33

There's no sign of Ava the next morning when I walk downstairs to the living room.

I bury the uneasy feeling rising inside of me. Idon'tremember going upstairs or getting changed. All I remember isAva"sbody beside me on the couch as sleep enveloped me like a heavy fog, as ifI"dbeen drugged. But I woke up this morning in bed, my alarm chirping at 7am.

The blanket I draped over Ava last night lies in disarray on the floor. Perhaps she woke, found me—her therapist—sleeping beside her, and panicked. Ican"tdeny it was a lapse in professionalism.

I should have sent her to see Hawkins. I should have insisted she seek a different form of support andthatdiscussit in our appointment today. But my chest split wide open when I saw her vulnerable and alone on my doorstep.

And now she's fled from me, as though I'm the monster in our story.

***

I push aside thoughts of last night as I delve into my morning tasks at the office.After informing my assistant thatI"llbe out for the remainder of the day, I hit the road.

I glance down at the address the PI gave me. It only took him a few days to find what Iwas looking for. After the Utopia Project disbanded, its members scattered across the state. My recollection of that time is hazy at best. While I can recall my parents and Dr Blackwood, attempting to conjure the faces and names of others feels like grasping at wisps of smoke.

Sometimestraumalocks up memories and holds them hostage.

I'mon the outskirts of a neighboring town amongst the trees. Light drizzle spatters against the stretch of muddied grass outside their house.It'sless of ahouseand more of a secluded cabin likethey'retrying not to be found.

My parents.

Henrik told me togo backto the past to understand howit'sbreaking apart my present. Ihaven'tseen them for thirteen years. That nightIescaped from our community in the Utopia Project.

At least this will distract me from the memory of Ava last night.

I ring the doorbell. A layer of grime comes away on my fingers.

The door opens.It'sbeen so long sinceI'veseen my mother, but I still recognize her.

Her face bears the lines of the last years.She'swearing a shabby sweater and worn-out jeans.

"Jackson."She pales as she speaks my name, shock etched onto every inch of her face.

"Mom."I nod a greeting. Idon'tknow what else to do.

My mother trips over her words."You—youcan'tbe here. Get out, orI'llcall the police, I swear."

As she attempts to slam the door shut, I intervene,easilyhalting it with my palm.

I expected a cold response to me showing up out of the blue. But her reaction is more intense than I anticipated.

I frown."I'mnot here to harass you for thepast,or whatever you might think.I'mjust here to ask some questions."

She shrinks back against the wall."Harry!"

A second later, my father appears next to her. His eyes bulge at the sight of me.

"Jesus. How did you find us?"he asks.

I shrug. No need to obfuscate here."I hired a private investigator."

He curses as my mother grips his arm."I told you, Harry. I told youhe'dfind us one day.That'swhat he said. We can run—"

My father interrupts her."You'relucky we never reported you to the cops, Jackson."

"For what?"I stifle an irritated laugh. My parents were the ones who should be in jail.

"Don't act like you don't know. It's been years, but we all still remember."

"For running away from home?"I shake my head."You'rejust as twisted up as I remember. Maybe this was a mistake after all."

"Not for leaving. For what you did when you left."

Her words catch me off-guard. Something pulls at the edge of my memoryandunease creeps over my skin.

What is going on?

"Iescapedin thenight and hitched a ride to a different town. Hardly a criminal offense."

They exchange nervous glances.

"What are you doing here?"I ask, anger rising in my voice."Hiding out in the woods?"

Myfather"sglare pierces through me."What are you doing? Surprisedyou"vemanaged to stay out of jail."

"Ileft for Brookhaven,"I reply, the memories flooding back."It was tough at first, trying to fit into a normal life. I wandered the city like a ghost. But I landed a job at a bar and, thanks to a friend..."Henrik"sface flashes in my mind, and guilt gnaws at me."I attendedcollege,earned a few degrees.I"ma psychiatrist and licensed therapist now."

My mother's eyebrows hitch up.

"It changed my life. And now I need your help to stop it all crumbling down. I need to know more about the past."

"You—you don't remember what happened that night?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

My father shakes his head. "He's lying. He's a psychopath and a liar."

Anger ignites within me."You both sold me out to Dr Blackwood and his experiments for money."

Tears well up in mymother"seyes, but myfather"sexpression twists into a sneer."We made mistakes, Jackson. But at least hedidn"thave blood on his hands."

My stomach drops. Is there more missing from my memories than I even realized?

"What are you talking about?"I demand, taking a step forward.

Mymother'sface is deathly pale."Harry, get him out of here."

My father advances toward me,butheshares the same look as her.

Fear.

"Leave us alone, Jackson. Please."

The door slams shut, andI'mleft standing in the rain.

My parents are terrified of me because of something I did. Something Idon'tremember.

Something that apparently left blood on my hands.