Page 30 of Lost Echoes
I tell myself it’s just another memory fragment. Just another broken piece of someone else’s story. Perhaps something I saw at work.
What would these people think of me if they knew I’m working there now? I won’t tell them, though they could find out. If any of them ever go back. But they wouldn’t, would they? Not after so much trauma.
They might think I’m a plant sent to spy from Dr. Radley himself.
I’ll explain the truth. They’ll understand. We’ll all do whatever it takes to find the answers.
Even return. Or maybe I’m the only one brave enough. Or foolish enough.
The woman is still speaking. She says that phrase again. White spool.
In my gut, something twists like a knife. As if I’ve just heard a phrase that matters more than I’ll ever know.
A woman close to my age across the circle lets out a bitter laugh. “You talk about praying you’d never see it again? I prayed Laurel would never call on me. But she always did.”
The room stiffens at the name.
I sit straighter. “Laurel? You mean Dr. Radley’s granddaughter?”
The woman shakes her head. “Don’t let the last name fool you. She was more than just a puppet. That crazy crow liked seeing us squirm.”
A man in his fifties with thinning hair and a silver goatee clears his throat. His voice trembles, but his words don’t. “Liked it, maybe. But remember who was pulling her strings. Dr. Radley’s children and grandchildren were raised in it, groomed. They were the faces they let us see—not the hand behind the curtain. Her uncle is the one who tortured me.”
Florencia leans toward me, whispering so low I barely hear. “Exactly what I was telling you. She’s in prison, taking the fall, but she’s just a fragment of what they built. It goes much deeper.”
I shift uneasily in my chair and speak to the group. “Then who’s responsible?”
No one answers. Their silence is heavier than words.
Finally, the platinum-haired woman speaks again. “It doesn’t matter if Laurel liked it or not. She carried the spool. She passed it along.” Her gaze drifts to her lap. “And when she smiled, it wasn’t acting.”
A murmur ripples through the group, some nodding and others shaking their heads.
My pulse hammers. I thought I wanted answers, but every word is another weight pressing me down.
Florencia clears her throat. “If Laurel wasn’t the mastermind, then who was? Do you know names? Roles? Anything?”
The man who first spoke leans back, eyes narrowing. “Careful. The more you dig, the more you attract attention.” His gaze sweeps the room, sharp. “We’ve all seen what happens when you remember too much.”
Florencia bristles. “But people deserve to know. I want answers, and I’m losing patience.”
He doesn’t respond, but the warning hangs in the air.
I grip my bag tighter, the edges of the folded drawing biting into my palm. My throat is dry, but I manage to speak. “What happens when you remember?”
The woman with the platinum curls meets my eyes at last, her voice rasp. “They send someone to silence you. Sometimes it’s someone you trust. Other times it’s someone who doesn’t even know they’ve been programmed.”
My skin prickles, and I freeze. “Programmed?”
Florencia inhales sharply beside me, like she recognizes the weight of those words.
I can’t shake the feeling that, whatever “white spool” is, it isn’t just memory. It’s a warning. A code. And I’m standing in the middle of it, blind.
Like Kenzi and the word milkshake, though I can’t bring myself to speak it aloud.
The group splinters, voices dropping into private conversations, chairs scraping against the floor. Florencia pulls out her notebook, scribbling furiously, but my hands stay clenched around my bag.
I’m about to stand when the platinum-haired woman—the one who spoke of the spool—crosses the room and lowers herself into the other chair beside me. Her eyes, distant but steady, fix on mine. “You’ve been there.”
