The Persistence of Memory | ✔

17

Nina let out a yawn as she read on, getting to the end of Alice's notes and to the part written in unfamiliar handwriting. Fearnley's last visit had been short, according to the records. It had been a simple check up, he'd been doing well, the headaches that had plagued Nina as well being the only things that Fearnley had complained about. As Nina had been, Fearnley was reassured, told it was a normal side effect. He was sent home. Just days later, Fearnley turned himself in.

And then his memories changed. That was what Fearnley had said when they'd last spoken. His memories had changed, slowly at first—like they were eroded with time, the pieces fracturing until the truth broke free from the lies that were built around it. But then, at what point had those lies been placed in the man's head. When, and why, had someone made him think he had a daughter?

Was it while Alice was away? Nina thought, then recalled the first thing Alice had noted when she returned and saw her patient once again. No, she was looking for anything that could be off. She would have noticed, and Fearnley would have mentioned his daughter.

Nina dug out the notepad where she'd written down everything she'd found out while asking around about Fearnley. Notes on their conversations were also there, and it took Nina only a minute to find what she was looking for—the point where Fearnley had told her about the Night Alice was killed.

He said the memories came to him slowly, and the old ones—the ones that were implanted—were still there. What if those memories appeared gradually too? If he turned himself in days after Alice was killed, then the implanted memories probably didn't appear until later. Fearnley had, after all, said his memories of the incident were foggy when he'd first spoken to Nina. Now, Nina knew that it was entirely possible that was due to the memories slowly taking hold in Fearnley's mind.

They'd gone from fragments of sounds and images Fearnley could hardly put together to memories so vivid he was convinced of his own guilt. It was that guilt that drove Fearnley to confess, not being able to live with the thought of what he'd done. What he'd been framed for.

Now, Nina was back to needing to find out what it was that had driven Alice to leave her work and what connection that had to her murder.

What did she know? Nina asked herself, staring at the pages in front of her as if they held all the answer. And maybe they did, maybe Nina just wasn't looking in the right place.

She flipped through the pages, brow furrowed and energy all but gone. The sun was gone, the last rays of light having faded behind the horizon while the rain had slowed if only for a while. Nina glanced up at the closed door and considered heading out, if only for a moment. She did, after all, need food.

Since she'd left home, Nina hadn't felt so hungry. She'd been too preoccupied with all the things that had happened, things she hadn't fully processed. Between Ben's warning, the news that she was suspected of working with Fearnley, and the stress of her mind trying to hold itself together Nina hadn't felt anything but anxiety. Even at that moment, she wasn't particularly hungry, but she figured she should get something while she had the chance. After all, she couldn't be sure of what the next day would bring. It felt like she hadn't been sure of that for a long time.

A minute later, Nina cautiously opened the door to her room. The hall was empty, yellow lights illuminating the length of it and the air feeling cold and still with the scent of rain hanging heavily. Nina could see her breath, a white puff that dispersed in a second while her face began to prickle with the cold.

It was always colder outside the city, especially closer to the mountains. Nina wasn't so far from them, perhaps having sought out the most remote place instinctually. In a way, she was glad for that. The silence and peace helped keep her calm and, for the first time, she realized she'd yet to be caught in any of Alice's memories.