Chapter 1 The Necklace
Sloane Mercer had a voice that made strangers confess.
It wasn't intentional. She didn't ask for it. But somewhere between the hushed intro music and the way she paused before saying a victim's name, people felt safe. They wrote to her. They called her tip line at 3 a.m. They told her things they'd never told their spouses, their priests, their therapists. And Sloane listened, because listening was the only thing she'd ever been good at.
Her studio was a converted closet in the back of a coffee shop on Delaney Street,six feet by eight feet, soundproofed with egg cartons she'd spray-painted black, lit by a single ring light that made her look like a ghost with cheekbones. She recorded Cold Case Sloane three nights a week, uploaded at midnight, and by morning, the internet had done what the internet does: picked it apart, shared it, forgotten it, resurrected it.
But the three women who died weren't resurrected. They remained dead,silenced for life,future ended.Sloane had spent the last six months profiling their cases. Margot Reyes, twenty-nine, a pediatric nurse from Phoenix who vanished after a late shift. Naomi Okafor, thirty-four, a defense attorney in Chicago who was found in her own bathtub with a rose between her teeth. And Hannah Liu, twenty-six, a barista in Portland who disappeared on her way home from a poetry slam. Three women. Three cities. Three degrees of separation from Sloane's podcast. Each one had been featured on her show within two weeks of their deaths. Each one had a dedicated episode. Each one had a tip line that went nowhere.
The police called it coincidence. The internet called it a pattern. Sloane called it a story the kind that made her stomach turn and her heart beat spike, which was its own kind of sickness.
She was editing the Hannah Liu episode for the third time when the bell above the coffee shop door jingled, and a man walked in who didn't belong.
He was tall. Too tall for the room. His shoulders took up more space than the doorway, and his coat a dark wool thing that had seen better decades dripped rain onto the hardwood. He didn't look at the menu. He didn't look at the barista. He looked directly at the closet door where Sloane was hiding, as if he could see through the wood, through the egg cartons, through the six years of carefully constructed invisibility she has built around herself.Sloane pulled off her headphones. The barista, a nineteen-year-old named Jinx who had purple hair and zero survival instincts, pointed at the closet and said, "She's in there. But she's weird about strangers." "Good," the man said. "I'm weird about strangers too.
He knocked twice. Sloane opened the door.Detective Callum Reyes had a face that made women write poetry and men write confessions. Dark eyes, darker hair, a jaw that looked like it had been carved by someone with a grudge. He was holding a manila folder in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, and he was looking at her like she was a crime scene he'd already solved. Sloane Mercer?
That depends. On what? On whether you're here to arrest me or ask me out.He didn't smile. He stepped past her into the closet, which was suddenly much smaller, and set the folder on her desk. I'm here to ask you about Hannah Liu. Sloane's heart did something complicated. Are you a cop? Detective. Homicide. Phoenix PD.
Phoenix is a long way from here.I flew in this morning.She crossed her arms. Why? Callum opened the folder. Inside were crime scene photos the kind Sloane had seen a hundred times, the kind she'd learned to look at without flinching, the kind that still kept her up at night. Hannah Liu's apartment. The blood. The rose. The note.
I've been listening to your podcast, Callum said. All of them. Twice. Are you a Fan?
Not exactly. He pulled out a photo and slid it across the desk. Three weeks ago, Hannah Liu was found dead in her apartment. Same as Margot Reyes. Same as Naomi Okafor. Same as two other women in two other states that you haven't covered yet.
Sloane's mouth went dry. Two others? That's not true. Brenda Sykes. San Antonio. And a Jane Doe in Boise they still haven't identified." He paused. "All of them were featured on your show. All of them died within ten days of their episodes airing. All of them had one thing in common. He reached into the folder again and pulled out a small plastic bag. Inside was a necklace a thin silver chain with a tiny pendant shaped like a key.Sloane's hand went to her throat.
The necklace wasn't there. It hadn't been there for six months. She lost it in a hotel room in Denver, or maybe a cab in Seattle, or maybe somewhere in between the details were fuzzy, the way they always were when she tried to remember the last few months. She looked for it. She torn apart her apartment. She called every hotel she stayed at. She told herself it didn't matter, that it was just a piece of jewelry, that she could buy another one.
But she couldn't. Because it wasn't just a necklace. It was the only thing her mother had left her before she disappeared.That's mine, Sloane whispered. Callum's eyes didn't leave hers. I know. How do you know? Because the killer left it on Hannah Liu's body.He paused. Along with a note.He pulled out the final photo. A piece of paper, slightly crumpled, with handwriting that made Sloane's blood freeze and unfreeze sequentially.
She was the first. You'll be the last. Tell Sloane I said hello.The room went very quiet. The rain outside sounded like static. The ring light hummed. Sloane could hear her own heartbeat, loud and wrong, like a drum being played by someone who didn't know the song.When's the last time you saw your ex-boyfriend? Callum asked.Sloane blinked. Which ex? Your ex. The one you lived with in Phoenix. The one you never mention on your podcast. The one whose name you changed when you moved here.He leaned forward. When's the last time you saw him? I don't She stopped. Swallowed. I don't have an ex-boyfriend.
Callum's jaw tightened. Sloane? I'm serious. I've never She stopped again. Because that wasn't true. There was someone. There had been someone. A man with dark eyes and a crooked smile and hands that knew exactly where to touch her. A man who'd held her while she cried and kissed her forehead and promised her he'd never let anyone hurt her. A man whose name she couldn't remember.
I don't remember, she said, and the words felt like a confession.Callum studied her for a long moment. Then he pulled out his phone and showed her a photo. A man, mid-thirties, dark hair, sharp jaw. He was standing outside a bar, laughing at something off-camera. He looked familiar. He looked like someone she'd known. He looked like someone she'd loved.That's Elias Vane,Callum said. Your ex-boyfriend. The one you lived with for two years. The one you filed a restraining order against six months ago.
Sloane stared at the photo. Her hands were shaking. I don't have a boyfriend.who this I don't know him.Callum's expression didn't change. But something in his eyes shifted a flicker of something that looked like fear. Sloane, he said slowly, you filed the restraining order yourself. I have the paperwork. Your signature. Your handwriting. Your photo on the ID.
That's impossible. Why? Because I've never filed a restraining order against anyone. She looked up at him. And I've never seen that man in my life.Callum was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached into the folder and pulled out one more thing. A photograph. A woman, mid-twenties, with dark hair and tired eyes and a smile that looked like it had been borrowed from someone else.
It was Sloane. She was standing outside a courthouse, holding a piece of paper. The date on the photo was six months ago. The paper was a restraining order.Against Elias Vane.I don't understand,Sloane whispered.Callum's voice was very soft. Neither do I.He turned the photo over. On the back, in handwriting that matched the note from the crime scene, someone had written:She doesn't remember. That's the point. You have ten days to make her.Callum looked at Sloane. Sloane looked at the photo. The rain kept falling. The ring light kept humming. And somewhere in the city, a man with dark eyes and a crooked smile was watching a livestream of her podcast, waiting for her to say his name.
Callum drove her home because she couldn't drive herself.Her hands were shaking too badly. Her thoughts were worse. The photo was in her lap, face down, and she kept touching the edge of it like it might bite her. The rain had turned to something heavier, a steady downpour that turned the streetlights into smears of gold and red. Callum didn't speak. He kept both hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road, but every few seconds he glanced at her, quick and careful, like she was a bomb he was trying to defuse.I need you to tell me everything, he said finally.I already told you. I don't remember him.Then tell me what you do remember.
Sloane closed her eyes. She remembered Phoenix,the heat, the dust, the way the sun felt like a punishment. She remembered her apartment, small and white and full of unpacked boxes. She remembered her job at the local news station, writing obituaries for people she never met. She remembered the night she started the podcast, sitting on her bathroom floor with a laptop and a microphone and the desperate need to be heard.She remembered a man. His hands. His voice. The way he said her name.But when she tried to picture his face, there was nothing. A blank space. A hole in her memory shaped like a person.I remember being happy, she said. I think. I remember feeling safe. And then I remember being afraid. But I don't remember why that happened.
Were you afraid of him?
I don't know.Callum pulled up outside her apartment. It was a small building on a quiet street, the kind of place where nothing ever happened. Sloane had chosen it for that reason. She'd wanted to disappear. Now she wondered if someone else had chosen it for her.Can I come up? Callum asked.
Are you going to arrest me? No I won't.Ok you can.Her apartment was on the third floor. Two rooms, a kitchen, a window that looked out over a parking lot. She decorated it with thrift store furniture and crime scene photos she framed for inspiration a choice her few visitors found unsettling. Tonight, the photos looked different. The dead eyes followed her. The blood looked wet.
Callum stood in the middle of the living room, hands in his pockets, taking it all in. He didn't comment on the photos. He didn't comment on the empty wine bottles on the counter, or the stack of unopened mail, or the fact that the only personal item in the entire apartment was a single framed picture of Sloane as a child, standing next to a woman whose face had been scratched out.
Is that your mother? he asked.
Sloane nodded. She disappeared when I was seven. Never found her.I'm sorry about that Don't be. I barely remember her. She paused. That's a theme, apparently.
Callum turned away from the photo. Sloane, I need to ask you something. And I need you to be honest with me, even if it sounds crazy.At this point, crazy is the only thing that makes sense.Have you ever blacked out? Lost time? Found yourself somewhere without knowing how you got there?Sloane's expression changed. Why are you asking me that?Because the Sloane Mercer who filed that restraining order six months ago isn't the Sloane Mercer I've been listening to on your podcast. He pulled out his phone, scrolled through something, and held it up. "This is your podcast feed. Every episode for the last six months. Do you recognize all of them?Sloane looked. There were twenty-seven episodes. She remembered recording twenty-five of them. The other two episodes thirty-four and thirty-nine she never heard of.I didn't record those, she said.Someone did. Under your name. In your studio. Using your voice.That's impossible.Is it? Callum's eyes were steady. Sloane, the day you filed that restraining order, you also filed a police report. You claimed Elias Vane had been stalking you for months. You claimed he broken into your apartment, stolen your things, threatened to kill you. You claimed he was the one who'd been sending you notes."
What notes?
These. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a stack of envelopes. They were all addressed to her, all postmarked from Phoenix, all written in the same handwriting as the note from the crime scene.
Sloane opened the first one.I see you. I hear you. I know what you did.
She opened the second.
You think you can hide from me? You think moving to a new city will change anything?
The third.
I'll find you. I always find you. And when I do, I'll make you remember.
Sloane dropped the letters. Her hands were shaking again. I've never seen these before. I know.How do you know?Because they were in the police file you filed six months ago. Callum paused. Along with a signed statement from you, saying you have been receiving them for weeks. Saying you were terrified. Saying you were leaving Phoenix because you didn't know what else to do. Sloane sat down on the floor. She didn't mean to. Her legs just stopped working. The letters were scattered around her like fallen leaves, and she couldn't look at them, couldn't touch them, couldn't think.
I don't remember, she said. I don't remember any of it. Callum knelt in front of her. His face was close to hers, close enough that she could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the fear he was trying to hide. "Sloane, I believe you. But there's something wrong with your memory. Something that started six months ago, around the same time you filed that report. Something that someone did to you. Who? I don't know yet. But I think Elias Vane is the key. He paused. And I think he's still out there. Still watching you. Still waiting. Sloane looked at the letters. At the handwriting that felt familiar in a way she couldn't explain. At the words that felt like a warning.What does he want from me?Callum's voice was very quiet. I think he wants you to remember.
They stayed up all night. Callum made coffee black, no sugar, the way she liked it, which she didn't tell him because it felt too intimate and they sat on her floor with the letters spread out between them. He asked her questions. She gave answers that felt like lies, because she didn't know what the truth was. Every time she tried to remember Elias Vane, her mind went blank. It wasn't like forgetting. It was like being erased.
There's a name for this, Callum said. Dissociative amnesia. It happens sometimes with trauma. The brain protects itself by blocking out memories that are too painful to process.I'm not traumatized. You filed a restraining order against a man you lived with for two years. You moved to a new city. You changed your name. You started a podcast about serial killers. That's not nothing, Sloane.I didn't change my name. Sloane is my name. Sloane is your middle name. Your legal name is Catherine Sloane Mercer. But six months ago, you started using your middle name exclusively. You changed your social media, your podcast, your bank accounts. You told everyone you met that your name was Sloane.How do you know that?Because I ran a background check on you." He didn't look apologetic. You're connected to a murder investigation. I had to. Sloane wrapped her hands around her coffee cup. The heat was the only thing keeping her grounded. What else did you find?
Not much. You grew up in foster care. You moved to Phoenix when you were twenty-two. You worked at a news station for three years before you quit and started your podcast. You met Elias Vane at a bar—the details are in your statement, but you described him as 'charming' and 'intense.' You moved in together after six months. You broke up after two years. You filed the restraining order three months later.That's not a lot. It's more than you remember. She flinched. He noticed.
I'm sorry," he said. I'm not trying to be cruel.I know. She set down her cup. Why are you here, Callum? Why did you fly across the country to find me? He was quiet for a moment. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a photograph. A woman, mid-thirties, with dark eyes and a smile that looked like his.
My sister, he said. Margot Reyes. The first victim. Sloane's heart stopped. Margot was your sister? She was a nurse. She loved bad movies and cheap wine and she called me every Sunday to complain about her dating life. His voice was steady, but his hands were shaking. She was the best person I ever knew. And someone killed her because she listened to your podcast.
Callum I'm not blaming you. He looked up at her. I'm telling you why I can't let this go. I'm telling you why I believe you, even though everything about this case is insane. I'm telling you why I'm going to find the person who did this, and I'm going to make sure they never hurt anyone again. Sloane looked at the photo of Margot. At her smile. At her eyes. At the life that had been stolen from her. I'll help you, she said. You don't have a choice.
I know. She paused. But I want to. I want to know who I was. I want to know what happened to me. I want to know why someone would do this. Callum nodded. Then we start with the podcast. The two episodes you don't remember recording. If we can figure out who made them, we might be able to figure out who's behind all of this. Sloane pulled out her laptop. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. What if I don't like what I find? Then we deal with it together. She looked at him. At his tired eyes. At his steady hands. At the way he was looking at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.Together, she repeated.He nodded. Together.
She pressed play.
The episode was called The Memory Thief. It was forty-seven minutes long. It was recorded in her studio, using her equipment, in her voice. But she had no memory of making it.
The first voice was hers.
There's a man who steals memories. He doesn't take them by force. He takes them by love. He makes you trust him. He makes you need him. He makes you believe he's the only person who understands you. And then, when you're completely his, he takes everything. Your past. Your identity. Your sense of self. He leaves you with nothing but a hole where your life used to be.
Sloane's blood ran cold. I know this because he did it to me. I know this because I'm the only one who survived. And I know this because he's still out there, and he's still looking for me. The episode continued. There were details. Dates. Locations. Names. A man with dark eyes and a crooked smile. A man who called himself Elias Vane. A man who had done this before. And then, at the end, a warning. If you're listening to this, it means I'm already gone. It means he found me. It means I couldn't stop him. But you can. You can remember. You can fight. You can survive. Don't let him take your memories. Don't let him take your life. And whatever you do, don't fall in love with him. The episode ended. The room was silent. Callum looked at Sloane. Sloane looked at Callum.I recorded that, she said. I don't remember recording that. I know.
How is that possible? I don't know. He reached out and took her hand. His fingers were warm. His grip was steady. But we're going to find out.Sloane looked at their hands. At the way they fit together. At the way it felt like something she'd been missing. Callum?
Yeah?What if I'm not the victim? What if I'm the killer?He didn't answer. But his grip tightened, just a little, and she knew he'd thought the same thing. Outside, the rain kept falling. Somewhere in the city, a man with dark eyes and a crooked smile was listening to the same episode. And he was smiling.Because Sloane was finally remembering.And that was exactly what he wanted.
The next morning, Callum took her to Phoenix.She didn't want to go. The thought of returning to the city where her life had been erased made her feel like she was walking into a trap. But Callum was insistent. "You need to see it," he said. "The apartment. The bar where you met him. The courthouse where you filed the report. Sometimes places trigger memories that people can't.So she packed a bag. She got on a plane. She sat next to Callum for three hours and tried not to think about the fact that she was flying toward the person who had stolen her past. Phoenix was hot. The kind of hot that made the air feel thick and heavy and wrong. Callum rented a car and drove her to her old apartment a small building on Crescent Street, pale yellow with a dying palm tree out front. It looked familiar. It felt like a dream she'd had once and forgotten.
Wait here,Callum said. I need to check something.He got out of the car and walked toward the building. Sloane watched him go. Then she looked at the apartment. Third floor, corner unit. The windows were dark. The blinds were drawn. But for a moment just a moment she thought she saw someone standing in the window, watching her. She blinked. The figure was gone.Callum came back. It's empty. The landlord says you moved out six months ago. No forwarding address. No contact information.That's not surprising.
No. But this is. He held up a key. The landlord found this in the apartment. He said it was in a drawer, hidden under some papers. It's a key to a storage unit on the other side of town. Sloane took the key. It was small and silver, with a number engraved on it: 113. Should we go?
I think we have to.The storage facility was on the outskirts of Phoenix, a long low building surrounded by a chain-link fence. The manager was a man in his sixties with a handlebar mustache and a suspicious expression. Callum showed him his badge. The man shrugged and pointed them toward unit 113.The key fit. The door opened. Inside was a small room, no bigger than a closet. And it was full of boxes. Boxes of photographs. Boxes of letters. Boxes of journals. All of them about her. Sloane opened the first box. It was filled with photos of herself—at the grocery store, at the coffee shop, at the podcast studio. Some were recent. Some were old. All of them were taken without her knowledge.He was watching me," she whispered. The whole time.Callum opened another box. It was filled with journals her handwriting, her words, but she didn't remember writing any of them. She picked one up and opened it to a random page.
I think I'm losing my mind. I keep finding things I don't remember buying. Going places I don't remember going. Seeing people I don't remember meeting. And there's a man I see him everywhere. At the grocery store. At the park. Outside my window. I think he's following me. I think he's the one doing this. But when I try to remember his face, there's nothing there. She turned the page.I found a note today. It was under my pillow. It said, 'You're forgetting me. That's okay. I'll help you remember.' I don't know who wrote it. I don't know what it means. But I'm scared.
She turned the page.I know his name now. Elias. I don't remember learning it. I don't remember meeting him. But I know him. I know him in a way that terrifies me. And I think I think I might love him. I think I might have loved him for a long time. And I think he's the one who's doing this to me. Sloane dropped the journal. Her hands were shaking. Her whole body was shaking.He made me forget, she said. He made me forget him. He made me forget everything.Callum was reading another journal. His face was pale. Sloane, he said slowly, there's something else.He handed her the journal. It was open to a page dated three weeks before she'd left Phoenix. I found out what he is. I found out what he does. He doesn't just steal memories. He steals people. He finds them, he loves them, he erases them, and then he kills them. I'm not the first. I won't be the last. But I'm the only one who's still alive. And I'm the only one who can stop him. Sloane looked up at Callum. He's a serial killer. Yes. And I'm the only one who's ever gotten away."
Yes. She looked back at the journal. At the words she didn't remember writing. At the life she didn't remember living. What happens now? Callum closed the journal. Now we find him. Before he finds you.
