A child’s hand slipping from mine.
A voice sayingdon’t look back.
A door closing.
Wolf sat across from me, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on my face like he was afraid to blink.
“What else do you remember?” he asked softly.
I swallowed. “Not much. Just feelings. Like I was being evaluated. Watched. Praised—but only when I didn’t cry.”
Trigger cursed under his breath.
“What happened to your family?” Trigger asked.
“I never knew my family. I guess they gave me away.”
Saint looked physically sick. “They were training emotional suppression.”
Havoc added quietly, “Trying to shape resilience.”
Wolf’s jaw tightened.
Sheriff Tate stepped in, files in hand. “I made a few calls. Quiet ones.”
He slid a folder onto the table.
“This foster placement you mentioned,” he said. “We found paperwork. Redacted to hell. But not invisible.”
My stomach dropped.
“What was his name?” I whispered.
Tate hesitated.
Wolf noticed. “Say it.”
Tate exhaled. “Dr. Keller.”
The name hit me like a punch.
Sudden.
Violent.
Real.
I gasped.
Wolf shot to his feet. “You remember him.”
My hands began to shake.
“Yes,” I whispered. “He wore gloves. Always. Said skin contact distorted outcomes.”
Saint stared at the file. “Jesus Christ… Keller ran one of the most controversial cognitive-behavioral trials on juvenile aptitude. Government shut him down quietly.”
Trigger growled, “Meaning he didn’t stop.”
