heavy weight on his shoulders. He looked at the photo of my face, my strange, peaceful smile. He felt a responsibility to

m officially ruling this a homicide, with the car crash as the

, seeing the political tide turning against them, held a press conference. They announced a full-scale, transparent investigation into

wever, hit a brick wa

purse. Nothing. The car's GPS had been disabled. They went to the gallery, demanding surveillance footage. The cameras covering

laces. I wanted to lead them to the others, the girls still trapped in that gil

ans day and night. They held signs with my picture on them. "WE ARE HER VOICE," one read. "THE BLA

ess conference. This time, his tone was different. He was not ther

willing to come forward," he said, his face grim. "We are at a dead en

g the thousands of theories and ideas, one gained traction. It was a fringe technology, mostly theoretical, known as a "Memory-Reader." It was a device that clai

e call for the "Memory-Reader" became a deafening roar. Under the

as placed in the center of the stage. The machine, a sleek, chrome helmet connected to a bank of monitors, looked like something out

, a man with a cruel, thin mouth. His wife, a woman draped in jewels, her face a mask of bored disdain. And their daughter, Chloe, a girl my age with

bled look in his eyes. Michael Blackwood. My brother. He kept glancing

chrome helmet over my head. He looked out at the silent cr

announced, his voice echoing in the vast hall. "What we see might

ly static. A low groan of disappointment rippled through the au

let out a loud,

r mother, her voice carrying in the si

and dismissive, hung i