Chapter 7 - THE DOCTOR WHO REMEMBERED
Harlan Voss disappeared before sunrise.
His car was found outside Pinecrest.
His phone was inside.
He wasn’t.
By morning, the wedding had become national news.
Videos of Voss holding the syringe spread online.
Reporters surrounded Pinecrest.
The sheriff opened investigations into Lorelei’s death and Daniel Mercer’s disappearance.
Emmett Durham issued a statement through his attorneys.
He called Rosalie emotionally vulnerable.
He called Manuel manipulative.
He called Catherine unreliable.
He called Lorelei’s recording fabricated.
Then he made one mistake.
He claimed he had never been at Central Station.
The photographs had not been released publicly.
Maya noticed immediately.
“So how does he know the station matters?”
Manuel looked at Rosalie.
She was sitting in a hotel suite under sheriff protection.
She had changed out of her wedding gown.
A simple gray sweater covered most of the scars.
For the first time, Manuel saw how exhausted she was.
“I want to find Voss,” she said.
“You should sleep.”
“I slept for twenty years.”
She looked at him.
“I want answers.”
Maya’s laptop chimed.
A message.
Unknown sender.
One sentence.
ASK ROSALIE ABOUT THE BLUE ROOM.
Rosalie’s face changed.
Manuel saw it.
“What blue room?”
“There wasn’t one.”
Maya turned the laptop toward her.
“Someone thinks there was.”
Rosalie shook her head.
Then stopped.
A memory surfaced.
Not a room.
A ceiling.
Blue stars painted across it.
Leather straps.
A lamp.
Voss telling her to count backward.
Rosalie pressed both hands against her temples.
“I remember.”
Manuel crouched in front of her.
“You don’t have to force it.”
“Yes, I do.”
Her breathing became uneven.
“There was a building behind Pinecrest.”
“Father called it the clinic.”
Catherine looked up sharply.
“The old carriage house.”
Rosalie nodded.
“He took me there after my mother died.”
Maya was already standing.
The sheriff obtained a warrant by noon.
The carriage house had been converted into storage.
But beneath shelves of furniture they found a trapdoor.
Below it was a medical room.
Blue stars still covered the ceiling.
Rosalie stopped at the doorway.
Manuel stayed beside her.
She didn’t enter.
The sheriff did.
He found restraints.
Old medication cabinets.
Patient logs.
And videotapes.
Hundreds of them.
Most were labeled with initials.
One box carried Rosalie’s full name.
R.D.
Ages 11 through 17.
Maya stared at the tapes.
“This wasn’t treatment.”
“No,” Rosalie said.
“It was training.”
“Training for what?”
“To forget.”
A deputy called from the back room.
“Sheriff.”
They entered.
A man was sitting against the wall.
His hands were zip-tied.
His mouth was taped.
Harlan Voss.
Alive.
Terrified.
Someone had beaten him badly enough to leave bruises across his face.
The sheriff removed the tape.
Voss gasped for air.
Then he looked directly at Rosalie.
“He knows you found the locker.”
Rosalie stared at him.
“Who?”
Voss began shaking.
“Your father.”
“He’s going to kill me.”
May you like
Rosalie’s expression remained cold.
“Then start talking before he gets the chance.”
