Chapter 6: The Road to Ann Arbor

The interstate stretched ahead like a gray ribbon cutting through the October morning, each mile marker bringing them closer to answers Ethan wasn't sure he wanted to find. Maya sat in the passenger seat of his current Honda—a newer model than the one from the surveillance photo—her laptop balanced on her knees as she continued her digital archaeology of his forgotten past.

"I found more about the Whitmore Treatment Center," she said, breaking the silence that had settled over them after leaving Chicago's sprawl behind. "It's legitimate, been operating since 1987. Specializes in trauma-related memory disorders, dissociative conditions, that sort of thing."

Ethan kept his eyes on the road, but his knuckles were white against the steering wheel. "So Leo really could have been a patient there."

"It's possible. What's interesting is their treatment philosophy. They're big advocates of something called 'controlled memory recovery'—gradually helping patients recall suppressed traumatic events in a safe environment." Maya paused, scrolling through more information. "The kind of treatment someone with dissociative amnesia might need."

The phrase hung in the air between them. Dissociative amnesia. A clinical term for something Ethan had been desperately trying not to consider: that his memories hadn't been stolen by some elaborate conspiracy, but had been locked away by his own mind as protection against something too terrible to remember.

"There's something else," Maya continued, her voice careful. "I cross-referenced the Sunrise Youth Center fire with missing person reports from 2009. Ethan... your name appears in the Chicago police database."

The car swerved slightly as Ethan's attention snapped to her. "What do you mean?"

"Your parents reported you missing on October 12th, 2009. Three days before the fire. According to the report, you'd been having behavioral problems—skipping school, staying out all night, getting into fights. The report was closed on October 20th when you were found safe and returned to family custody."

October 12th to October 20th. Eight days that existed in official records but nowhere in Ethan's memory. Eight days that ended with a fire and two injured boys, one of whom had been erased so completely from his life that even now, driving toward the truth, he could barely accept the possibility of Leo's existence.

"How does a thirteen-year-old just disappear for eight days?" Ethan asked.

"Runaway kids end up in all sorts of places. Youth shelters, group homes, places like Sunrise." Maya's fingers moved across her keyboard. "I'm trying to access the full police report, but most juvenile records are sealed or expunged after a certain period."

They passed a sign: Ann Arbor - 47 miles. Less than an hour now until they reached the city that had somehow become central to Ethan's forgotten past. The brass key from the postcard sat heavy in his pocket, warm from his body heat and worn smooth from nervous handling.

"What if we're walking into a trap?" Maya asked suddenly. "What if Leo orchestrated all of this to get you here, away from Chicago, away from safety?"

It was a question that had been gnawing at Ethan since they'd left the city. The apology letter had felt genuine, raw with emotion and regret. But letters could be crafted, emotions could be feigned. He'd been manipulated for a week by someone with intimate knowledge of his life and apparently sophisticated skills in psychological warfare.

"Then we find out," Ethan said. "Together."

Maya reached over and squeezed his hand. "I've got your back. Whatever we find, whatever this is, you're not facing it alone."

The landscape gradually shifted from industrial sprawl to rolling farmland dotted with clusters of suburban development. Ann Arbor emerged slowly, first as distant water towers and radio antennas, then as shopping centers and residential neighborhoods that looked achingly familiar despite Ethan's certainty he'd never seen them before.

"Take the downtown exit," Maya said, consulting her phone's GPS. "The postcard showed the old downtown area."

Downtown Ann Arbor was a mixture of college town charm and urban renewal—historic buildings housing trendy restaurants and boutiques, tree-lined streets that managed to feel both quaint and cosmopolitan. Maya directed him through a series of turns until they found themselves on a street lined with mature maples, their leaves brilliant orange and red in the afternoon sun.

"There," Maya pointed to a solid brick building with "First National Bank of Washtenaw County" carved into its cornerstone. "That has to be it."

Ethan parked across the street, his hands shaking as he turned off the engine. The building looked exactly like the one on the postcard—same architectural details, same bronze doors, same sense of institutional permanence. But seeing it in person triggered something deeper than recognition. It felt like déjà vu, that disorienting sense of having experienced this exact moment before.

"You okay?" Maya asked, watching his face with concern.

"I've been here before," Ethan said quietly. "I don't remember it, but I've definitely been here before."

They approached the bank's entrance together, Ethan's hand instinctively moving to the key in his pocket. The interior was all polished marble and dark wood, designed to convey stability and trustworthiness. A receptionist directed them to the safe deposit box area, where a bank employee named Mrs. Rodriguez examined the key with professional interest.

"This is one of our older boxes," she said, leading them through a secure door into a vault lined with numbered metal rectangles. "We don't see many of these vintage keys anymore. Most people have upgraded to digital access."

Box 237 was in the far corner, its brass nameplate worn smooth by time. Mrs. Rodriguez inserted her master key and waited for Ethan to use his. The lock turned with a soft click that seemed to echo through the vault like a gunshot.

"I'll give you privacy," Mrs. Rodriguez said, withdrawing to the entrance. "Take all the time you need."

The safe deposit box was small, perhaps eight inches square and twelve inches deep. Inside was a single item: a manila envelope, thick with contents, with "For Ethan" written across the front in the same careful handwriting they'd come to know so well.

Ethan's hands trembled as he opened the envelope. Inside were photographs—dozens of them, chronicling what appeared to be a friendship between two boys who looked to be around twelve or thirteen years old. One was unmistakably a younger version of Ethan, but seeing these images felt like looking at a stranger who happened to share his face.

The other boy appeared in every photo. Thin, with sandy hair and an infectious grin that made even the serious younger Ethan smile. In some pictures they were at what looked like a carnival, sharing cotton candy and laughing at something off-camera. Others showed them in more institutional settings—cafeteria meals, group activities, what appeared to be therapy sessions.

"Jesus," Maya whispered, looking over his shoulder. "These are real. Look at the quality, the consistency of aging. These aren't staged or doctored."

At the bottom of the envelope was a single photograph that made Ethan's vision blur. It showed the two boys sitting on a hospital bed, both in medical gowns, both showing signs of smoke inhalation and minor burns. The younger Ethan had his arm around the other boy's shoulders, and they were both smiling despite their obvious injuries.

On the back of the photo, in different handwriting—younger, more rushed—was a message: "Best friends forever. No matter what happens, we'll always have each other. - E & L"

Ethan's legs gave out, and he had to grab the edge of the vault table for support. The handwriting was his own, thirteen years old and full of the earnest certainty that only children possessed. He had written those words. He had made that promise. He had lived those moments captured in dozens of photographs, and somehow, impossibly, he had forgotten all of it.

"There's more," Maya said gently, pulling additional items from the envelope.

A friendship bracelet, the kind made from embroidery floss in summer camp craft sessions, with "ETHAN" spelled out in blue letters. A ticket stub from a movie they'd apparently seen together. A hand-drawn map of what looked like the Sunrise Youth Center, with various locations marked in different colors and a route highlighted in red—an escape plan, complete with timing notations and guard schedules.

At the very bottom was a letter, written on lined notebook paper in the same young handwriting:

*Leo, If you're reading this, it means something happened and they separated us like they threatened. I'm leaving this here because I promised we'd always find each other, no matter what. I don't care what they say about forgetting and moving on. I don't want to forget you. You're my brother, and brothers don't abandon each other. If I can't remember, if they make me forget, then you have to help me remember. Use these pictures, use whatever you have to, but don't let them erase us. I'll come back for you. I promise.

• Ethan*

The letter fell from Ethan's nerveless fingers. This wasn't just evidence of a forgotten friendship—this was proof that he had anticipated the memory loss, had tried to prepare for it, had made contingency plans to preserve what was about to be taken from him.

"Oh, Ethan," Maya said softly, and he realized he was crying.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years of living a life built on a foundation of carefully constructed amnesia, while somewhere out there, Leo had remembered everything. Had kept every promise Ethan had made and then forgotten. Had waited patiently for the brother who had sworn never to abandon him to remember their bond.

"He wasn't lying," Ethan whispered. "About any of it. We really were friends. Best friends. And I really did forget him."

As they gathered the photographs and mementos, Ethan felt the weight of accumulated guilt pressing down on him. Leo's campaign of psychological terror suddenly looked different through this new lens—not the actions of a deranged stalker, but the desperate attempts of an abandoned friend to restore what had been stolen from both of them.

Outside the bank, the afternoon sun felt too bright, the ordinary sounds of traffic and conversation too loud. The world looked the same, but Ethan felt fundamentally changed. The man who had entered the bank an hour ago had been a victim, confused and frightened by forces beyond his understanding. The man who emerged was something else entirely—someone with a debt to pay, a promise to keep, and a past that demanded acknowledgment.

"What now?" Maya asked as they sat in the car, the envelope of recovered memories between them.

Ethan pulled out his phone and opened the Instagram app. @TheWatcherReturns had been silent since the apology letter, but as he watched, a new message appeared: "Thank you for remembering. Room 237 at the Riverside Inn. I'm waiting."

"Now we go see Leo," Ethan said, starting the engine. "And I figure out how to apologize for fifteen years of broken promises."

The drive to the Riverside Inn took them through residential neighborhoods that felt increasingly familiar, past landmarks that triggered flashes of recognition too brief to grasp but too persistent to ignore. Somewhere in this city was the place where Ethan Hayes had learned to trust completely, to love unconditionally, and to make promises he'd believed nothing could force him to break.

Somewhere in this city, Leo was waiting for the brother who had finally come home.