Page 22 of Lost Echoes
A chill snakes up my spine. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”
Her jaw tightens. “Because the moment people hear that, they stop seeing me as credible. They think I’m too close, too damaged, and too unreliable.” She swallows hard. “But I need you to know something. I won’t ask you to share anything that I wouldn’t put myself on the line for too.”
I lean back, searching her expression for any sign she’s manipulating me. She could be lying. Or she could be planting this to get me to open up further. Worse, she could be telling the truth, which terrifies me more.
If she’s one of us… can I trust her?
She could be working with Laurel.
11
Ember
By the time I’ve reread the articles twice, Luke’s already cracked open a soda and started poking around in his usual rapid-fire way. He knows me well enough not to comment on how I fall into research holes—he just makes sure I eat and stay hydrated while I spiral.
“You’ve checked the obvious.” He scrolls the screen. “But if Radley patients are talking, it’s not going to be on mainstream boards. Think more… hidden layers. The places where gamers trade hacks or people swap mods that barely exist.”
I give him a quick glance. “You’re saying my mom’s history could be buried next to cheat codes for zombie shooters?”
“Not next to. Underneath.” He winks, but his fingers never stop moving across the keys. “Encrypted forums. Invite-only. They don’t show up unless you know the breadcrumb trails.”
A pang of unease hits me. “And you know those trails?”
“Better than I should.” His grin is boyish, but I know him well enough to see the steel underneath. He’s dead serious about helping me.
I watch his profile as he works. He’s focused, steady. Part of me wants to shove him out the door, to keep him safe from this growing nightmare. The rest of me knows I can’t do this without him. He sees sides of me I usually keep hidden from others—the obsessive, relentless digging. And instead of pulling away, he leans in closer.
“Found something.” He angles the laptop toward me. On the screen, a string of numbers and symbols travels through a series of proxy sites. A crude digital breadcrumb trail, just like he said.
My pulse skips. “This looks like… a key?”
“Exactly. A coded reference to a forum that isn’t supposed to exist. People who know about it call it The Ward.”
The name sends a chill straight through me. I imagine faceless eyes on the other side of the screen, waiting, watching. “What if it’s a trap?” My voice is smaller than I want it to be. I hate feeling like a kid. “What if they’re monitoring who tries to get in? We could be handing them our names. Or this location.”
Luke covers my hand with his. Warm, solid. “Or we could finally get answers. We’ll take it slow. Layers of protection. No one’s going to know it’s you. We’ll make sure of it—between everything we both know about getting around online, we can do this.”
I want to believe him. I want to believe we can open this door without unleashing something that will swallow us whole.
Still, my finger hovers above the trackpad. One click, and there’s no turning back.
The screen darkens and loads a new page. Luke’s fingers fly across the keys, layering various protections. I throw in my thoughts here and there, though he clearly knows what he’s doing. Every so often, he murmurs a phrase like “VPN shield engaged” or “proxy masked”—little reassurances that we’re taking every precaution.
Finally, he leans back. “Okay. We’re wrapped up tighter than a tournament server. Time to see what’s behind the curtain.”
My throat tightens as he clicks one last link. The screen flashes then resolves into a stark black page. White text bleeds across it:
Welcome to The Ward. Entry by referral only.
Luke grins. “Guess we’ve got the referral.”
A moment later, the page shifts. Threads appear—cryptic titles like Milkshake Protocol, The Lost Year, and Test Subjects Classified A–C.
My blood runs cold. That word “milkshake” again. My pulse races as I scroll. Each post is anonymous, and the usernames are strings of numbers and symbols. Some threads are locked. Others are sprawling, full of jagged memories typed out in fragments.
Woke up with scars I don’t remember getting.
They said we were volunteers. I was ten.
