“My name is Charley. What’s yours?” she asked, trying to break the ice.
The guy looked down at her. Again, he had that blank expression. And instead of answering her question, he asked, “When does it open?”
“We open in a few weeks.”
He let out a breath that sounded like defeat.
“That building…” He paused, removing his hat and raking a shaky hand through his hair. “That building should’ve been demolished years ago.”
Charley’s eyebrows shot upward. “Demolished? Why?”
But the man shook his head, stepping back as if he’d said too much.
“Just… be careful, ma’am,” he muttered. “Some places weren’t meant to be reopened, especially where secrets are buried.”
“What does that mean?” Charley asked, feeling very confused and concerned.
He didn’t answer. He turned sharply and started walking down the sidewalk, his pace quickening, and his shoulders hunched like he was trying to outrun something only he could see.
“Wait!” Charley called after him and took a step to follow, but stopped when he didn’t acknowledge her.
She stood there staring at his retreating back.What the hell was that about?Was he confused? Was it trauma talking? Was there something he actually knew about the building’s past? As far as she knew, the previous tenants were all medical companies.
She was still staring at the stranger when a large white van pulled into the lot, tires crunching over gravel. Seeing the lettering on the side, it was the cabinet installers. They were early. Not that she would complain.
Charley exhaled sharply, trying to pull herself back into work mode as the driver climbed out.
“You Charley?” the man called.
She forced a smile, still unsettled by the stranger’s presence. “Yeah. That’s me.”
As Charley unlocked the front door and stepped inside with the cabinet installers trailing behind her. Her nerves were still unsettled. Her mind wasn’t on the installation plan. It was still replaying the stranger’s comments, or was it some sort of a warning?
That building should’ve been demolished years ago.
A sudden chill raced down her spine. She couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t just some random encounter. Something was off. And her gut was telling her not to ignore it.
CHAPTER SIX
The glass of bourbon in Doug Marwood’s hand caught the last streaks of dying sunlight as it filtered through the wall of windows across the room. His penthouse office sat high above the San Francisco skyline. It was sleek, sterile, and curated down to the last detail. Modern artwork and framed awards lining his office walls—distinguished research plaques, pharmaceutical innovation medals, magazine covers calling him brilliant, a visionary, a pioneer of neurological intervention.
He was a man who thrived on control. It was his greatest weapon. But the paper in his hand made his knuckles tighten, a rare fracture in the calm he’d built his life around.
It was nothing more than a single white sheet of paper, delivered inside a blank envelope that had appeared in his mailbox earlier that day mixed with the rest of his mail. The message staring back at him on the paper had caused a bit of unease. But it was the San Diego postmark that made his blood run cold.
He leaned back in the high-backed leather chair, swirling the bourbon slowly as he stared at the message for the hundredth time.I remember more than I’m supposed to.Whoever sent it wanted to make a point, and it worked.
Doug’s jaw ticked as his thoughts drifted, his mind slipping back to six years ago when he still lived and worked in San Diego. Those were the glory days. He had been at the helm of a program that could’ve revolutionized trauma therapy for returning soldiers with post-traumatic stress syndrome.
Project EchoFall.
It had been conducted with government authorization, quietly overseen by a small division within the Department of Defense. Officially, it didn’t exist. Funding was routed through layered grants and shell research partnerships. Non-disclosure agreements were airtight. Only a handful of government and military officials even knew the full scope of what he was attempting.
And what he was attempting had been extraordinary.
Project EchoFall was designed to disrupt memory reconsolidation in combat veterans suffering from severe, treatment-resistant PTSD. Using a calculated combination of neuro-blocking pharmaceuticals, targeted electrical stimulation, and controlled re-exposure therapy, the goal had been to interrupt the emotional charge of traumatic memory at the neurological level.
Three volunteers had stepped forward. All decorated soldiers who had come back from a mission were shattered in ways no one had been able to reach, each one drowning in the aftermath of trauma and severe PTSD.
