Margo, my therapist, jots down notes like she always does during our sessions, while my mind is still on the events from earlier today.


    Konstantin’s words continue to ring in my head. The way he looked at me like he has any idea what I’ve been through, like he’s experienced the same shit.


    But there’s no way he knows. He can’t. A man like Konstantin has never known what it means to truly suffer, because he’s the one who makes everyone suffer instead.


    I put him out of my mind, or I try to. I don’t have the luxury of being distracted, not when my brother’s life is on the line.


    The most important thing is I got the job.


    That’s what matters. Not what happened between us. Not the way my skin still burns from his touch. Not the way he speaks like he owns every secret I’ve spent years hiding.


    What matters is that now, I have ess. To him. To his office. To everything he doesn’t want anyone to see.


    If he’s the one who framed Nate, if he has the evidence tucked away somewhere, hiding behind encrypted files and private safes, I’ll find it. I have to. Failure is not an option. It never has been.


    Because Nate is rotting in a cell for something he didn’t do. Because I owe him everything. And this is the only way I know how to repay him.


    I didn’t even suspect Konstantin at first. Not until my boss helped me dig into Tim, Nate’s partner, and found the rot—trail after trail leading to payoffs, suspicious case closures, connections to the Russians, to other low-level crime syndicates. Then I learned from a source on the street that there were rumors that the cop was gonna talk to the feds and my brother’s partner conveniently ends up dead.


    But Konstantin isn’t stupid. If he’s keeping evidence, it’ll be well hidden. I realize I may be grasping at straws and I may find nothing, but I have to try. If I can bring the prosecutor the evidence that Konstantin was the one who ordered a hit on Tim, then my brother can go free.


    Luckily for me, I have an IT friend at the bureau who can hack just about anything. Riley started at the FBI around the same time I did. Brilliant, fast-thinking, and dangerously good at anything involving a keyboard. She’s cracked data that’s taken full task forces weeks to ess.


    And more importantly? She adores Nate. Always has. But he never saw her that way.


    Once she knows what I’m doing, she’ll help me. I know she will. She won’t even blink before jumping in headfirst.


    All I need is a sliver of data. A single file. One connection. And the rest will fall into ce.


    I just have to be careful. Konstantin may y the part of the seductive monster with ease, but I know better than to let my guard down. He’s charming, yet lethal, and definitely not someone to underestimate. The man’s always watching.


    And if he even suspects why I’m really here? This game I’m ying won’t just cost me my career. It’ll cost me my life.


    “So, about that dream…” Margo says gently, pulling me out of my spiral.


    My eyes snap to hers, the calm behind her red-trimmed sses anchoring me for a second. “Yeah, sorry. What about it?”


    I definitely zoned out. Worse than usual.


    “I was asking how long you’ve been having it again?”


    I exhale, jaw tight. “A few weeks. It started up again right after Nate got arrested.”


    That dream. That fucking dream.


    Except it’s not. It’s too vivid. Too sharp around the edges. It feels like a memory I should already know. Like it’s right there, just behind a locked door I can’t kick down.


    “I keep seeing it. Same closet. Same gunshot. But the faces are always gone, like my brain won’t let me see what I’m supposed to.”


    “You were young. That’s normal,” Margo reassures me.


    “I know.” I shake my head.


    I had to be under seven. But Nate swears nothing like that happened. And my mom? She doesn’t remember either. Then again, she was always high, so I doubt she would.


    “Maybe it is just a dream,” I add. “Maybe my mind’s ying tricks on me.”


    But…something in me knows it happened. I felt it. That kind of fear? You don’t invent that out of thin air.


    “Have you recalled any more details?”


    “No.” My voicees out t. Defeated. “Same every time. I’m in the closet. Two men yelling. My mom’s crying. One man gets shot. I can still hear the gunshot like it just happened—like it’s happening right now in this room.”


    I press my fingers to my temples, squeezing hard.


    Come on,e on. There has to be something.


    Shutting my eyes, I force myself back into the scene. Back into the dark, into the cold floor under my knees. The closet door cracked open just enough for me to see Mom’s bedroom. The shouting. The sound of someone begging. A sh. A bang.


    And then…


    Nothing.


    No face. No eyes. Not even a goddamn jawline. Just that same hand reaching toward me. A man’srge hand, maybe blood on the knuckles, maybe not. My child self reaches for him…then it’s all gone.


    Fuck!


    “Somewhere inside me, I know I need to remember. I just don’t know why.”


    That feeling, it gnaws at me. Like the memory alone could unravel everything.


    Margo nods thoughtfully. “Emilia…I know you’ve beening here for a while now, and I know we’ve hit walls with this memory. Traditional talk therapy can only go so far with certain kinds of trauma.”


    “So, what are you saying?”


    “There are other strategies we can try. Have you ever considered hypnotherapy?”


    “Like…hypnosis?”


    “In a clinical setting, yes. With trauma-informed guidance. It’s not like the movies. You’re not unconscious, not out of control. You’re rxed. Your mind bes more receptive, and sometimes, those buried pieces? They start to surface.”


    I sit there, chewing on the idea.


    “Alternatively, you can explore EMDR, or somatic processing. Both have shown results in uncovering repressed memories, especially those tied to early trauma.”


    “What exactly is EMDR?” I fidget with the hem of my sleeve. “And somatic processing? I’ve heard the terms, but…”


    She smiles, calm and reassuring. “EMDR stands for Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. It’s a method where a therapist uses bteral stimtion, usually guided eye movements or taps, to help the brain reprocess traumatic memories. It doesn’t erase them, but it can reduce the emotional intensity. Sometimes it helps unlock pieces of those memories that got stuck.”


    “Okay…” I nod slowly. “And the other one?”


    “Somatic processing is more body-based. It’s focused on the idea that trauma doesn’t just live in the mind; it lives in the body. So instead of just talking about what happened, it helps you tune into the physical sensations connected to those memories. Sometimes that’s where the missing details are. Trapped in tension, posture, or how your body responds to certain triggers.”


    I absorb her words, trying to picture myself doing either of those things. Sitting still while my eyes follow a finger. Letting my body lead the way instead of my head.


    It sounds…weird. But nothing else has worked, and if there’s even a chance that one of these methods could help me remember what happened that night—who was in that house, who pulled that trigger—I should take it.


    Because this dream isn’t just a nightmare anymore. It’s a key. I don’t know to what, but I know it means something.


    “Would it work?”


    “There are no guarantees. But if this is something real, if your mind is trying to protect you from it, it might be the only way to find the missing pieces.”


    My fingers knot in myp, the burden of it all bearing down. “I’ll think about it.”


    “Well, let me give you a card for a friend who specializes in all of these things, and you can decide what to do with that.”


    “Alright.” I take the card from her outstretched hand.


    I’m not sure what’s holding me back. Maybe it’s fear. Or maybe my mind is protecting me for a reason.


    Because whatever’s buried there…it was never meant to be dug up.