Chapter 5: An Apology in the Dark

The Chicago Police Department's 18th District station smelled like burnt coffee and industrial disinfectant. Detective Sarah Reeves looked exactly like what Maya had warned him to expect—tired, overworked, and deeply skeptical of civilians who walked in with stories that sounded like they belonged in a psychological thriller.

"Let me get this straight," Detective Reeves said, flipping through the printed screenshots Maya had organized into a neat folder. "Someone is claiming you were childhood friends, sending you personal items you don't remember owning, and impersonating you at a psychiatric facility in Michigan."

"That's correct," Ethan said, trying to keep his voice steady. The fluorescent lights in the interview room were giving him a headache, or maybe it was the stress of trying to explain something he didn't fully understand himself.

"And you have no memory of this alleged friendship or the incident they're referencing."

"None at all."

Detective Reeves set the folder aside and leaned back in her chair. "Mr. Hayes, I've seen a lot of stalking cases. Usually, there's some point of contact between the victim and the perpetrator. An ex-relationship, a workplace conflict, some kind of interaction that triggers the obsessive behavior. What you're describing..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "It's unusual."

"Unusual how?" Maya asked from her seat beside Ethan.

"The level of personal information your stalker possesses suggests either a significant prior relationship or access to sealed records. The fact that they're able to impersonate Mr. Hayes at a medical facility indicates sophisticated identity theft capabilities. This isn't some amateur with a grudge."

Ethan felt a flicker of hope. Finally, someone in authority was taking this seriously, treating it as the professional operation it clearly was.

"What can you do?" he asked.

"I can file a report and forward the Instagram information to our cybercrime unit. They might be able to trace the account creation even if the current routing is obscured. As for the medical impersonation, that's interstate fraud. I'll contact the FBI field office and see if they want to take a look."

It wasn't much, but it was more than Ethan had expected. At least now there was an official record, a paper trail that proved he wasn't losing his mind.

"In the meantime," Detective Reeves continued, "I'd recommend staying somewhere else for a few days. If this person is escalating to direct contact, your apartment might not be safe."

The drive back to Ethan's building was quiet, both of them lost in their own thoughts. Maya had already offered her spare bedroom, and Ethan was seriously considering taking her up on it. The thought of spending another night in his apartment, waiting for the next envelope to appear under his door, made his skin crawl.

"At least now it's official," Maya said as they pulled into the parking garage. "The police are involved, the FBI might take a look. We're not dealing with this alone anymore."

Ethan nodded, but something nagged at him. The detective's words about sophisticated identity theft and sealed records kept echoing in his head. What if Leo—if that was even his real name—wasn't just some disturbed individual with hacking skills? What if there really was a connection Ethan couldn't remember?

The elevator ride to the fifteenth floor felt longer than usual. Every floor that passed made Ethan more aware of how exposed he was, how easy it would be for someone to be waiting in the hallway, in the stairwell, behind any of the dozen doors between the elevator and his apartment.

But the hallway was empty, just as it had been every other day for the past three years. Mrs. Patterson's door was closed, no sign of the mail mix-up that had started this nightmare. Everything looked normal, safe, predictable.

Ethan's apartment was exactly as they'd left it—Maya's laptop still open on the kitchen table, the stack of evidence they'd been organizing still spread across the counter. He moved through the space methodically, checking windows, verifying that nothing had been disturbed. The paranoia that had become his constant companion over the past week was starting to feel like a reasonable response to an unreasonable situation.

"I'm going to pack a bag," he told Maya. "You're right. I shouldn't stay here tonight."

"Good choice. I'll order us some dinner while you pack. Thai okay?"

Ethan was pulling clothes from his dresser when he heard Maya's sharp intake of breath from the living room.

"Ethan," she called, her voice tight with tension. "You need to see this."

He found her standing by the front door, staring down at the floor. Another envelope, pristine white against the dark hardwood. But this time, neither of them had heard it arrive. They'd been in the apartment for less than ten minutes, had never been more than a room apart. Yet somehow, silently, another message had been delivered.

"How is that possible?" Ethan whispered.

Maya was already taking photos, documenting everything before they touched the envelope. "Maybe they slipped it under while we were in the elevator. The timing would have to be perfect, but it's possible."

But even as she said it, Ethan could see the doubt in her eyes. The envelope looked fresh, as if it had just been placed there moments ago. And the handwriting on the front was different this time—less controlled, more urgent. His name was scrawled across the paper as if written in haste or anger.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, but the message was longer than any of the previous notes:

*Ethan,

I know you went to the police today. I saw you leaving the station with your friend. I want you to know that I don't blame you for that. You're scared, confused. You don't understand what's happening because they made sure you wouldn't.

But I need you to listen to me now, really listen, because we're running out of time.

I never wanted to frighten you. I never wanted to make you feel hunted or paranoid. All I wanted was for you to remember. To remember me, to remember what we meant to each other, to remember what really happened that night.

The doctors, your parents, everyone involved—they convinced you that forgetting was healing. That moving on meant leaving the past behind. But they were wrong. Some things are too important to forget, even when remembering hurts.

I spent three years in that place after the fire. Three years of therapy and medication and people telling me that my anger was unhealthy, that I needed to let go of the past. But they didn't understand. They couldn't understand what it was like to lose everything and have everyone tell you it was for the best.

You were my brother in every way that mattered. We promised each other we'd never let them separate us. But when they offered you a way out, a clean slate, you took it. You chose to forget me.

I'm not angry anymore, Ethan. I was, for a long time. But watching you these past few days, seeing how lost and frightened you are, I realize that you're as much a victim as I am. They stole your memories, your past, pieces of who you were supposed to be.

The fire wasn't your fault. It was never your fault. But what happened after—the cover-up, the memory suppression, the way they erased everything—that's on all of us who stayed silent.

There are people looking for both of us now. People who have a lot to lose if the truth about Sunrise comes out. I came back to warn you, to protect you, even though you don't remember needing protection.

I'm sorry for scaring you. I'm sorry for making you question your sanity. I thought if I could just trigger the right memory, make you remember enough to understand, we could face this together.

But I was wrong. And now it might be too late for both of us.

I'm sorry, Ethan. For everything.*

The letter wasn't signed, but it didn't need to be. The raw emotion bleeding through every word, the intimate knowledge of events Ethan couldn't recall, the reference to Sunrise—it all pointed to the same impossible conclusion.

Leo was real. The fire was real. And somewhere in Ethan's carefully constructed life was a hole where three years of memories should have been.

"Jesus," Maya whispered, reading over his shoulder. "This changes everything."

Ethan's hands were shaking as he set the letter down. "He says there are people looking for us. People who want to keep the truth about Sunrise buried."

"What do you think happened there?"

"I don't know." But even as he said it, fragments were stirring in the back of his mind. The smell of smoke. The sound of breaking glass. Someone screaming his name from very far away. "But I'm starting to think the only way to find out is to go to Michigan."

Maya looked at him as if he'd suggested jumping off the roof. "Absolutely not. This could be exactly what he wants—to lure you away from your support system, away from safety."

"Then why apologize? Why tell me he's sorry for scaring me if the whole point was to get me to Ann Arbor?"

"Because he's manipulating you. This letter, this whole campaign—it's designed to make you feel sympathy for him, to make you believe you owe him something."

But Ethan was already moving toward his bedroom, toward the overnight bag he'd been packing. "Maybe I do owe him something. Maybe we both deserve to know the truth."

"Ethan, stop." Maya caught his arm. "Think about this rationally. A week ago, you'd never heard of Leo or Sunrise or any of this. Now you're ready to drive to Michigan based on a letter from someone who's been stalking you?"

"It's not just the letter." Ethan pulled free, continuing to pack. "It's everything. The photos, the personal items, the medical records. Either this is the most elaborate con in history, or there really is a part of my past I can't remember."

"And if you're wrong? If this is all an elaborate trap?"

Ethan paused, a shirt halfway into his bag. "Then I guess I'll find out. But Maya, what if I'm right? What if there really was a cover-up? What if I really did abandon someone who needed me?"

"Even if that's true, it doesn't mean you owe him anything now. You were thirteen years old. Whatever happened, whatever choices were made, you were a child."

"So was he." Ethan zipped the bag closed. "And according to this letter, he spent three years paying for choices he didn't make either."

Maya was quiet for a long moment, and Ethan could see the internal struggle playing out across her face. Her protective instincts warred with her loyalty, her professional skepticism battled with her faith in his judgment.

"If you're really going to do this," she said finally, "you're not going alone."

"Maya—"

"No arguments. If Leo is telling the truth, if there really are people who want to keep this buried, then two people are safer than one. Besides," she managed a weak smile, "someone needs to be there to document whatever we find. Digital forensics, remember?"

As they prepared to leave Chicago behind, Ethan felt a strange mixture of dread and anticipation. For the first time in a week, he was taking action instead of simply reacting. He was choosing to walk toward the darkness instead of running from it.

But deep down, he knew there would be no going back. Whatever they found in Michigan, whatever truths lay buried in his forgotten past, they would change everything. The carefully ordered life he'd built over the past fifteen years was already crumbling, and he was about to help demolish what remained.

Outside his apartment window, Chicago glittered in the darkness, unaware that one of its own was about to disappear into a past he'd never known existed. Somewhere in that vast cityscape, or perhaps already on the road to Michigan, Leo was waiting.

The boy who claimed to remember everything Ethan had forgotten. The friend who insisted they'd made promises to each other that only one of them had kept. The ghost who'd haunted his present to reclaim their shared past.

Tomorrow, they would drive toward Ann Arbor and whatever answers awaited them there. Tonight, for the last time, Ethan Hayes slept as a man with no secrets, no buried trauma, no forgotten debts.

By tomorrow night, he might not recognize the person he used to be.