Chloe’s confession didn’t come in a police station or a therapist’s office; it came in my kitchen, with her hair dripping rainwater onto the tile and her fingers leaving damp crescents on the manila envelope. Inside were copies of Brad’s neurology scans, invoices from a “memory optimization program,” and a consent form bearing my forged signature. He hadn’t forgotten my name by accident; someone had tested how much of me they could erase from him before he noticed. The photograph of me sleeping, timestamped for the night he was “working late,” was one of dozens. In some, a shadow leaned over my bed; in others, my eyelids were pried open, pupils pinprick-wide. On the back of each, in his handwriting, were phrases like She didn’t scream this time and Increase dosage if she rem—. The black phone upstairs buzzed again, another voicemail in my perfect, stolen voice telling Brad not to trust the clinic, not to tell me anything, not to remem… Continues…