1
The patient on the bed should’ve been dead.
The faint beeping of life support machines blended into the sterile air of Portland’s Legacy Emanuel Medical Center as Dr. Adelaide Forester leaned over the young man’s motionless body.
She stood at the foot of the hospital bed, her eyes fixed on the patient—the lone survivor of a brutal crime.
Outside, the relentless Oregon wind howled through the sleeping city, slamming rain against the windows. The storm carried rhythmic violence, battering the glass as if demanding entry. Rain streaked down the window in crooked lines, blurring the city lights into smears of gold and red, like a watercolor left out in a storm. The clock dragged toward midnight in a case that already felt wrong.
She glanced at the monitors. Then back at him.
Gunshot wound to the head.
A bullet had torn through his skull, missing anything vital by mere millimeters.
She knew he should have died instantly.
And yet, here he was.
Alive. Silent.
She studied his face. Pale. Slack. Too still. Something about him felt borrowed, yes—but not just borrowed. As if whatever had lived inside him before had already moved on. She couldn’t quite pinpoint what unsettled her.
It wasn’t how he laid there motionless. Or the way the machines breathed for him, barely looking alive. It was the fact that he had been found next to a dead man, holding a gun.
Her pulse picked up.
Something wasn’t right.
A shift in the room’s air yanked her attention toward the doorway.
“Ada.”
Detective Dan Fletcher stepped in, rain dripping from his coat. He shook it off like a man who didn’t know when to stop moving. He was broad-shouldered, with the kind of frame built for a bar fight, not a desk job. His dark hair always looked tousled—like he ran a hand through it more than he should—and a few days of stubble shaded his jaw. But it was his eyes that told the truth: tired, blue, and full of someone who’d seen too much and kept showing up anyway.
Dr. Forester arched a brow. “You’re going to ruin the floors.”
She wasn’t imposing, but there was a quiet authority in her voice—steady, assured—that made him look at her with a mix of respect and something closer to admiration. She’d earned both, after all. She was the one who had helped piece his mind back together after the crash—after the high-speed chase, the sirens, the spinning lights, and the silence that followed. Her silver-streaked auburn hair was pinned back, though a few strands always escaped—like her instinct to chase a question, no matter how deeply it was buried. Lines traced the edges of her green eyes, but her gaze was sharp, always scanning for what others overlooked. Fletcher offered her a tired smile as he stepped further inside. “I’ll buy the janitor a coffee.”
Forester exhaled. “I didn’t retire for this, you know. I could be somewhere warm, drinking something with an umbrella in it. But you called.”
“And here you are,” Fletcher said, smiling as he flipped open his notebook. “I owe you one.”
She gave him a look. He wasn’t wrong.
He stopped at a blank page, pen hovering, his gaze flicking toward the bed. “What’s your read?”
Dr. Forester followed his eyes. “I’m not his doctor,” she said quietly. “But he’s stable. For now.”
Fletcher exhaled sharply. “Nothing else?”
She sighed. “You always need solid ground when there’s nothing but quicksand.”
He gave a slow nod, the motion barely more than a twitch—but the weight in his eyes didn’t shift.
Dr. Forester met his gaze. “This injury should’ve killed him.” She gestured toward the still body. “The bullet passed through his skull, somehow missing every critical structure.”
Fletcher frowned, crossing his arms. “I guess he’s lucky.”
“Well,” she paused, “It’s miraculous.”
For a moment, the room fell silent, except for the steady pulse of the monitors and the storm’s persistent drumming against the window.
“Have you identified him yet?” Dr. Forester asked, nodding toward the patient.
Fletcher exhaled, rubbing his neck. “No. All we know is that he’s related to the victim.”
Dr. Forester glanced at Fletcher, noting the tightness in his jaw, the frustration brimming just beneath the surface.
“And the man he was found with? The one who was shot?”
“Frank Clarke,” he said. “Fifty-five years old. No criminal record, no immediate family. He was found shot point-blank in the chest—deep in the woods, inside a cabin miles from anything. The kind of place people go to disappear.”
Fletcher flipped a page in his notebook. “We ran the address on his ID—some abandoned warehouse outside Portland. Totally bogus. No utilities, no owner on record. Another dead end.”
Dr. Forester frowned. “So the ID’s fake.”
“Yeah,” Fletcher muttered. “Still trying to confirm the name on the driver’s license, but the guy lived like a ghost. And the cabin?” He shook his head. “That place told its own story.”
Settled near the Columbia River, the cabin reeked of mildew and smoke. Damp timber groaned with every shift of wind, the silence inside almost unnatural—like the place had held its breath for years. A single cot sagged beneath a narrow window, the quilt stiff with grime. Dusty shelves. A cracked basin beside a rusted tub. Mismatched furniture, crates for storage, yellowed lace still hanging on a crooked table.
One room. No power. No plumbing.
Not just a scene. A cell. A secret. Maybe both. It felt less like someone had lived there—and more like someone had been kept there.
Dr. Forester felt her stomach tighten as she studied his face. Something in Fletcher’s tone, the way his eyes briefly flicked away—it wasn’t just about the murder. It was what the scene had suggested.
Confinement. Loneliness. Maybe worse.
A close-range execution.
Not an accident.
Murder.
She frowned. “Who called it in?”
“A male caller—said his name was Ronnie. Then the line cut out mid-sentence. Dispatch replayed it.” Fletcher’s voice tightened. “A gunshot.”
A name. A gunshot. Then silence.
Dr. Forester felt a prickle of unease. “And the gun?”
“Found in his hand,” Fletcher said, looking at the patient, his voice flat. “A .22 pistol. Same gun. But something at the scene doesn’t add up.”
Dr. Forester studied the young man again, the cold slither of unease trailing up her spine.
Something wasn’t right.
A gunshot wound to the head, but no clear motive. A dead man with no family, shot point-blank. And a 911 call from someone named Ronnie—a voice that vanished with a gunshot before dispatch could get anything else.
Now, the only person who could explain it was lying in a hospital bed, locked inside his own mind.
She turned back to Fletcher. “You think he’s Ronnie?”
Fletcher exhaled. “Maybe. But until he wakes up and tells us himself...” He shook his head. “We’ve got nothing. And the longer he stays under, the colder this case gets.”
A silence settled between them.
The storm outside rattled the windows, the wind howling as if wanting to speak for the victim.
“He should be dead,” she murmured, glancing at the bed. “But he’s not.”
Fletcher’s voice was low. “Yeah. Which means he’s the only one who can tell us what really happened.”
She hesitated for a second, her words caught somewhere between her mind and her mouth.
Finally, she said, “This won’t be a straightforward case.”
Fletcher’s gaze softened. “I’m not asking you to treat him, Ada. I just need someone who understands how minds like his work.”
Forester hesitated, her fingers drumming lightly against her notepad. “I’m retired, Dan. If he were my patient, I couldn’t even have this conversation. I specialized in neuropsychology, not forensic psychiatry. If you need a forensic psychiatrist—”
“I don’t need a forensic anything. I need you. No formal records, no patient files—just your gut.”
She appreciated his confidence, though doubt about the patient lying there in bed still lingered in her mind.
“Alright. I’ll take a look. But I’m not making promises, Dan.”
She wasn’t his doctor. Just a witness to the impossible, trying to make sense of what didn’t want to be understood.
Fletcher nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “That’s all I need. You think he’ll talk?”
“If he regains consciousness without permanent damage, maybe. But recovery from something like this—physically and emotionally—takes time. And even then, there’s a chance he won’t remember anything.”
“I don’t want to think about that,” Fletcher said and let out a heavy sigh.
Dr. Forester tilted her head, instinctively resisting the way Fletcher always tried to hurry the process. “What about family? Anything that might tell us who he is?”
Fletcher shook his head. “We’ve scoured databases, put out feelers. Nothing. I even had the guys check those family tree websites...you know?”
“Genealogy?” Dr. Forester offered.
“Yeah, those! Not even a hint. It’s like he dropped off the face of the earth. He could be our caller, Ronnie, but until we know for sure, we’re calling him Adam, and the victim is the only family he had.”
“Not John Doe?” she asked, surprised by the deviation from protocol.
“Adam feels... more personal.”
Dr. Forester let the name roll through her mind. The first man, she thought—but beyond that, it offered nothing. No clues. No anchor.
“Is there anything the doctors can do right now?” Fletcher asked, his impatience bleeding into his tone.
“Keep him alive,” she replied. “But until he wakes up, we’re working blind. All we can do is wait.”
She glanced at the motionless body again.
Fletcher’s fingers drummed against the metal bedframe. “Well, when he does, I call you.” He hesitated, then muttered, “And if he doesn’t…we’ll still need answers.”
“Please do,” she said, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to be part of what came next.
Fletcher lingered for a moment longer, then turned and left, his boots striking the linoleum in a steady rhythm.
The sound echoed down the sterile hallway, fading into silence as he disappeared.
Dr. Forester exhaled, alone with the man whose life clung to the thinnest thread.
She looked down at him.
“Why did you shoot?”
A sudden gust of wind rattled the glass—sharp, sudden, almost like an answer. Or a warning.
2
She told herself she’d left it all behind.
Dr. Adelaide Forester stood at the bay window of her Arch Cape beach house, staring at the restless sea. Gray waves rolled onto the shore, each one devouring the last, erasing it as if it had never been.
She exhaled slowly, pressing her palm against the cool glass.
The rain was steady, rhythmic. It should have calmed her. It usually did.
She had moved here after retirement. Decades as lead neuropsychologist at Legacy Emanuel Medical Center had left trauma clinging to her like a second skin. She had told herself she needed stillness, a place where the past couldn’t chase her. A house by the water had seemed like the answer—something untouched by the ghosts of her career.
And for a while, it had worked. The crash of the waves, the salt in the air—it was predictable. Orderly. A rhythm that didn’t ask anything of her.
Lately, the silence had grown heavier—like an old habit creeping back in. Today, it stirred things she’d buried, and now the case was pulling her back. With a slow inhale, she turned from the window, crossing the room to where her phone lay on the counter. Fletcher would have updates by now. And she needed them.
She scrolled through her contacts until she found him. Her thumb hovered over the call button.
Maybe she should let it go. Maybe the hospital had already stopped believing he’d wake up.
She closed her eyes, inhaled, and pressed the button.
The line rang twice before his voice broke through.
“Fletcher.”
“Hi, Dan.”
A pause.
Then, “I knew you’d call.” Dr. Forester’s hand tightened, but it wasn’t surprise that hit her. It was dread. “Any updates on Adam?”
Another pause. Longer this time.
Unspoken frustration hummed beneath the silence.
“No change,” Fletcher said finally. “Still out. His doctor’s got nothing.”
“Have they run any additional scans?” she asked, pressing her fingers to her temple. “It’s been days, Dan. Something’s got to give.”
“The neurologist says the MRI looks the same. No swelling, no new activity. They’re calling it… what’s the word? Spontaneous recovery.”
Dr. Forester let out a dry, humorless laugh.
“That’s not a diagnosis. That’s a prayer with a stethoscope.”
Fletcher sighed. “You think I like sitting around waiting for him to wake up? We’ve got no ID, no leads. Just a goddamn coma and a dead guy.”
She softened her tone. “I know. But I can’t shake the feeling there’s more to this. Something about his injuries, the cabin—it doesn’t sit right.”
Fletcher didn’t respond right away. She could hear the faint clink of ice in a glass—bourbon, probably.
“You’re not wrong,” he admitted finally. “But without him to tell us what happened, we’re stuck. The scene’s a mess—no witnesses, no clear evidence. Just… a guy in a hospital bed with a hole in his skull and a mystery 911 call.”
Dr. Forester’s grip on the phone tightened. “If he doesn’t wake up soon, we might lose our chance to figure out what happened. The longer he’s unconscious, the less likely he’ll remember anything.”
“You always were the optimist,” Fletcher said, and she could hear the smirk in his voice.
“Hardly.”
A silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken things.
Ten years ago, Fletcher had been her patient. A high-speed chase, a wreck, a traumatic brain injury that should have ended his career. It didn’t. He had clawed his way back, defying every expectation. He wasn’t supposed to survive.
Neither was Adam.
Maybe that was why this case was clinging to her.
Fletcher’s voice broke the quiet. “You good, Ada?”
She hesitated.
Then, “I’m fine.”
The lie settled between them, unchallenged.
“Stay with me and Ellie while we work through this,” he offered. “Save yourself the drive.”
She hesitated again.
She had built this quiet life on the coast to escape things like this — the uncertainty, the cases that crept under her skin and refused to let go. But the pull of this one was stronger than the peace she’d tried to claim.
“Thanks, Dan. I’ll think about it—but I’ll swing by tomorrow,” she said.
He didn’t press. “Call me when you get in.”
She ended the call and looked back at the window.
The tide had rolled out, but the waves kept coming.
By morning, the storm had passed, but the sky still hung low with heavy clouds.
Dr. Forester’s drive into Portland was quiet, the hum of her RAV4 broken only by the occasional tap of her fingers against the steering wheel.
She replayed Adam’s case over in her mind. The gun. The dead man. The 911 call. The bullet that should have killed him—but didn’t. And the voice that vanished with a gunshot. Something about it all felt rehearsed. As if someone had planned it to be confusing.
It didn’t make sense.
She pulled into the parking garage of Legacy Emanuel Medical Center, the structure looming over her, cold and impersonal.
Inside, the hospital smelled the same as always—disinfectant, stale coffee, too much loss. It hadn’t changed in years. Neither had the feeling that some ghosts were institutional.
The ICU was a world of beeping monitors and hushed voices, where time slowed, and everyone knew life hung in the balance. A nurse greeted her at the station.
“Morning, Dr. Forester.”
She nodded. “Any changes?”
The nurse hesitated. “No significant changes. Vitals are stable. Neurologist is scheduled for another round later today, but…”
“But we’re in a holding pattern,” Dr. Forester finished for her.
The nurse nodded. “Pretty much. Do you think he’ll wake up soon?”
Dr. Forester’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I wish I could say yes. But with head trauma, it’s impossible to predict. Sometimes it’s days, sometimes weeks, sometimes…”
She trailed off.
Unwilling to voice the worst-case scenario.
“He’s young,” the nurse offered. “That’s got to count for something, right?”
Dr. Forester managed a small, tired smile. “It does. Let’s hope it’s enough.”
Inside Adam’s room, the hum of machines filled the space.
She studied his face, searching for something—anything—that could explain why he was here, why he had survived, what he had seen in that cabin.
Nothing.
Just a body waiting for a name.
She stepped closer. For a split second, she thought she saw his eyelid twitch—but it was just the machine’s rhythm playing tricks.
She looked at him, whispering.
“Who are you?”
No response.
Not today.
But she would keep coming back until there was.
Dr. Forester turned and walked toward the door.
The rain had started again, tapping against the window like fingers drumming a message she wasn’t ready to understand. Or didn’t want to.
3
It had been weeks. Weeks of silence, of waiting, of checking his vitals with no change. But today—something was different.
The sharp antiseptic smell hit her as Dr. Forester stepped through the ICU doors, familiar yet jarring after so many visits that had led to nothing but the same beeping monitors and the same unanswered questions.
She sat by the bed, a notebook resting on her lap—blank, waiting. Fletcher’s call had shattered the quiet of her home: Adam was awake. The drive to Portland had passed in a blur, the rhythm of the clock beating back at her thoughts. Time was critical.
Adam lay motionless in the bed, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. The nurse had removed his breathing tube, and soon, the machines monitoring his vitals would be turned off.
The silence was thick. Dr. Forester noticed Adam’s leg twitch under the sheets—an involuntary sign of his anxiety. His true identity was still in question, though the police had linked him to the deceased Frank Clarke. Beyond that, Adam was a mystery—no ties, no visitors, and no one to corroborate who he was.
