t look accidental.” Owen gave me a knowing look.

My stomach squeezed before I admitted, “I lost time.”

His hand stilled. “How much?”

“Ten minutes. Maybe.”

“Where?”

“At the scene.”

“What kind of scene?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Was it bad?” He asked, worry knitting through his bushy eyebrows.

“They’re all bad.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

I looked away. Concern changed a room. One moment, Owen and I were in the kitchen while dinner waited on the stove. The next, the table felt too small and the lights too bright. Every ordinary object seemed to move farther away until there was nothing left except me and the thing I couldn’t explain. “There was a lot of blood,” I said.

“Do you know who fronted?”

“No.”

“Have you asked?”

“I can’t hear anyone.” Owen lifted his eyes. He understood enough not to call that progress. Other people did. My mother called the quiet periods good days. My supervisor called them stability. Dr. Shah used more careful language, but sometimes I heard relief in her voice too.

Owen knew silence could mean everyone was resting. He also knew it could mean no one wanted to answer me. “None of them?” he asked. I shook my head. He cleaned the scratches without questioning me again. The antiseptic burned.

I watched his hands instead of my skin. That was when I noticed the blood beneath my fingernail. A thin, dark crescent packed beneath the nail of my right index finger. I stopped breathing. Owen followed my stare. “Is that from your wrist?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“The scratches barely broke the skin.”

He took my hand and examined it beneath the kitchen light. “Could you have torn a glove?”

“I check them.”

“Could you have touched something before putting them on?”

“No.”

“Leri.”

“I said no.” My voice came out sharper than I intended. Owen released my hand. The silence inside my head pressed closer. I stood. “I need the bathroom.”

I closed and locked the door behind me. Then I turned on the faucet and scrubbed beneath the nail. The blood thinned in the sink. Pink at first. Then clear. I knew blood. I knew how it dried, how it clung, how easily it transferred from one surface to another. I also knew how far beneath the nail it had been pushed. Before the last trace disappeared, I took out my phone and photographed it. Evidence first. Panic later.

Dinner went cold. Owen reheated it without mentioning that I had only eaten three bites. We sat together on the couch while I reviewed the photographs I had taken of myself over the past month. A bruise behind my left knee. A split lip I had woken up with two weeks earlier. Finger-shaped marks around my upper arm. The fresh scratches. The blood beneath my nail.

Owen leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “Your appointment is tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“Tell Dr. Shah about today.” He encouraged.

“I will.”

“Actually tell her.”

I closed the album. “What does that mean?”

“It means don’t give her the version that makes everyone worry less.”

“I don’t do that.”

“You document things.”

“That is literally my job.”

“You document them like they happened to someone else.” I looked at him. Owen held my gaze though.

I hated when he was right quietly. It gave me nothing to argue with. “I’m tired,” I said suddenly spoke.

“Do you want me to stay?”

“You practically live here.”

“That wasn’t my question.” The pressure returned behind my forehead. Gentler this time. A slow pull from somewhere deep inside. I closed my eyes. The living room dimmed at the edges.

Owen’s voice seemed to come from the other end of a tunnel. “Leri?”

“Someone’s close.” I told him.

“Do you know who?”

“No.”

His hand settled over mine. “I’m here.”

I let go.

I opened my eyes inside The House. The brass chandelier flickered above the front hall. The floral wallpaper looked darker than I remembered, but it was difficult to tell whether the pattern had changed or whether I simply hadn’t been paying attention before.

The House rarely stayed exactly the same. Its bones remained—the staircase, the parlor, the kitchen, the long bedroom hallway—but details shifted. Furniture moved. Paint colors deepened or faded. Pictures appeared on walls no one remembered hanging.

Tonight, the grandfather clock beside the stairs had stopped. The hands pointed to 9:17.

“Hello?” No one answered. I stepped into the parlor. The television showed gray static. An open book rested facedown on the sofa, its spine bent in a way that would have irritated whoever had been reading it. Someone had left a cup of tea on the coffee table. Steam still rose from it.

“Is anyone here?” A floorboard creaked above me. I looked toward the staircase. For a moment, I thought I saw movement behind the banister. A fold of pale fabric. The edge of a hand. Then nothing.

I climbed the first stair. Another floorboard creaked. Farther down the second-floor hallway this time. “Who is it?” No answer.

The pressure in my skull tightened. Not a switch. Something else. Something trying to keep me where I was. I climbed faster. The upstairs hallway stretched ahead of me, lined with closed doors. Everything looked the way it should. Almost.

I counted them without knowing why. Then counted again. A soft humming began somewhere beyond the last pool of light. The melody was familiar, though I couldn’t place it. “Owen plays that song,” I said to myself.

The humming stopped. Every bedroom door remained closed. Except one. At the far end of the hall, a door stood open by less than an inch. A thread of darkness filled the gap. I walked toward it. The hallway seemed to lengthen with every step. “Hello?” Something shifted behind the door.

I reached for the knob. The House shuddered beneath my feet. Then Owen was calling my name. I opened my eyes on the couch. Owen was crouched in front of me, holding both of my hands. The television was still on. My laptop rested closed on the coffee table. “What happened?” I asked.

“You were gone for twenty-three minutes.”

“It didn’t feel that long.”

“It never does.” I looked toward the kitchen. The apartment door stood open. Cold air moved through the room.

“Owen—”

“I know.”

“Did you open that?” I questioned.

“No.” My shoes were on. I didn’t remember putting them on. Owen rose and closed the door, checking the hallway before locking it. “I found you standing there,” he said. “You had your hand on the knob.”

The basement door flashed through my mind. My fingers curled against my palms. “I need to check my camera.”

“Why?”

“I-I don’t know.” That was the truth. I retrieved the camera from its case and sat on the floor. Forty-one photographs were listed in my scene log. I scrolled through them slowly. The dining room. The body. The overturned chair. The yellow nails. The doorway, six times. Then the remaining evidence photographs. Forty-one. I reached the end.