“Because when I was at the church—when this all started—I heard a voice. It called me the ‘whisper keeper.’”
“Willow,I’m writing you a prescription for a mild sleeping pill. Chronic insomnia can result in hallucinations, anxiety, and depression—among many other things. Clearly you experiencedsomethingat the cathedral. Somethingother. But a carbon copy of yourself no one else can see? That the most advancedOthertechnology can’t detect? I’m afraid that’s simply not possible.
“I suspect after a few nights of solid sleep, this ‘whisper’ will be nothing but a memory.”
“But—”
“Here you go, dear. I’m afraid our time is up for the day. Make an appointment for next week and we can see how you’re sleeping then.” She passes me the white slip of paper with the neatest handwriting I’ve ever seen, then snaps her fingers. Her office door opens, and I want to cry.
Why won’t anyone believe me?
Hours later,I huddle on the couch wrapped in my weighted blanket. The rains are back, and the water cascading down my windows mirrors my mood.
The bottle of pills sits on the coffee table, mocking me.
“Mild, my ass,” I mutter. The pharmacist was shocked at the dosage and advised me to cut the pills in half to start.
My fingers curl around the mug of tea, the warmth reassuring. I haven’t seen my whisper since I left Nolan’s office and ended up at a bus stop less than half a mile from St. Mary’s Cathedral.
She appeared at my elbow. Her gauzy fingers brushed my skin. I sensed—rather than felt—her tug on my arm. But I refused to budge, and she took off at a run toward the old church.
Seeing through her eyes left me so nauseous, I was about to vomit all over my shoes. I couldn’t move. Walking—hell, even standing—when you can’t see a damn thing around you is a recipe for disaster. The pull to follow her was almost overwhelming.
Seconds after she turned the corner and the cathedral came into view, my vision shrank down to nothing for a heartbeat, and she was gone.
A single tear tumbles down my cheek. I open the prescription bottle and stare at the little white pills inside. What choice do I have? People go mad from lack of sleep.
My whisper is real. I’d bet my life on it. But if she continues to keep me up night after night, it won’t be long before Nolan has me committed. Or I commit myself.
Before I can fish out one of the tablets, someone knocks on my apartment door. Struggling out from under the weighted blanket, I swipe my phone from the cushion next to me, then check the peephole.
A man and a woman in matching black suits stand stiffly. I can feel their tension through the door. Slowly, I reach for the pepper spray hanging from a hook on the wall, check the chain, and flip the lock. “Can I help you?”
“Willow Saunders?” the woman asks. “I’m Dr. Hannah Smith and this is Special Agent Isaac Barton.” She holds up a badge in a small billfold. “We’re with the Agency for Uncovering Rare Anomalies, a branch of the National Security Agency.”
The NSA?
“Um, I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve never heard of the Agency for Uncovering Rare Anomalies.” I adjust my grip on the pepper spray. “And no one from the NSA should know my name.”
Special Agent Barton arches a brow. “You’ve been all over the dark web for weeks while logged into your UCSF staff account. Finding your name wasn’t difficult.”
Oh, shit.
“I specialize in mythology and the occult. All those queries were for a research paper.”
Can they hear the desperation in my tone? Or see the small tube of caustic spray in my hand? I should never have opened the door. Or put down my phone. Government agents carry guns, don’t they? And Barton looks like he’d have no problems using one. On me.
“Dr. Saunders—Willow—you don’t need to lie to us,” Dr. Smith says with a gentle smile. “We’re on your side. Perhaps we should talk inside?”
“It’s late. I think you should…come in?”
I have my hand on the chain when the words register.
“Wait. No. I’d like you to leave. I’m sorry. I’m really tired, and I can’t deal with this now. Good night, Dr. Smith. Mr. Barton.”
“Call me Hannah. Please.” Her brown eyes radiate compassion. “We believe you, Willow. You’re not delusional. Your whisper is very real and very,veryspecial.”
I look from her to her partner. Barton doesn’t smile, but I’m not sure why I ever thought he was threatening. More like anolder brother who isn’t sure what his sister has gotten herself into.
